CCVI. CHARLES HATFIELD IN LONDON AGAIN…

CCVI. CHARLES HATFIELD IN LONDON AGAIN

The information which Charles Hatfield had received respecting his father’s health, was too true. Indeed, the accounts were purposely mitigated in order to alarm him as little as possible; and on his arrival at Lord Ellingham’s mansion in Pall Mall, he found Mr. Hatfield confined to his bed.

Charles was greatly shocked at this circumstance: for he could not help fancying that his conduct had contributed mainly to undermine his father’s health; but Mr. Hatfield reassured him on that head by declaring that a severe cold was the commencement of his illness.

“Were I thrown upon this bed of sickness by any fault of yours, Charles,” he said, pressing his son’s hand affectionately in both his own, “your behaviour during your short sojourn in Italy would speedily raise me from it. Not only have the newspapers mentioned your name in a manner highly creditable to you: but General Markham has sent us accounts of the most satisfactory nature concerning you.”

These words were gratifying indeed to the young man.

“I can assure you, my revered parent,” he said, “that I am indeed fully and completely changed. The image of that vile woman whom we will not name, is loathsome and abhorrent to me--and I would as readily come in contact with a serpent, as meet her again. Respecting that insane ambition which animated me at the same time I formed that disastrous attachment,--an ambition which prompted me to aspire to a noble title,--it has all vanished as if it had never been. I have contemplated Republican institutions--I have seen a mighty Prince and all his family lay aside their high rank without regret and abandon their titles with cheerfulness and at their own free will,--I have likewise beheld the magnates of the land following the same example, so that the equality of citizenship may be fully established;--and I am now astonished that I could ever have aspired to mere titular distinction. My eyes have been opened to the fact that men may be great and rise to fame, without those adventitious aids which savour of feudal barbarism;--and I am prouder of that rank of Captain which the battle of Sabino gave me in the army of Republican Castelcicala, than I could possibly be were the coronet of Ellingham placed upon my brow. Oh! how happy should I feel, could we all proceed to Castelcicala and settle for life in that beautiful city of Montoni which I love so well: yes--all of us to fix our habitation there,” continued Charles, with the enthusiasm that was characteristic of his nature,--“you--my dear mother, who received me so kindly--the excellent Earl and his amiable Countess--myself--”

“And what is to become of poor Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Hatfield, with a smile in spite of his severe indisposition. “Wherefore is she not included in your list? Do you think that the Earl and the Countess would leave their amiable and lovely daughter behind them?”

Charles Hatfield blushed deeply as his father thus addressed him.

“Well, my dear boy--you make no reply,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, with the smile--and a smile of ineffable satisfaction it was--still playing upon his pale countenance: “has Lady Frances offended you? Did she not receive you on your arrival ere now with as much kindness as the rest?”

“Oh! yes--yes,” exclaimed Charles; “and she appeared to me more exquisitely beautiful than ever! Fool that I was--insensate dolt--idiot--madman, ever to place myself in a position which----”

“Do not excite yourself thus, my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “You admire Lady Frances?” he observed, after a short pause, and now attentively watching his son’s countenance.

“My God! do not ask me that question, my dear father!” ejaculated Charles, with an expression of deep anguish on his features. “I love my beautiful cousin--I love her--and she cannot be mine! Oh! since I have been absent I have pondered on her image--I have cherished it as if it were that of a guardian angel! I have compared the amiability and excellence of Frances with the character of that woman--and you may judge how resplendently the charming girl shines by means of such a contrast!”

“And you may hope--yes, you may hope, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, raising himself partially up in the bed. “Happiness yet awaits you.”

“Happiness--hope--my dear father!” ejaculated Charles; “you speak in enigmas--you----”

“Nay--I speak only what I mean; and all I say is intelligible,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “I tell you that you may hope for happiness--that Lady Frances may yet become your wife!”

“Is it possible?” cried the young man, clasping his hands in the wildness of his joy. “But how? Is that woman dead?” he demanded, speaking with strange rapidity of utterance.

“No--she is not dead,” responded his father: “but she has married again!”

“Married!” ejaculated Charles. “And yet I do not see how that circumstance will alter my position,” he added, in a desponding tone.

“Listen attentively--and do not excite yourself at one moment, and in the next give way to despair,” said Mr. Hatfield.

Charles seated himself at his father’s bed-side, and prepared to hear with attention the words that were about to be addressed to him.

“Some time ago--when it was first resolved that you should proceed to Italy for a short time,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the Earl of Ellingham communicated to me the generous views which he entertained with regard to you. He observed that, as you had already discarded the woman who had ensnared you, and as she had agreed never more to molest you, you were morally severed in respect to the matrimonial bond. He moreover declared that should this woman contract another marriage and thereby prove that such severance was complete, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation to tell you that you must never know matrimonial happiness, but that you must remain in your present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of your days. Those were the very words which his lordship used, Charles, on the occasion to which I am alluding.”

“Oh! am I to understand--” exclaimed the young man.

“Silence!” interrupted Mr. Hatfield: “be not impatient nor impetuous--but hear me out. Lord Ellingham continued to observe that if the woman should contract a new marriage, and if you, Charles, manifested contrition for the past,--if your conduct were such as to afford sure guarantees for the future,--and if your attachment for Lady Frances should revive,--under all those circumstances the Earl declared that he should not consider himself justified in stamping the unhappiness alike of yourself and his daughter by refusing his consent to your union.”

“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed Charles, a giddiness coming over him through excessive joy. “Oh! what generosity on the part of the Earl!”

“Yes--his sentiments on this subject were fraught with liberality,” returned Mr. Hatfield. “He argued in the following manner:--A young man is ensnared into an alliance with a woman whom he believed to be pure, but whom in a few hours he discovered to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon written conditions of the most positive character,--a private arrangement being deemed preferable to the public scandal of an appeal to the tribunals. This woman marries again--and every remnant of a claim which she might have had upon the individual whom she had ensnared and deluded, ceases at once. There is a complete snapping of the bond--a total severance of the tie; and her conduct by the fact of the second marriage proves that she so understands it. The law may certainly proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but morality, which holds marriage to be a covenant between two parties, revolts against the principle which the code establishes. It is upon these grounds that the Earl of Ellingham will give you the hand of his lovely and amiable daughter.”

It were useless to attempt to describe the joy which filled the soul of Charles Hatfield when these tidings met his ears. He seized his father’s hand and pressed it to his lips with grateful fervour: then, promising to return in a few minutes, he flew to the library where he understood the Earl to be at the moment; and casting himself at the feet of that good nobleman, he implored pardon for his past conduct, declaring that nothing should induce him to swerve from the path of rectitude in future.

The Earl of Ellingham raised the contrite young man--embraced him affectionately--and bade him throw a complete veil over all that related to his unfortunate marriage. His lordship then repeated, but more concisely, the observations which Mr. Hatfield had already made to his son; and at the conclusion of the interview he said, “And now, Charles, if your inclinations really and truly prompt you to take the step, you have my permission to solicit Lady Frances to allow you to become the suitor for her hand.”

Captain Hatfield expressed his liveliest gratitude in suitable terms; and hastening back to his father, he narrated all that had just occurred between himself and the Earl. Mr. Hatfield was cheered and delighted by the spectacle of his son’s happiness, and bade him repair to the drawing-room to pass an hour with the ladies.

We need scarcely state that Lady Georgiana was much pleased by the return of Charles to England, especially as he had so highly distinguished himself in the Neapolitan campaign. Nor less was the Countess of Ellingham--the amiable Esther--gratified by an event which restored the missing one to the family circle: while Lady Frances attempted not to conceal the joy that the young soldier’s presence afforded her.

It is not, however, our purpose to dwell upon this subject:--for we have now to relate an incident which led to consequences of great importance to several persons who have figured in our narrative.

The day after Charles Hatfield’s arrival in London, he was proceeding on foot up Regent Street, in order to pay a visit to his tailor for the purpose of making some additions to his wardrobe, when he met Captain Barthelma: for Laura’s husband had lost his title of Count of Carignano, in consequence of the establishment of the Republic in Castelcicala.

The young Italian was alone; and the meeting between the two was most friendly and cordial,--for during the short time that they were acquainted, Charles had observed many excellent qualities on the part of Barthelma, who on his side was enraptured with the heroic conduct that Captain Hatfield had displayed at the battle of Sabino, a full narrative of which had duly appeared in the English newspapers.

Taking the arm of Charles, Captain Barthelma walked with him up Regent Street; and for some time they conversed upon the late Neapolitan campaign--the glorious destinies of Republican Castelcicala--the noble conduct of President Markham--and various other matters connected with the Italian’s native land.

“It has grieved me greatly in one sense,” observed Barthelma, “that I should have been absent from my post about the person of General Markham at a time when such momentous incidents were taking place. But on the other hand I rejoice in my withdrawal from that hero’s service, inasmuch as I thereby secured the hand of one of the most lovely--nay, the most lovely woman in the world.”

“I congratulate you most sincerely upon having formed an alliance which appears to afford you so much happiness,” answered Charles; “and I hope to have the honour of being presented to the signora--for I presume you have espoused a lady belonging to your own country.”

“No--she is an Englishwoman,” returned Captain Barthelma; “and you have seen her.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Charles.

“Yes--you have seen her,” repeated the Italian. “But tell me--do you recollect that day when you, Lieutenant Di Ponta, and myself walked together in the Champs Elysées in consequence of a mysterious note which we received from a pretended Spanish refugee----”

“Oh! yes--yes--I well remember that day!” exclaimed Captain Hatfield. “Indeed, how could I ever forget it?”

“You speak with excitement, my dear friend,” said Barthelma, surprised at his companion’s manner, but entertaining not the slightest suspicion of the real cause of his agitation.

“Ah! if you only knew all!” observed the young man. “But I will tell you enough to warn you against falling into the power of the vilest woman that ever wore an angel shape to conceal a demon heart: I will reveal to you sufficient to place you on your guard against that syren, should you ever happen to encounter her. For her disposition is such that, to gratify her wantonness, her caprice, or her avarice, she would as readily prey upon a married as on an unmarried man.”

“Indeed! you interest me,” said the Castelcicalan, still altogether unsuspicious of the real meaning of the allusion.

“Yes--but the interest will soon become of an appalling character,” resumed Charles, speaking in a tone of deep solemnity. “For there is in the world a woman whose loveliness is so superhuman and whose witchery is so irresistible that she would move the heart of an anchorite. This woman was born in Newgate, where her mother was incarcerated on a charge of forgery, and whence she was soon afterwards transported to Australia. The child was called Perdita, or ‘The Lost One;’ and the mother took the babe with her to her place of exile. Years passed away--and Perdita had grown up to a lovely girl. But the natural wantonness of her disposition manifested itself at a very early age; and her profligacy soon became notorious at Sydney. Well, in due time the mother returned to England, Perdita accompanying her; and in London did those women commence their grand scheme of preying upon the public. Alas! shall I confess how weak--how mad--how insensate I was? But the delirium has passed away--and I now look back upon it with a loathing which prevents me from contemplating it coolly. For I was ensnared by that vile Perdita--and I became her victim. I proceeded with her to Paris; and my father followed to rescue me from ruin. He discovered the place of our abode, and painted the character of that woman in such frightful--such appalling colours, without the least exaggeration, that I was reduced to despair on account of the conduct which I had pursued. I quitted Paris--returned to London--and was then received into the service of General Markham. But you ere now asked me if I remembered the day when yourself Di Ponta and I walked together in the Champs Elysées. You shall now judge whether I have reason to retain the incident in my memory. For you, Barthelma, cannot have forgotten that lady who so much attracted your notice, and who purposely let fall her parasol----But, heavens! what is the matter with you?” ejaculated Captain Hatfield, perceiving that his companion started as if a ghastly spectre had suddenly sprang up before him.

“My God! is it possible?--that woman--in the Champs Elysées--” gasped the young Italian, a deadly pallor overspreading his countenance, while he staggered backward and would have fallen had not Charles sustained him by the arm.

“That woman--for a lady I can scarcely call her--was Perdita Mortimer,” said Hatfield, emphatically.

“Oh! malediction upon the hateful syren!” exclaimed Barthelma, terribly excited.

“Compose yourself!--what is the matter?” cried Charles. “You will attract observation--the people will notice you----”

“I am composed--yes, I am cool and collected now,” murmured the unhappy young Italian, all his tremendous imprudence bursting upon his comprehension like a thunder-storm. “Here--let us pass up this street--it is comparatively deserted--and we can converse more at our ease,” he faltered painfully, as he dragged his companion up New Burlington Street.

A suspicion had in the meantime flashed to the imagination of Charles Hatfield. Was it possible that Barthelma could have married the profligate Perdita, or Laura? He himself had not learnt from his father how he knew that the syren-demoness was married again, or whom she had thus ensnared;--and the Italian’s sudden excitement could not be accounted for otherwise than by the fact that he had made her his wife.

“My God! this intelligence is overwhelming!” murmured Captain Barthelma. “Oh! my dear friend,” he exclaimed, turning with the abruptness of an almost maddening excitement towards Hatfield, “pity me--pity me; that woman of whom you have spoken is----”

“Is what?” demanded Charles impatiently.

“My wife!” responded Barthelma;--and the moment the words were uttered his excitement gave way to a blank despair.

“Malediction upon my communicativeness--my insane garrulity!” ejaculated Charles. “I shall never--never forgive myself for having made these most uncalled-for revelations!”

“Do not blame yourself, my dear friend,” returned the young Italian, in a tone of the deepest melancholy: “you knew not how painfully your words would affect me--you could not anticipate that the warning which you generously intended to convey would come far too late!”

“And, after all, there may be some error--some mistake,” cried Charles, catching at a straw on behalf of his afflicted companion: “the woman whom I mean may not be the same as the lady whom you have espoused----”

“Yes--yes: ’tis the same!” ejaculated the Italian, impatiently: “Laura Mortimer--the beauteous creature whom we saw in the Champs Elysées, and whose mother met with a horrible death some months ago.”

“Ah! that old woman is no more!” exclaimed Charles. “But of what nature was the death of which you speak so shudderingly?”

“The frightful incident occurred when you were in Italy,” answered Barthelma. “Some villain broke a bottle of aqua-fortis or vitriol over her head--and she died in fearful agonies. But I must leave you now, my dear friend,” said the Castelcicalan, with wild abruptness of manner; and hastily wringing both of Hatfield’s hands, he darted away and was out of sight in a few moments.

CCVII. MR. GREEN’S OFFICE

On the same morning, and at about the same time that Charles Hatfield and Captain Barthelma thus encountered each other in Regent Street, certain incidents of importance to the thread of our narrative occurred elsewhere.

We must request the reader to accompany us to a newly fitted up suite of offices in Warwick Court, Holborn; and in the private room we shall find Mr. Green seated at a desk covered with papers.

A material alteration had taken place in the external appearance of this individual. He was well dressed--looked clean and neat--and wore an air of assurance instead of the downcast, obsequious, grovelling demeanour that had characterised him when in the service of Mr. Heathcote.

His private room was neatly furnished and had a business-like aspect: in the front office two clerks were busily employed in drawing up statements to be laid before counsel in several heavy suits; and in the passage outside a process-server was waiting for instructions.

Mr. Green had drawn his table near the fire that blazed in the grate--for the reader must remember that several months had elapsed since the adventures of this individual with Jack Rily, and it was now the commencement of February, 1847.

The cheerful flames roared half-way up the chimney;--and as Green felt the genial heat diffusing a glow throughout his frame, he smiled triumphantly as he contrasted his present position with what it was in those times when he was compelled to sit without a fire, from nine in the morning till six in the evening, on the hard high stool in Heathcote’s front office. Now he was a solicitor on his own account--had his name once more in the Law List--could look with complacency into his banker’s book--and, when business was over for the day, had nothing to do but to step into an omnibus and ride as far as the door of his neat little dwelling at Bayswater.

No wonder, then, that Mr. Green’s countenance had lost its downcast look and its haggard, broken-hearted expression: no wonder that hope beamed in his eyes, and that his tone and manner had recovered the assurance, if not the actual dignity, of former days.

On the particular morning of which we are writing, Mr. Green was more than usually elate; and as he looked over the papers that lay before him, the inward exultation which he experienced imparted the glow of animation to his features.

Presently the door opened and his junior clerk appeared, saying, “Mr. Heathcote, sir.”

“Let him walk in,” returned Green, assuming a cold tone: but his heart was palpitating violently with mingled feelings of joy, triumph, and insatiate revenge.

In a few moments James Heathcote entered the room.

But, oh! how changed was that man, not only in countenance but also in deportment! His face was thin--haggard--care-worn: his eyes, sunken in their sockets, were dim and glazed;--his form was bowed;--and in the course of a few months his hair had turned from an iron grey to a stainless white. His aspect was deplorable; and his manner was indicative of deep mental distress--anxiety--suffering--and humiliation.

“Sit down, sir,” said Green, in a patronising tone.

Heathcote placed his hat upon the floor and took a chair: then, fixing his hollow eyes upon his ex-clerk, he was about to open his business--but, unable to bear up against the tide of reminiscences that rushed to his soul, he burst into tears.

Green affected not to notice this ebullition of grief; but deliberately poked the fire.

For a few minutes the old lawyer sate sobbing in the presence of the man whom he had trampled upon during the long period of his vassalage; and at length recovering sufficient composure to enable his tongue to give utterance to the ideas that were uppermost, he said, “Mr. Green, you are doubtless astonished to receive a visit from me!”

“Not at all, sir: I expected it,” was the laconic reply.

“And wherefore should you have expected it?” asked Heathcote, anxiously.

“Because the result of yesterday’s trial in the Court of Queen’s Bench places you completely in the power of my victorious client,” responded Green; “and you are likewise well aware that every other action pending against you must he decided in the same manner.”

“Yes--I cannot close my eyes to that fact,” observed Heathcote, actually wringing his hands.

“And therefore you are ruined--totally ruined,” returned Green, with a demoniac smile of triumph.

“Ruined--totally ruined!” repeated Heathcote, with that mechanical unconsciousness which is indicative of despair--blank despair.

“Not only ruined in pocket, but in character likewise,” resumed Green, his tone becoming merciless--nay, absolutely savage and ferocious. “That long trial of yesterday--a trial which occupied eight hours--revealed you in your true colours to all the world. The counsel whom I employed, tore you to pieces. All your chicanery was unravelled--all your manœvres traced, followed up, and exposed--all your fraudulent proceedings dragged to light. Oh! you, who never spared a human being, Mr. Heathcote, were not spared yesterday: you, who never pitied a living soul, were not pitied yesterday! The barrister resembled a giant, and you a dwarf whom he held up writhing and shrieking in presence of the whole court--aye, the whole country. Every newspaper published this morning, contains a long account of the proceedings;--and by this time your character stinks in the nostrils of the entire profession.”

“Then am I not sufficiently punished, Mr. Green?” asked Heathcote, the tears rolling down his thin, emaciated, and sallow countenance. “Since you first commenced these numerous suits against me, I have not known a moment’s peace. Sleep has scarcely ever visited my pillow: the awful gulph of infamy and disgrace was always yawning at my feet. Look at me, Mr. Green--look at me! Am I not changed? My God! I am twenty years older than I was on that day when you quitted me in such anger and with such dreadful threats!”

“And those threats shall be fulfilled to the very letter--yes, to the very letter,” said Mr. Green, in a tone of unmitigated bitterness. “I told you that there should be war between us--war to the very knife;--and I have kept my word! I told you that ere a few months had elapsed, you would bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked for a little kindness in return for his faithful services;--and you have already repented! But my memory is immortal, Mr. Heathcote--and I can never, never forget the injuries, the insults, the degradations, and the wrongs I have received at your hands. My thirst for revenge is therefore insatiable--and this very day shall I adopt another and still more important proceeding with regard to you.”

“My God! all this amounts to a persecution!” ejaculated Heathcote, literally writhing upon his chair.

“Call it what you will, sir,” responded Green, savagely: “no words--no entreaties--no menaces--no prayers on your part can stay me in the course which I am adopting.”

“And that course?” said Heathcote, shuddering with apprehension.

“Is an indictment at the Old Bailey for conspiracy,” answered Green.

“No--no: you cannot do it!” cried Heathcote, now becoming dreadfully excited.

“You are lawyer enough to know that I can do it,” rejoined Green, with a smile of infernal triumph. “The evidence obtained from yesterday’s proceedings inculpated another person with you in the fraud--the damnable fraud that you practised upon my client years ago; and at this very moment my clerks are drawing up the statement to be submitted to counsel with a view to an indictment against yourself and your accomplice!”

“I could have borne everything but this!” exclaimed the miserable man, covering his face with his two thin hands, and then shaking his head wildly, as if in a species of hysteria.

“Yes--and you suspected that such would be the course that I should adopt,” resumed Green: “for it is precisely the measure that you yourself would have taken in similar circumstances. What you have done to others, Mr. Heathcote, shall now be done to you;--and it were as reasonable to implore the forbearance of a ravenous tiger, as to appeal to me for mercy!”

“One word, Mr. Green--one word!” ejaculated Heathcote, starting from his seat. “I will at once--yes, this very moment--surrender up all the various sums and properties you claim on behalf of the numerous clients whom you represent against me,--I will satisfy and liquidate all your demands--leaving myself a beggar--yes, a beggar upon the face of the earth--on condition that you abandon this criminal prosecution!”

“Peruse that list of my clients and the amount of their claims,” said Green, handing the wretched man a paper.

“The sum is enormous--frightful!” exclaimed Heathcote, his countenance becoming hideous to gaze upon.

“And to that amount must be added a thousand pounds to satisfy me for the costs which I shall lose by the compromise,” returned Green, with implacable coldness both of tone and manner.

“As God is my judge, I cannot command that additional thousand pounds which you stipulate for!” cried Heathcote, trembling with nervous excitement.

“Then apply to your brother, Sir Gilbert,” responded Green, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

“He is not in England--he has gone abroad, I know not whither!” exclaimed the miserable man. “Months have now elapsed since his mistress became reconciled to her husband, the Marquis of Delmour--and Gilbert suddenly quitted England about the same time. He refused to see me previous to his departure: he rejected my proposals--my humble proposals for a reconciliation. Therefore, were I even acquainted with his present abode, it would be useless and vain to apply to him for succour.”

“Thus is it that all your grand schemes--your magnificent designs--your comprehensive plans, have fallen in with a tremendous crash, burying you in the ruins!” said Green, in a slow and measured tone that was torturing and intolerable with its diabolical sardonism. “Well,” he continued, after a few moments’ pause, “I will renounce the demand of the thousand pounds, on condition that you at once--and ere you quit my presence--assign all your property, of whatever kind, with a view to the liquidation of these claims and the settlement of all the suits pending against you.”

“I will do so,” said Heathcote, “provided that you give me an undertaking to abandon all criminal proceedings against me.”

“Agreed,” was the response; and the two lawyers drew up certain documents which they forthwith exchanged: and we may observe that whereas Green’s handwriting was firm, clear, and legible, that of his discomfited opponent was trembling, blotted, and indicative of a terrible excitement.

“My ruin--my utter ruin is now consummated!” groaned Heathcote, wringing his hands bitterly. “All that I had heaped up for my old age----”

“And that you had obtained at the sacrifice of the happiness of hundreds,” interrupted Green, his tone suddenly assuming the savage triumph of one who gloats over the downfall of a hated enemy. “But we will not prolong our interview, sir. The day of retribution has come at last--and in a few minutes I have wreaked the pent-up vengeance of long years. Begone, sir--offend me not another moment with your presence! My head clerk shall accompany you to your own office in order that you may place in his hands the securities and the documents specified in the agreement that you have given me.”

Heathcote made no reply: but turning hastily away, took his departure, followed by Green’s managing man, who received the necessary instructions from his master.

Scarcely had the ruined lawyer thus quitted the establishment of his flourishing and merciless oppressor, when a lady wearing a thick black veil entered the front office and requested an immediate interview with Mr. Green. The junior clerk delivered this message to his employer, and the lady was forthwith introduced to the legal gentleman’s presence in the comfortable back room.

A rapid glance at his visitress convinced Mr. Green that she was likely to prove no ordinary client: for the elegance of her dress, the gracefulness of her demeanour, and the dignity of her gait bespoke a lady of distinction;--and when, on taking the chair which he hastened to place for her accommodation, she raised her veil, he was struck by the transcendent beauty of the countenance thus revealed to him.

“We are alone together, sir,” said the lovely stranger, looking intently around: “but can listeners overhear anything that may pass between us?”

“There is no need of apprehension on that head, madam,” answered Green. “Speak freely--and without reserve.”

“I have called upon business of great importance to myself, and which may prove most lucrative to you,” continued the lady.

“Before we proceed farther, madam,” said the lawyer, “may I request to be informed who recommended you to me?”

“A client of yours who resides in Pimlico, and with whom I am acquainted,” answered the beautiful woman. “Perhaps you have heard mention made of my name. I was the Countess of Carignano: but I presume that, since my husband’s native land has become a Republic and abolished titles of nobility, I must introduce myself to you as Signora Barthelma.”

“I have heard of you, madam,” responded Green: “and I shall be delighted to number you amongst my clients.”

“It is for this purpose that I have addressed myself to you to-day,” observed Laura. “But I must at once inform you that the object of my visit is scarcely connected with law.”

“If I can serve you, madam----” began Green, who was completely fascinated by her beauty and her manners.

“And serve yourself also?” added Laura: “yes--you can do both! Know, then, that I cherish a rancourous--burning hatred against two individuals--father and son--and that the time has now come for me to wreak my vengeance upon them. The son has just returned from Italy--I saw his arrival mentioned in this morning’s paper; and not another day--not another hour can I rest ere a train be laid that must lead to the explosion of all the happiness they now expect to enjoy.”

“And who are these persons, madam?” asked Green.

“Their name is Hatfield--and they reside at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, in Pall Mall,” responded Laura. “I am acquainted with a terrific secret regarding that family--a secret which would make the hair of all England’s proud aristocracy stand on end--a secret, in fine, that now affords me the means of humbling my two mortal enemies in the dust. Will you, sir, become the instrument of my vengeance?--will you perform my bidding in all respects? I know that I ask a great deal--that I am about to involve you in no trifling nor unimportant enterprise--and that the business does not with propriety come within the sphere of your professional avocations. But the recompense shall be most liberal; and I proffer this note for five hundred pounds as an earnest of my intentions in that respect.”

Green’s eyes glistened at the sight of this generous gift; and he hastened to assure Signora Barthelma that he not only undertook her business with cheerfulness, but would enter into it with as much enthusiasm as if he were interested in it from personal feeling.

“I thought that I was not deceived in your character, from what I had heard,” observed Laura. “For let there be no mistake nor misunderstanding between us, Mr. Green,” she continued, fixing her fine, large grey eyes intently upon him: “you have no objection to make money--I have money to dispense amongst those who serve me;--you will not feel qualmish nor entertain a maudlin sentiment of honour in matters that are likely to prove lucrative--and I am ready to pay handsomely for the assistance which you can render me.”

“Proceed, madam,” said Green: “we understand each other.”

“Good!” ejaculated Laura; “and now listen attentively. I am about to communicate to you secrets of the most startling character; and it is by the use which must be made of those revelations, that my vengeance is to be gratified. At the same time you are to act in this matter without suffering it to be known that you are instigated by me. If questioned respecting the manner in which you became acquainted with these tremendous secrets, you must give some evasive reply; and if my name be suggested as your probable informant, you must declare boldly that you never even heard of me in your life. For those whom I am anxious to crush--overwhelm--and cover with confusion, might tell certain tales of a disagreeable nature concerning myself: but if they be kept in ignorance that it is I who am in the background, they will remain silent in these respects. You see that I am candid with you, Mr. Green.”

“And that very frankness, madam, renders me the more anxious to serve you,” answered the unprincipled attorney.

“Thanks for this assurance,” said Laura, delighted at having found so ready and willing an instrument to carry out her vindictive designs. “And now for these tremendous secrets to which I have already alluded! Learn, then, that the elder Mr. Hatfield of whom I have spoken, and who is a gentleman apparently of high respectability and enjoying a good reputation,--learn, I say, that he is in reality none other than the celebrated highwayman Thomas Rainford of former times! Yes--you may well start and be amazed, Mr. Green,” continued Laura, emphatically: “but it is the truth--the solemn truth! And it is nothing to that revelation which I have next to make. For this Mr. Hatfield, or rather Thomas Rainford, was the elder son of the late Earl of Ellingham; and, being legitimately born, he is the rightful possessor of the peerage and the entailed estates.”

“This is most wonderful!” ejaculated Green, staring almost stupidly with amazement.

“I have yet other revelations to make,” continued Laura, in a tone of subdued triumph. “Thomas Rainford married a certain Lady Georgiana Hatfield, and adopted her name. They have a son, whose name is Charles, and who passes as their nephew, because he is illegitimate. It is this son whose arrival in London yesterday is announced in this morning’s journals. The same paragraph which records his return from Italy, hints at the probability of his shortly leading Lady Frances Ellingham to the altar. You know the sickening, fulsome terms in which such matters are glanced at in the department of fashionable intelligence? But before such marriage shall take place, it is my purpose to carry woe--desolation of heart--infamy--disgrace--and the deepest, deepest humiliation into that proud mansion! I care not that these Hatfields should remain in ignorance of the fact that it is really I who strike the blow: ’twill be sufficient for me to be convinced that the blow itself is struck. Do you begin to comprehend me?”

“I understand you altogether and completely, madam!” exclaimed Green. “You would have me repair forthwith to Ellingham House, and by seeking some cause of dispute with one or more of its inmates, seize the opportunity to proclaim aloud all the tremendous secrets which you have just revealed to me. Is not this your purpose?”

“It is,” responded Laura: then, in a lower but more emphatic tone, she added, “And take care that the whole proceeding be accompanied with such circumstances of notoriety, that it must inevitably engage the attention of the public press. In a word, contrive that all those revelations shall appear in print, Mr. Green; and a thousand guineas shall be your recompense!”

“It shall be done, madam--it shall be done,” answered the lawyer, his heart exulting at the idea of the munificent reward thus promised.

“To-morrow I shall visit you again,” said Laura. “But remember, this affair rests between you and me! Should you ever encounter me when I am walking or riding out with my husband, you will not appear to know me: we are strangers to each other everywhere save within the four walls of this room!”

“I understand and will obey all your wishes, madam,” returned Green.

The lovely but vindictive and profligate woman then took her departure; and the lawyer lost no time in repairing to Pall Mall.

CCVIII. PERDITA, THE LOST ONE!

IT was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Laura reached the villa on Westbourne Terrace; and, having laid aside her bonnet and handsome furs, she proceeded to the drawing-room, where, as Rosalie had already informed her, her husband Lorenzo was anxiously awaiting her presence.

The fact that he should have stated to the servant his desire that she would speedily return home, was a proceeding so unusual on his part, appearing, as it did, to imply annoyance at her absence, that it roused the haughty temper of the imperious Laura; and for the first time since their marriage, she wore a frown upon her features when she entered his presence.

It was also for the first time that his handsome countenance denoted a storm raging within his breast, and all the pent-up violence of which was about to explode against the deceitful, wanton creature into whose character he had obtained so complete but fatal an insight that morning.

“You have been asking for me, Lorenzo?” said Laura, in a cold tone, as she seated herself with an air of exhaustion upon a sofa.

“Yes, madam--I was most anxious to see you as soon as possible,” answered the Italian, turning abruptly away from the window at which he had been standing, and now advancing towards her. “When I came home an hour ago I was surprised to find that you had been absent since mid-day.”

“And pray, Lorenzo, am I to be kept a prisoner in this house?” demanded Laura, in a tone of unfeigned surprise. “I had certain purchases to make at different shops--and I went out in the carriage for the purpose. Permit me to observe that your conduct is undignified in the extreme, since you so far forget yourself as to express your feelings to my lady’s-maid.”

“My God! and were I to proclaim my feelings to the whole world, there would be but little cause for wonder!” exclaimed the Italian, vehemently; and as he spoke, he thrust his hand into his bosom, and clutched a dagger which he had concealed there.

But his eyes fell upon the countenance of his wife,--that countenance so glorious in its beauty, though now with the sombre cloud overshadowing it;--and he would have slain her then and there, had not his glance thus suddenly embraced all the loveliness of her features and all the rich contours of her splendid form. For, like a whelming tide, rushed to his soul a thousand tender reminiscences,--vividly recalling to his imagination all the joys and delights he had experienced in her arms--the fervid passion he had seen reflected in those magnificent eyes--the luscious kisses he had imprinted on those lips--the wanton playfulness with which her long luxuriant hair had oft-times swept across his cheeks--the ineffable bliss that had filled his raptured soul when his head was pillowed on that glowing, swelling bosom, which now palpitated with haughty indignation,--oh! he thought of all this, and he felt that he could not slay one so exquisitely lovely--so transcendently beautiful!

“Assuredly, your humour is strange to-day, Lorenzo,” said Laura, who, though longing to make it up with the man whom she really and sincerely loved, nevertheless was resolved to exact the homage which all women under such circumstances require--namely, the first overture towards a reconciliation. “At one moment your eyes glare savagely upon me as if I had given you some mortal offence;--and now they assume an expression of pity and commiseration. Come, sir, confess that you have entertained some outrageous suspicion--that you are jealous of me--and I shall take the avowal as a proof of affection. Do this,” she added, a faint smile of encouragement appearing upon her lips, and allowing a glimpse of her brilliant teeth; “do this, Lorenzo--and I will pardon your unkindness.”

“Pardon me!” exclaimed the Italian, bitterly--for the conduct of his wife now appeared to him to be aggravated by levity and flippancy of the most irritating nature, though in reality she was totally ignorant of the fact that grave and serious charges were agitating in his mind against her: “pardon me!” he repeated, his tone now assuming a fierceness that began to amaze and even alarm the young woman, whose conscience, as the reader is well aware, was not the clearest in the world. “Oh! this is indeed a hideous mockery--a cool, deliberate insult,” he continued,--“yes--a vile insult, to offer to pardon me! What have I ever done to offend you--or merit your forbearance or your forgiveness? My God! ’tis I who have been generous and confiding--and ’tis you who have been the gross deceiver and the unprincipled hypocrite!”

“These are harsh words, Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, rising from the sofa, and drawing herself up to her full height; and though not tall in stature, there was nevertheless something regal and majestically imperious in her air and bearing: “yes--they are harsh words, I repeat--and they may lead to a quarrel which no subsequent regrets nor apologies can repair.”

“Let the quarrel be eternal--or to the very death!” returned Lorenzo, his handsome countenance now distorted with rage. “Oh! I am sick of this world with its hideous deceits--its hollow hearts--its boundless profligacy! I care not how soon I throw off the coil of this life’s trammels: but with my last breath shall I curse--bitterly, bitterly curse--the odious name of Perdita!”

“Ah!” ejaculated the guilty woman, now perceiving that she was indeed unmasked: but almost immediately recovering her self-possession, she approached her husband and said in her softest, most seductive tones, “You have heard evil reports concerning me, Lorenzo: and I hope ere you prejudge me, that I shall be allowed an opportunity to give a full explanation. Consider my position:--it is that of a friendless and orphan woman, about to lose, perhaps, the only being on earth whom she ever loved, or who has ever sincerely loved her!”

“Oh! how is it that such a demon heart is harboured in such an angelic form!” cried Lorenzo Barthelma, surveying her for a moment with mingled pity and admiration: then immediately afterwards, a full sense of all her tremendous profligacy and deceit springing up in his soul, his eyes glared upon her with the ferocity of a lynx, and a feeling of deep and burning hatred took possession of him.

“If you refuse me a hearing--if you intend to cast me off with contumely and insult,” said Perdita, her own eyes flashing fire in their turn--but it seemed like living fire!--“if such be your intentions,” she continued, in a tone of mingled bitterness and haughty indifference, “the sooner this interview be terminated, the better.”

And she advanced towards the door, her bosom heaving with convulsions almost to bursting from its confinement.

“No--no--you shall not leave me yet, nor thus!” cried the Italian, darting after and catching her violently by the arm. “You shall have the opportunity of explanation which you desire; and God help you in the task!”

Thus speaking he forced her back to the sofa; and then locked the door of the apartment, putting the key in his pocket.

“This behaviour on your part, signor,” said Perdita, assuming a composure which she did not--could not feel, “is alike mean and cowardly. You seek to intimidate me--and that is mean: you use violence towards me--and that is cowardly. What have you heard against me? Name the calumniator, and recite the calumnies. But if the accusation resolve itself into this,--that I was frail--weak--unchaste before I became your wife, remember that I never deceived you on that subject! You yourself were my paramour before you were my husband; and when you offered me your hand, I reminded you that it was no virgin-bride whom you would receive to the bridal-bed. Ere now you called me Perdita--and I admit that such is my Christian name. But am I responsible for the circumstances which induced my mother to bestow it upon me? You are doubtless aware, from the same source whence you have gleaned evil tidings concerning me, that I was born in Newgate, and that my maternal parent gave me that odious name in a moment of contrition. Well--is this my fault? Be just, Lorenzo--I do not ask you to be generous;--but again I say, be just!”

“I have listened to you with attention, Perdita--and I am bound to declare that you seek to veil a hideous depravity beneath the most specious sophistry,” said Barthelma, speaking in a slow, measured tone, but with a concentrated fury in his soul. “I do not reproach you for your mother’s crimes--I commiserate you on that score. But I feel indignant--oh! bitterly, bitterly indignant at all the treachery--the perfidy you have practised towards me! I knew that you were unchaste, as you yourself express it--but I believed that it was mere frailty on your part, and not inveterate profligacy? Oh! Perdita, how dared you bring to the marriage-bed of an honourable man a body polluted with all the vice and iniquity of a penal colony, and which had been for years common as that of the vilest prostitute? I gave you a noble name--circumstances have robbed it of its aristocratic lustre--but it is still honourable;--and now how is it menaced? You have lavished your favours upon hundreds--you have led a life of such frightful wantonness, young in years as you are, that your soul has grown old in iniquity! Oh! I know it all--I know everything, Perdita: all the intricacies of your character are revealed to me--I have read the mysteries of its darkest depths--and my eyes are at length opened to the astounding folly that I perpetrated in linking my fate with such as you!”

“Then let us separate at once,” exclaimed Perdita, her cheeks flushing with indignation. “Wherefore prolong this interview? Our quarrel has gone too far and become too serious ever to admit of pardon or oblivion.”

“It is not I who will seek such reconciliation,” returned Barthelma, with terrible malignity in his tone and manner. “I loved you, Perdita--God only knows how tenderly, how sincerely, how devotedly I loved you! I would have died for you,--aye, and should have rejoiced to surrender up my life, could such a sacrifice have benefitted you! Confident, frank, and full of generous candour, I gave you the love of an honourable man;--and you deceived me! Oh! I am now no stranger to all your syren wiles--your Circean witcheries: I recognise all that artifice and all that duplicity in many of the circumstances which marked our first meetings, and which rivetted the chains that you threw around me. What! do you suppose that I can consent to live and become the scorn, the laughing-stock, and the scandal of all who know me?--and think you that I will permit you to go forth into the world and point me out with taunting finger to the first idiot whom you may win as your paramour? My God! the thought is maddening--it sears my very brain!”

And so terrible became the young Italian’s aspect,--with his flashing eyes, convulsing countenance, and quivering lips,--that Perdita, now seriously alarmed, rushed to the door, forgetting that it was locked.

But it opened not to her touch, and, with a cry of terror, she turned towards her husband, who was evidently exercising superhuman efforts to restrain the fury that boiled in his breast and darted in lightning-shafts from his wild eyes.

“O Lorenzo--Lorenzo!” she exclaimed, joining her hands together; “what do you mean to do?--what is it that you require of me? My God! I know that I have been wicked--vile--profligate: but I have been faithful to you--I have never ceased to love you from the first moment we met! That day in the Champs Elysées has ever been a bright one--aye, the brightest on which my retrospective looks could dwell--”

“That day in the Champs Elysées,” repeated Barthelma, in a low and hollow tone, “is one accursed in my memory and in my life! Wretch--profligate--shameless wanton,” he exclaimed, all his infuriate passion now bursting forth,--“how dare you allude to that day?--how can you think of it without the crimson blush of shame? For whose sake did you deck yourself out so meretriciously on that occasion?--whose jealousy was it to inspire, that you bent your warm and lustful looks on me that day?--whom to beguile and win back to your arms, perhaps, was that deceptive note written that induced me, Di Ponta, and Charles Hatfield--”

“Ah! then you know every thing!” exclaimed Perdita, suddenly throwing off the suppliant air and the appealing looks which she had ere now assumed, and resolving to act with the energy natural to her character. “It is useless, signor, to prolong this painful interview: I have already made the same observation--and I now wish you to understand that I will not remain a prisoner any longer here. Open that door and let me depart--or I shall summon the servants.”

Thus speaking, she advanced towards the bell-pull.

“You menace me--you dare to menace me?” exclaimed Barthelma, springing forward and confronting her so as to bar the way; and his whole frame was quivering with a rage that appeared ready to burst forth into the ungovernable fury of a perfect madness.

“How dare you thus coerce me?” demanded Perdita, her eyes flashing fire. “Out of my path, coward--unless you intend to enact the Italian bravo in this country where men are wont to be brave and chivalrous.”

And, as she spoke, she pushed him disdainfully aside.

But ere the eye had time to wink or the heart to palpitate once--and while a sound, between a cry and a yell, of frenzied rage burst from the lips of the maddened Barthelma,--his dagger flashed before the sight of Perdita, and was instantly buried deep in her bosom.

A thrilling, agonising scream proclaimed her mortal agony--then ceased suddenly; and, staggering forward a few paces, she fell heavily on the carpet--and expired!

Barthelma stood for a few moments rivetted to the spot, silent and motionless with horror at the deed which he had perpetrated; while in his soul a revulsion of feeling took place with the whelming rapidity that marks the ebb of a portentous tide.

A mortal dread came over him--and then he burst into an agony of tears; and throwing himself on the still palpitating body of her whose wondrous beauty had been his pride and his joy, he began to lament her death in the most passionate terms.

But suddenly there was a sound as of several footsteps rushing up the stairs--and then came a loud knocking at the door, and the voices of the valet, Rosalie, and another servant demanding what was the matter and what meant the piercing scream that had reached their ears.

Then Barthelma recollected that, as a murderer, he would receive a murderer’s doom; and in a moment to his appalled soul started up all the grim and terrible array of the criminal tribunal--the executioner--the assembled myriads--and the gibbet!

All the frenzy of his maddening mind returned;--and tearing forth the stiletto from the bosom of his slaughtered wife, he plunged it deep into his own breast.

At the same instant the door of the apartment was forced in; and the horror-stricken domestics caught sight of their master just at the moment that he fell upon the corpse of their mistress!

* * * * *

So perished this youthful pair,--each endowed with a beauty of no ordinary kind!

Yes--thus died the tender, impassioned Lorenzo, and the profligate, wanton Perdita!

The world has seen no loveliness superior to hers, nor known a depravity more inveterate.

But was she to be blamed only, and not pitied in the slightest degree? It were unjust thus to regard her memory:--for, when her eyes first saw the light, had some kind hand been nigh to receive the innocent babe--to bear it away from that Newgate-cell which was the ominous scene of its birth--to rear it tenderly and save it from passing in the arms of a felon-mother into a penal settlement,--then to foster and cherish the growing girl with a true maternal care--bend her mind to the contemplation of virtue, and protect it from all bad influences--preserve her soul from the effects of vile examples, and inculcate principles of chastity, rectitude, and religion,--Oh! then would the prison-born Perdita have given by her conduct a refutation to her name, and she would have haply excelled in every accomplishment, every amiable characteristic, and every endearing qualification that combine like brilliant gems to form for the chaste woman’s brow a diadem such as angels wear!

Oh! my Lady Duchess--or you, highborn daughter of some proud Peer whose line of ancestry may be traced back to the period of the Norman Conquest,--look not with unmitigated disgust upon the character of Perdita, the Lost One! Let pity temper the feeling;--for--though the truth which we are about to tell may be not over palatable--yet is the moral which the Lost One’s history affords deserving of consideration. Suppose, my Lady Duchess--or you, highborn maiden,--suppose that either of you had been ushered into this world under such circumstances as those which attended on the birth of Perdita;--suppose that you first saw the light in Newgate--that you had been taken by a vile mother to the far-off place of her exile--that you had been reared where temptations abounded and virtuous influences were unknown--and that every example you had before you was evil and profligate,--what would have been the result? Do not dare to say, my Lady Duchess--or you, highborn maiden--that an innate perception of right and wrong, and a natural inclination to virtue, would have preserved you pure, and chaste, and untainted throughout the terrible ordeal! No--no--you would have fallen as Perdita fell--you would have been dragged through the mire of demoralisation as she was--you would have imbibed the infectious poison of vice as she did,--and, under such circumstances, you, my Lady Duchess--and you, highborn maiden--would have justified and illustrated in your own lives the history of the Lost One!

What, then, do we wish to impress upon our readers?--what do we seek to impress upon the Legislature and the Government? That it is better to adopt means to prevent crime, than to study how to punish it when it is committed. We have a thousand laws which proclaim how a man may be sent to the treadmill, or to the bulks, or to the penal colonies, or to the gibbet: but we have none devising measures to keep him away from those places. Everything is to punish--nothing to prevent. The codes are crowded with enactments inflicting penalties upon grown-up criminals,--but do not contain a single statute for the protection of the children of the poor against contamination. Look at those emaciated little beings rolling about all day long in the gutters, or eating the offal off dust-heaps: does the law stretch forth its hand and pluck them out of that filth which is only too painfully emblematical of the moral mire in which their minds are likewise wallowing? No: the law allows them to play on unheeded; but when, a few years afterwards, these unhappy creatures, who can neither read nor write, and have no idea of God nor hope nor heaven, pilfer a slice of rusty bacon or a morsel of cheese from a shop-board in order to satisfy the cravings of hunger--then does the Law thrust forth its long arm and its great hand, and seize upon the victims of----what?--its own neglect!

Yes: those are truths which we are never wearied of insisting upon. Session after session is frittered away in party squabbles; but what remedial steps are taken to moralise, christianise, and civilise the children of the poor?

CCIX. MR. GREEN’S MISSION

In the meantime Mr. Green had taken a cab, and ordered himself to be driven to the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall.

While he was proceeding thither, he threw himself back in the vehicle and gave way to a variety of pleasurable reflections. He considered his prospects to be most brilliant; and he believed that he was on the high road to amass as considerable a fortune as that which his late master Heathcote had once enjoyed. It was fortunate for him that he had applied to Jack Rily in the hour of his need: the Doctor had proved of the greatest assistance to him;--and he resolved to run down to Woolwich some day and call upon his old friend at the hulks. For Jack Rily had been tried for the murder of Vitriol Bob, and acquitted of the capital charge: but he was condemned to two years’ imprisonment in a convict-ship for manslaughter, the police having appeared to give him a character which by no means recommended him to the good opinion of the jury nor the mercy of the Court. As for the immense quantity of Bank-notes found upon his person at the time of his arrest, he had positively refused to give any satisfactory account concerning them; and as no one stood forward to claim them, nor to throw any light upon this mysterious subject, they were declared to be forfeited to the Crown on the prisoner’s conviction for manslaughter.

Pondering upon these and other matters, Mr. Green arrived in due course at the noble mansion in Pall Mall; and on inquiring for Mr. Hatfield, he was informed that this gentleman was ill in bed.

“But my business is of the most urgent character,” said the attorney; “and I must see him.”

The domestic to whom this assurance was given, conducted Mr. Green into a parlour, and hastened to report to the Earl of Ellingham the presence of the visitor.

The nobleman accordingly repaired to the room in which Green was waiting, and represented to him that Mr. Hatfield was too much indisposed to receive any stranger.

“If, however,” added the Earl, “you will communicate to me the nature of the affair which has brought you hither, your object will be gained as readily as if you saw Mr. Hatfield. He is an intimate friend of mine--indeed, a bosom friend,” said the nobleman, emphatically; “and we have no secrets from each other.”

“I must respectfully decline to open my business to your lordship in the first instance,” returned Mr. Green. “But I should be glad if your lordship would witness what I have to say to Mr. Hatfield.”

“Your card informs me that you are an attorney, sir,” said the Earl of Ellingham: “may I ask if the object of your visit be of a legal nature?--because in that case, you would do well to address yourself to my solicitor.”

“You must excuse me, my lord,” was the laconic answer, “if I decline giving any explanations.”

“Although I consider your behaviour to be far from courteous, Mr. Green,” said the Earl, “I will communicate to Mr. Hatfield your desire to have an interview with him; and perhaps, under the circumstances, he may see you.”

“Good, my lord,” responded the attorney. “I am in no particular hurry--and will cheerfully wait an hour or two in order to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Hatfield.”

The Earl of Ellingham forthwith repaired to his half-brother’s room, and mentioned to him all that had occurred. Mr. Hatfield, though feeling weak after the long illness which he had experienced, considered the behaviour of the visitor to be so extraordinary that it was advisable to grant the interview demanded.

Lord Ellingham accordingly returned to the parlour, and thence conducted the attorney to the chamber where Mr. Hatfield was lying in bed.

The invalid cast a rapid and searching glance at Green as he entered the room; but he recognised in the visitor no one with whom he remembered to have ever been acquainted.

Scarcely was the door closed, when it opened again--and the Countess of Ellingham, accompanied by Lady Georgiana, made her appearance: but, on perceiving a stranger, they both drew back and were about to withdraw.

“There are no secrets here, ladies--no secrets, I can assure you,” exclaimed Mr. Green, with a smirking expression of countenance, which, nevertheless, had a deep malignity in it.

“In that case, come in,” said Lord Ellingham; and the two ladies accordingly entered the room.

“Will you now explain the object of your visit, sir?” asked Mr. Hatfield, who had observed the sinister aspect which the attorney’s features had ere now assumed, and who entertained a vague presentiment of evil.

“I must begin by informing you,” said Green, taking a seat, and glancing around on those present, as much as to intimate that he spoke to no one in particular, but was addressing them all collectively,--“I must begin by informing you that I am a very extraordinary person in one respect--which is, that I am constantly ferretting about amongst old papers, musty documents, and ancient records; and while engaged in this occupation I frequently light upon strange secrets--very strange indeed.”

While he was yet uttering these last words, the rapid look which he threw around convinced him that he had already made a most unpleasant impression upon his auditory: for the ladies both turned pale and started--while the Earl and Mr. Hatfield exchanged glances significant of alarm.

“Yes--such is the case,” continued Mr. Green, chuckling inwardly, though maintaining an external composure: “and amongst the most singular--the most astounding of the secrets which I have thus dragged to light, the one that I have discovered in connexion with your lordship’s family, is not the least remarkable.”

As he thus spoke, the attorney fixed his eyes upon the nobleman, who coloured deeply in spite of himself: for it naturally struck him that Green alluded to matters with which the reader is already well acquainted. The same apprehension seized upon Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and the Countess of Ellingham; and the suspense which the lawyer’s auditory now endured, was poignant in the extreme.

“Your lordship can of course conjecture to what I allude,” continued Green; “and you, Mr. Hatfield,” he added, turning towards the invalid, “cannot possibly misunderstand me.”

Lady Georgiana rose from the seat which she had taken on entering the room, and proceeded to place herself instinctively as it were near the head of the couch, so as to be close to her husband. It was a movement which said as eloquently as if her lips had simultaneously explained it--“This man menaces evil: but I am near to console you with all the sympathy of a loving wife.”

“Mr. Green,” exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham, after a few moments’ reflection, “I appeal to you whether it will not be better that these matters at which you have glanced should be discussed privately between yourself and me. Mr. Hatfield has been ill--very ill: and it would be cruel to excite him at the moment when he is approaching convalescence.”

“I have already stated to your lordship that whatever communication I have to make must be in the presence of witnesses,” returned the implacable Green. “I presume that this lady,” he added, with a gentle inclination of his head towards the invalid’s wife, “is Lady Georgiana Hatfield?”

“You are correct, sir,” observed the lady herself, with a haughty tone and distant manner.

“And this lady is the Countess of Ellingham, doubtless?” said Green, altogether unabashed.

The beautiful Esther bowed in an affirmative reply.

“But what mean these questions, sir?” demanded the Earl, impatiently. “Surely you will not use language that may prove outrageous to the feelings of ladies who have never offended you?”

“If the truths which I am about to utter should prove so very disagreeable to hear, my lord,” responded Green, “they must be equally unpleasant to cherish in the depths of the soul. In a word, you are doubtless all too much accustomed to contemplate these truths to be liable to any startling effect when they are shaped in words and whispered to the ear.”

“This is an insolence of behaviour, sir, which I cannot--will not tolerate,” exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham. “You shall not force your way into the bosom of a family with a view to play upon their feelings with a cruelty that is as refined as it is unaccountable.”

“Very good, my lord,” returned Green, rising from his seat, and taking up his hat; “I can as easily proclaim from the head of the stairs--or in the hall of your mansion--every thing I know relative to your family, as I can talk the matter quietly over with you in this room.”

And the villain was moving towards the door, when Lord Ellingham caught him by the arm, saying, “Nay--you must not leave us thus! What object have you in view?--what use do you propose to make of the secrets which you have discovered? Speak frankly--candidly--openly: is it money that you require?”

A new idea flashed to the mind of Mr. Green, as these words fell upon his ears.

By serving Signora Barthelma he would gain a thousand guineas, half of which sum was already in his possession: he had therefore only another five hundred to receive--and it was possible that he might obtain as many thousands by striking a bargain with the nobleman and making a market of the secrets in his possession.

“Wherefore does your lordship ask me if I require money?” he demanded, by way of sounding the Earl’s intentions.

“Because I am rich enough to bribe you,” was the unhesitating response: for the nobleman had already formed a pretty accurate idea of the attorney’s character.

Green paused--reflected--and began to grow embarrassed. He knew not how to act--how much to demand--what terms to propose. Fearful of spoiling all, by carrying his extortionate views too high, he was likewise apprehensive of losing a large by agreeing to take a small amount.

The Earl guessed what was passing in his mind; and, pointing to writing materials that lay upon the table, he said, “Draw a cheque--and I will sign it.”

Mr. Green sat down, and with trembling hand wrote a draft for five thousand pounds.

Lord Ellingham glanced over it, and immediately affixed his signature to the document, inserting the names of his bankers in the corner.

“Stop!” ejaculated Mr. Hatfield, starting up in his couch: “Arthur, retain that cheque--let not the villain take it!”

And the Earl of Ellingham instantly obeyed this injunction; while Green turned, with a countenance livid through rage and disappointment, towards the invalid.

“Not one shilling shall this man extort from us!” continued Mr. Hatfield, powerfully excited. “His story is a fabrication! There are no documents in existence which can have revealed our family secrets to him. He has been sent hither by an enemy--and who that enemy is I can too well divine!”

“Yes--yes--I understand you!” cried the Earl, the name of Perdita suggesting itself immediately to his memory: but at the same time he recollected that neither the Countess of Ellingham nor Lady Georgiana was acquainted with the secret of that fatal marriage which Charles had contracted.

“Vile--despicable tool that you are!” resumed Mr. Hatfield, addressing himself to the attorney: “I can see through all your conduct as if your very soul were transparent! The vengeance of an enemy sent you hither--and the demand which the Earl of Ellingham made respecting your object, was suggestive of this extortionate deed that you sought to perpetrate. Begone, sir--do your worst--we fear you not! You may reveal family matters that may cause pain--but you can do no serious injury: for if you allude to the secrets which I myself am referring to, your malignant aim is completely baffled--inasmuch as the documents that could alone corroborate your assertions, are no longer in existence. I myself destroyed them!”

And thoroughly exhausted, Mr. Hatfield sank back upon the pillow.

At this moment the door was hastily opened; and Clarence Villiers rushed into the room.

“Pardon this abrupt intrusion,” he exclaimed, not immediately noticing Green: “but I have news of some importance--though of horrible interest--to communicate. That woman Perdita, who ensnared my friend Charles with her wiles and witcheries, is no more!”

“Dead?” cried Mr. Hatfield, again starting up in the couch.

“Murdered--assassinated--and by her own husband!” ejaculated Villiers. “I was driving past Westbourne Terrace ere now--I saw a crowd--I heard appalling rumours--I enquired the cause--and I learnt the outline of the frightful tragedy! She is dead--and Barthelma, her husband, who destroyed her, has perished by his own hand!”

“Then Charles is beyond all danger for the future!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield;--and again did he fall back on his pillow.

Lady Georgiana and the Countess of Ellingham hastened to administer restoratives to the invalid: although they themselves were greatly excited by the intelligence which had just arrived--for, it will be remembered, they were aware that Charles had fled from London with an abandoned woman who had gained a powerful ascendancy over him; and horrified as they were at the tidings of the murder, they could not help feeling that all apprehension of a relapse on the young man’s part into the meshes of the intriguing Perdita, was now suddenly removed.

While the ladies were ministering to Mr. Hatfield, Clarence Villiers had turned and recognised Green, who was standing stupefied and motionless at the sudden news which revealed to him that his fair client Perdita Barthelma had been murdered!

“Ah! Mr. Green,” exclaimed Villiers, in astonishment at beholding the attorney in the room; “what brings you hither?”

“Do you know this person, Clarence?” demanded the Earl, bending his looks with mingled indignation and abhorrence upon the man.

“I have been acquainted with him for many years----” began Villiers.

“Stop, sir!” cried the nobleman, again seizing the arm of the attorney, who was making for the door. “Before you leave us, you shall be thoroughly unmasked in the presence of a gentleman who appears to address you as a friend.”

“Let me go, my lord!” exclaimed Green, struggling to get away; for he knew that Villiers could reveal a secret which would at once place the infamy of his character beyond question: “let me go, I say--you have no right to detain me against my will!”

“You shall remain yet a few minutes!” cried the Earl, holding his arm with a strong grasp. “This villain,” continued the nobleman, turning towards Clarence, “came hither as the instrument of that woman Perdita’s vengeance! That such is the fact, I have no doubt. But in a short time he changed his character--he began to act a part for himself--he played the scoundrel on his own account--and he attempted to extort from me the sum of five thousand pounds, as the purchase-money for retaining all the secrets which Perdita could alone have revealed to him!”

“You offered me the money--and the amount was not extravagant, considering the purpose for which it was to have been given,” said Green, glancing anxiously at Clarence Villiers.

“I told you to name your own terms--and you drew up this draft,” exclaimed the Earl, exhibiting the slip of paper.

“Then, by heaven! forbearance in respect to such a man as you, is a positive crime on my part!” said Villiers, in an excited tone; and, seizing the wretched attorney by the collar, he cried, “You go not hence, Mr. Green, save in the custody of an officer, and under an accusation of forgery!”

“Forgery!” exclaimed the Earl, in amazement; and at the same time the ladies and Mr. Hatfield became interested observers of the scene that was now passing.

“Yes--forgery, my lord!” cried Villiers, still retaining his hold upon Green. “This man was left joint trustee with myself, on behalf of a youth who had a small sum bequeathed to him: the money was sold out of the funds years ago, my signature to the power of attorney being forged! That forgery was perpetrated by the villain before you. Some six months ago he replaced the money--he called upon me--he confessed the deed--he avowed his contrition--and I promised to shield him. But now, my lord--now, that he dares to set himself up as the persecutor of those whom I have so many reasons to esteem and revere,--now, that he has ventured to direct his villanies against the peace of an amiable family,--I cannot--will not--must not spare him!”

“No, Clarence--you shall keep your promise,” said the Earl; “and perhaps the man may be moved by gratitude to repentance.”

“My promise was conditional, my lord,” exclaimed Villiers: “and if he have represented it otherwise to a living soul, he has uttered a falsehood. I declared to him at the time that I would forgive him, provided he undertook to enter upon the ways of rectitude and honesty: and it is he who has now forfeited his solemn pledge to that effect! No mercy, then, for this bad--this heartless man!”

“One word!” cried Green, in a menacing tone. “Fulfil your threat, Mr. Villiers, and I will at once--without the slightest hesitation or remorse--proclaim to all the world that the man known as Mr. Hatfield--”

“Silence, villain!” thundered Clarence: “silence!--or I will strangle you!”

“No--no--you shall not coerce me! I will speak out!” cried Green, struggling to disengage himself from the strong grasp in which he was held. “Mark what I say--hear me--hear me, all of you! Mr. Hatfield bears an assumed name--he is the Earl’s eldest brother--the heir to the title--aye, and also Thomas Rainford, who was hanged at Horsemonger Lane Gaol!”

A blow from the clenched fist of Villiers felled the attorney as these last words burst from his lips;--and at the same instant a wild shriek, uttered by Lady Georgiana, rang through the room. For Mr. Hatfield had sunk back upon the pillow, with a low moan and a death-like pallor of countenance;--and almost immediately afterwards, blood oozed from his mouth.

All was now confusion and dismay in the chamber of the invalid: but at this juncture, Sir John Lascelles made his appearance. A few words, hurriedly spoken by the Earl of Ellingham, conveyed to the physician an idea of what had caused the relapse of his patient; and the worthy man speedily ordered the requisite restoratives. But these were all in vain:--Mr. Hatfield had broken a blood-vessel internally--and a few minutes after the arrival of the doctor, he expired without a groan!

* * * * *

We must draw a veil over the scene of sorrow which the chamber of death presented, and which we cannot find words to describe. The intensity of that anguish was increased by the almost frantic grief of Charles Hatfield, who, having been out for several hours upon his own and his father’s business, returned but a few minutes too late to witness the sad catastrophe.

He threw himself upon the corpse of his sire--uttered the most passionate lamentations--and even pushed his mother aside when she endeavoured to console him.

But at length a reaction came; and the violence of the young man’s grief gave way to a profound sorrow,--a sorrow that was deeply, deeply shared by many other hearts!

In the confusion that had taken place when Lady Georgiana’s scream echoed through the room, denoting the occurrence of something dreadful,--Green had risen from the floor and made his escape, inwardly cursing himself for having undertaken to become the agent of Perdita’s vengeance.

But Villiers, who entertained the most sincere friendship for Mr. Hatfield, and who was goaded almost to madness by the conduct of the vile attorney towards the man whom he thus loved as a brother, vowed that such infamy should not go unpunished. Scarcely, therefore, had the terrible conviction burst upon all present in the chamber of death, that Mr. Hatfield was indeed no more, when Villiers rushed franticly in pursuit of him whom he looked upon as the murderer!

The chase was successful--and in less than half an hour, Green was in custody on a charge of forgery!

CONCLUSION.

Our narrative is about to close: but ere we lay aside the pen, a few observations are requisite in order to render the history of each prominent character as complete as possible. Several have already been disposed of: but there yet remain many in whose fate the reader may feel more or less interested; and we accordingly proceed to sum up in a few words all the particulars which are wanting to the faithful accomplishment of our task.

Mr. Green in due time figured at the Old Bailey, where Clarence Villiers appeared to prosecute him for forgery; but the prisoner pleaded guilty in order to obtain the merciful consideration of the court, and was sentenced to transportation for seven years, instead of for the term of his natural life. Preparatory, however, to his expatriation, he was lodged in one of the convict-hulks at Woolwich; and there he encountered his friend Jack Rily the Doctor, who, instead of consoling the wretched attorney, only laughed at him for the tears which he shed and the useless repinings to which he gave vent. Mr. Green is at this present moment occupied in the healthy but disagreeable task of repairing the high roads in Van Diemen’s Land, in company with some of the greatest scoundrels that ever disgraced the human species; and he even looks back with bitter regret to those times when he was the oppressed, crushed, and despised instrument of James Heathcote. Nor was it a source of solace to Mr. Green when one fine morning, about ten months ago, he recognised the Doctor in a new-comer who was thus added to the gang of convicts: for Mr. Rily, having endeavoured to stir up his brethren in the Woolwich hulk to rebellion, was discovered in the attempt and forthwith packed off to the island which Nature had in the origin made a terrestrial paradise, but which the English Government has converted into “a den of thieves.”

James Heathcote, being utterly ruined by the transfer of all his property for the benefit of the numerous clients whom he had robbed,--for this affair was completely carried out by Green’s head clerk,--was compelled to abandon his fine house and take a humble office where he strove hard to reconstruct his once extensive business. But the exposure which his character had received in the Court of Queen’s Bench, proved a fatal blow to his prospects and an insurmountable obstacle in his path; and at the end of six months, being unable to pay his rent, he was turned out of the little nook to which he had retired, and plunged into the deepest poverty. At this juncture his brother Sir Gilbert returned to England; and James wrote him a penitential letter, imploring his succour. The baronet refused to see him, but generously undertook to allow him two guineas a-week in order to keep him from starving; and on this pittance--for such it is in comparison with the wealth he once possessed--the broken-down, baffled, and dispirited man still subsists in some suburb of the metropolis.

The Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks has experienced many ups and downs since we last saw him at the lunatic asylum in Bethnal Green. It appears that one evening Dr. Swinton gave a grand supper to the relatives and friends of his pensioners, who were present on the occasion as usual; and that previously to the repast being served up, the Doctor had been holding forth in a highly eulogistic style upon the excellent qualities, Christian virtues, and profound piety of his chaplain. Now the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks was out at the time, the Doctor both declaring and believing that “the good man had gone to pay his usual evening visits to the poor in the neighbourhood;” and the guests were all very anxious for the return of the worthy individual who possessed such numerous claims upon their esteem, veneration, and respect. But the truth was--and the truth must be told--that the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks, instead of visiting the poor or even dreaming of such a thing, was smoking his pipe and drinking his gin-and-water at the Cat and the Fiddle in Globe Town; and as he happened to take an extra pipe and two extra glasses on this particular occasion, the fumes thereof became more potent than the odour of sanctity. The consequence was that on his return to the lunatic asylum, his walk was so unsteady and irregular that his progress up the gravel walk to the front door resembled that of a ship tacking about in the Channel; and when he entered the supper-room, just as the company were sitting down to the well-spread table, his nose was so red, his cheeks were so flushed, and his eyes so vacant and watery, that the Doctor inquired in a tone of bland anxiety if he were unwell? “No, sir--I am quite well--and I am all right!” was the somewhat savage answer.--“Then will you have the kindness to ask a blessing, Mr. Sheepshanks?” said the Doctor.--“No, sir,” responded the pious gentleman: “I will see you and the blessing at the devil first. You’re drunk, sir--and I’m ashamed of you.”--It would be impossible to describe the dismay--we might almost term it horrified amazement--which this peremptory refusal to say grace, and the scandalous attack upon Dr. Swinton’s sobriety, produced amongst the guests. The physician himself started up in a furious rage, forgetful of all his propriety; and applying his right foot to the proper quarter, he kicked the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks ignominiously forth from the lunatic asylum. On the following morning this pious gentleman, who was endowed with so many Christian virtues, awoke in a station-house to a sense of his altered position; but when introduced to the notice of a magistrate for being “drunk and disorderly, and kicking up a row at Dr. Swinton’s door,” he boldly proclaimed himself a martyr, and held forth at great length, and in a peculiar nasal drone, on the vanities of this world. The magistrate was, however, compelled to cut him short, by inflicting a fine: but as Mr. Sheepshanks had exhausted all his pecuniary resources at the Cat and the Fiddle on the preceding evening, he was doomed to extend his experience of worldly vanities beneath the roof of the House of Correction. There he found that the treadmill was one of the most uncomfortable vanities he had ever yet encountered; and the redness of his nose was considerably subdued by the prison skilly. On his emancipation at the end of a week, he took up his abode at the house of a poor widow with whom he was acquainted, and whom he induced to convert her front-parlour into a receptacle for prayer-meetings. This succeeded very well for a few months, the congregation being delighted with Mr. Sheepshanks’ discourse, and a tolerable amount of pence being collected every evening in furtherance of the pious gentleman’s holy purpose of supplying the benighted Esquimaux with flannel-jackets and religious tracts: but the widow proving at length to be in the family-way, and Mr. Sheepshanks not choosing to wait to have the paternity of the expected offspring fixed upon his reverend shoulders, his sudden evaporation from the neighbourhood led to the break-up of the prayer-meetings and the total ruin of the unfortunate woman. What became of Mr. Sheepshanks for the next six months, we cannot say: but one fine Sunday morning he turned up at the Obelisk in St. George’s Fields, where he addressed a crowd in his usual strain. His discourse was however suddenly cut short by the presence of the poor widow, who, wrapped in rags and with a baby in her arms, was begging in that neighbourhood; and when the reverend gentleman’s delinquencies were proclaimed by the miserable woman, he was hooted, pelted, and maltreated all up the Westminster-road, until he managed to escape from his assailants by diving into one of the narrow streets leading out of that great thoroughfare. After this affair, the pious man again disappeared for a season; and when we last heard of him, he had given up preaching as a trade which he had thoroughly worn out, and had betaken himself to the highly respectable and cheering avocation of beating the drum and playing the month-organ--alias pandean pipes--for a colleague who exhibited a Punch and Judy show.

We must now direct attention to Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis. Upon the strength of the handsome pecuniary present made to them by Lord William Trevelyan, the former forthwith dubbed himself Major; and for the first six weeks after this self-bestowed elevation, he was under the disagreeable necessity of thrashing his bosom friend soundly at least once a day for being oblivious of the new rank and calling him Captain. At length he succeeded in completely beating into the head of Frank Curtis that he was really a Major; and when they were seated together of an evening over their whisky-and-water, at some public-house, the gallant Irishman never failed to recount to his companion all the military services he had rendered the State, and all the splendours of his paternal mansion of Blunderbuss Park, Connemara. These statements, though ostensibly addressed to Mr. Frank Curtis, were really intended for the behoof of the frequenters of the parlours where they were enunciated; and the quiet tradesmen into whose ears the flaming narratives were thus dinned, ended by being particularly proud of the acquaintance of Major Gorman O’Blunderbuss. At length, what with succulent dinners at eating-houses and oceans of “potheen” every evening, the sum so liberally given by Lord William Trevelyan came to a termination; and the two friends were one day holding a council of war--or rather sitting in “committee of ways and means”--when a paragraph in the newspaper informed them that Lady Blunt and her son had been upset in a boat during an aquatic excursion at Richmond, and drowned “in spite of all the efforts made by the footman to save them.” Up jumped both the Major and Frank Curtis in ectasies of joy, dissolving themselves as a committee then and there by kicking over the table; and away they sped to the mansion in Jermyn Street. The Intelligence was true: Lady Blunt and her son were no more;--and the stout footman was disconsolate. There was no will; and Frank Curtis accordingly found himself, as if by magic, the heir-at-law to all those possessions from which his uncle had sought to exclude him years ago. The day on which the remains of the deceased lady and her son were consigned to the tomb, was the happiest that Major O’Blunderbuss and his friend had ever passed in their lives: for the gallant officer resolved to make a regular Irish wake of it, and the good “potheen” circulated so rapidly that the assembled mourners alarmed the whole street with their noise and laughter. And a most refreshing spectacle was it when Major O’Blunderbuss, with a view to enhance the hilarity of the scene, kicked the stout footman completely out of the house and tossed his clothes and wages ignominiously from the window. In the course of a few days the two friends paid a visit to Mr. Strongitharms, the celebrated engraver in St. James’s Street, for the purpose of having their cards printed with their armorial bearings on the top; and when Frank blandly directed the shopman who took the order to write down in his book the names of Mr. Curtis and Major O’Bluntherbuss, the latter exclaimed in a tone of mingled indignation and disgust, “Be Jasus! Frank, and your mimory grows worse and worse ivery day: for, be the holy poker-r! and isn’t it Colonel O’Bluntherbuss that I am, the new rank being conferred upon me by her Gracious Majesty for my services in the East Indies?”--The shopman wrote down Colonel O’Blunderbuss accordingly; and as a colonel is the gallant gentleman known at the present day. Reader, if you happen to be passing along Jermyn Street any time in the evening after five o’clock, you will hear such shouts of laughter and peals of merriment issuing from one of the houses, that there can be no mistake as to the identity of that dwelling. We need not tell you the number of the mansion, because you cannot fail to discover where Colonel O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis reside by means of the uproarious sounds that emanate from the front-parlour, in spite of the closed shutters and heavy draperies. And to tell you the truth, the neighbours look upon that house as a complete nuisance; and rents are falling rapidly in the immediate neighbourhood--for quiet old bachelor-gentlemen, families, and even young blades about town, are frightened away from the lodgings that are let in the three or four nearest tenements on either side of the one where the two friends have settled themselves. But these worthies care nothing for the opinion of their neighbours and are deaf to all remonstrances: they lead a jolly life after their own hearts and in their own peculiar fashion--and to witness them in their happy domesticity, a stranger unacquainted with their history could not tell that the house and the fortune both belonged to Frank Curtis, for the Colonel is as much master of both dwelling and purse as his devoted friend.

Although Rosalie, the French lady’s-maid, has not performed a very conspicuous part on the stage of our narrative, we are nevertheless induced to trace her career up to the present time. Compelled to appear as a witness at the Coroner’s Inquest which was holden upon her late master and mistress, she attracted the notice of a young baronet who attended the proceedings through motives of curiosity: and as the overtures which he subsequently made her, were far from displeasing, she accepted them after a due amount of affected hesitation. The baronet was rich, and provided in a sumptuous manner for his mistress. He hired and furnished a house for her accommodation in a fashionable street at the West End--bought her a brougham and pair of handsome bays--took for her use a box at the Opera--and allowed her fifty guineas a month for her domestic expenses. In return for this generosity, she treated him with a capriciousness that would have been intolerable on the part of a sensible man, but which only confirmed the insensate spendthrift’s infatuation. Rosalie’s conduct was a matter of calculation, and not the unavoidable result of a wilful disposition. She knew that she had only to be kind and winning, in order to coax him into any extravagant expenditure which would minister to her enjoyments; and her smiles were thus literally purchased with gold and diamonds. Six months only did the baronet’s fortune stand this wanton devastation; and when he could no longer draw cheques for the sums which she required, she at once accepted the “protection” of an old nobleman who made her very handsome offers, and who was in his dotage. But now mark the wayward inconsistency of this woman’s conduct! The moment she ceased to be dependent upon the baronet, she conceived a violent affection for him--was never happy save when in his society--bestowed upon him two-thirds of the money which she received from the ancient peer--and even stinted herself to supply his extravagances. She never treated him with the slightest indication of caprice--but served him as if she were a purchased slave, and he a Pacha. He gave way to intemperance, and in his drunken freaks would beat and ill-use her. She endured it all without a murmur, so long as he would forgive her when he was sober! At length the old nobleman died one day of indigestion--and Rosalie passed into the keeping of a Bishop. The Right Reverend Father was one of the most staunch supporters of all measures for the better observance of the Sabbath. He hated Sunday trading as something a shade or two worse than wilful murder--and no one declaimed more eloquently than he against the steam-boats plying on the Lord’s Day. He even wished to prevent the railway-trains from running on the Sabbath; and his heart rejoiced when he read in the newspapers that apple-women, orange-girls, and shrimp-boys had been taken into custody for attempting to earn a penny to buy a meal on the “day of rest.” But every Sunday evening this respectable old prelate made it a rule to dine with his mistress--aye, and remain with her too until past twelve at night; and heaven only knows what lying excuses he made to his wife for these intervals of absence. He was, however, far more stingy towards Rosalie than the deceased nobleman; and she accordingly cut him in favour of his Archdeacon, who was as unmitigated an old sinner as himself. Meantime the baronet continued to be the young woman’s real favourite; and when he happened to find himself locked up in the Queen’s Bench Prison, she never failed to visit him every day. Her diamonds--her jewels--her rings--her very watch she pawned to raise the sum necessary to procure his release; although the more his temper grew soured by adversity, the more brutal became his conduct towards her. From the keeping of the Archdeacon, she passed into that of a wealthy tradesman who had a splendid establishment in Regent Street. He likewise had a wife and six children; but he neglected them for the sake of his mistress--and while he grudged the former even common necessaries, he lavished all his gains upon the latter. At length he learnt that Rosalie was constantly visited by the baronet; and he broke off the connexion. No admirer immediately appearing to supply his place, the Frenchwoman wrote a very pretty letter to the Bishop, complimenting him upon his last speech against Sunday-trading, and declaring how much pleasure she should experience if he would honour her with a visit. The invitation was irresistible--the prelate went--and the result was that Rosalie once more became his mistress. The renewal of their connexion has not since been interrupted; and the baronet is still the object of the young woman’s affection--still the recipient of two-thirds of all the money she can obtain--and still the only person in the world who would dare to raise his hand against her.

For nearly a year after his attempted suicide, the Marquis of Delmour lived happily with his wife, the past being buried in oblivion. Lady Delmour devoted herself to her husband as far as her own blighted and crushed affections would permit; and she at least had the supreme felicity of witnessing the unalloyed happiness which was experienced by Lord William Trevelyan and the lovely Agnes, who were united about six months after the reconciliation of the young lady’s parents, the consent of the Lord Chancellor being obtained to sanction the marriage. But in the summer of 1847 the Marquis of Delmour was seized with a sudden and alarming illness; and in spite of the unwearied attentions of Sir John Lascelles and Lady Delmour, the old nobleman succumbed to the tyrant sway of Death. Upwards of a year has elapsed since that event; and we observe by a recent paragraph in the newspapers that the Marchioness has bestowed her hand upon Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

Lord William Trevelyan and Agnes are as happy as mortals can hope to be on earth. Their mode of life is somewhat secluded--for it is in each other’s society that their enjoyment of existence consists. Their charity is unbounded, but bestowed privately and unostentatiously; and although you will never hear the name of Lord William Trevelyan proclaimed from the platform of Exeter Hall, amidst a list of liberal subscribers to Missionary Societies and other legalised swindles and robberies of the same class, yet rest assured that many and many a poor family has reason to bless that good nobleman and his amiable wife.

Timothy Splint, alias Tim the Snammer, continues the occupant of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States: indeed, the property has spread out to an extent which renders the denomination of “estate” the more correct one. Joshua Pedlar and his wife have prospered equally well in Canada; and they are now in possession of a large mercantile establishment at Quebec. Mrs. Bunce is dead: but her husband still resides at Saint Peter’s Port in Guernsey, and earns a very comfortable livelihood. Jeffreys leads a steady, industrious life at Liverpool, where he has became a substantial merchant, and is deservedly respected. Had all these persons been consigned to the horrors of transportation to a penal colony, their redemption from sin would have become an impossibility: but when placed in a condition to earn an honourable independence, even murderers may be put to a better use than hanging them like dogs, or sending them into the midst of a vile community where their example would only produce a deeper demoralisation.

Poor Mr. Bubbleton Styles, having failed in getting up his Railway Company, was compelled to pass through the Insolvents’ Court; and during the eighteen months which have elapsed since that event, he has turned his attention to at least a dozen different occupations. On his discharge from the process of white-washing in Portugal Street, he became a wine-merchant: but finding that this market was completely glutted, he entered the coal and coke trade--with may be a little dealing in slates as a necessary adjunct thereto. This speculation not succeeding “for want of capital,” Mr. Styles turned drysalter--then town-traveller for an ale-brewer--then commission-agent for a house in the woollen line--and then something else. But none of these occupations answering his purpose, and hearing of the good luck which had befallen his friends O’Blunderbuss and Curtis, he put on his last clean shirt and paid them a visit. His reception was not at first very encouraging, inasmuch as the gallant Irishman commenced by knocking him down and bunging up his right eye, for the simple reason that Mr. Styles was unaware of that formidable gentleman’s elevation to the rank of Colonel, and had called him Captain: but when explanations took place, complete harmony was restored; and the worthy Bubbleton, having been made uncommonly drunk by his two friends, received a cheque for a hundred guineas to enable him to begin the world again. He has made the recommencement accordingly, and seems in a fair way to get a living by adhering to one particular occupation instead of having a hundred upon his hands at the same time.

Clarence Villiers and Adelais continue to reside at Brompton. They are well off in a pecuniary point of view; and though the ardent love of their youth has mellowed down into a deep attachment, still are they as happy in each other’s society as they were in those days when the marriage-state was as yet new with them. And often and often, when seated together of an evening, do they speak with never-failing gratitude and regret of poor Tom Rain!

Our readers will doubtless recollect the manuscript which Lord William Trevelyan discovered at the lunatic-asylum in Bethnal Green, and which recorded the experiences of a victim to that detestable system of quackery which the law allows. We may as well observe that in the course of a short tour which the young nobleman and his wife took to the south of France, a few months back, Trevelyan encountered Mr. Macdonald, the author of that lamentable history. This gentleman had completely recovered his mental equilibrium, and was living in a strict but happy seclusion with his Editha and their son. Trevelyan communicated to him the circumstances under which he had found the manuscript, and the motives which had induced him to convey it away from its place of concealment in the mad-house. Macdonald expressed his fervent gratitude for the young nobleman’s generosity; and the papers were consigned to the flames. We will not mention the name of the town where Mr. Macdonald is residing: for, were we guilty of such imprudence, the extortioner would be assuredly sent after him.

We have now to speak of the inmates of Ellingham House. Reader, the family circle there is as happy as the mournful reminiscence of Mr. Hatfield’s sudden death will permit. Charles has become the husband of the beautiful and accomplished Lady Frances; and the youthful pair continue to dwell at the Earl’s mansion. Lady Georgiana is likewise a permanent resident beneath the same roof; and her son amply repays her by his affectionate devotion for any temporary uneasiness or grief which he might have caused her at the lamentable period of his connexion with Perdita. Sir John Lascelles is a frequent visitor at the mansion in Pall Mall; and we need scarcely add that he is always a welcome guest.

The Republic of Castelcicala flourishes under the free institutions which General Markham gave it. It is the Model-State in Europe; and appears to be the solution of a problem whether it is possible for honest rulers, a conscientious legislature, and a democratic system to extirpate poverty from a country, and make an entire people contented, free, and prosperous. There the Rights of Labour are recognised in all the plenitude of industry’s claims: there no man who is willing to work, can possibly starve. Mendicity is unknown throughout the Republic; and when the Castelcicalans read paragraphs translated from the English papers into their own prints, and detailing how men, women, and children die of starvation--aye, and very frequently too--in the British Islands, they say to each other, “It is a hideous mockery to pretend that true freedom has any existence there!”

But, thank God! the tide of liberal sentiments is rolling rapidly over Europe--sweeping away the remnants of feudal barbarism--levelling all oppressive institutions--compelling tyrants to bend to the will of the masses--and giving such an impulse to enlightened notions as the world never saw before. And may that tide still flow on with unabating force--not wearing off the asperities of barbaric systems by degrees, but whirling all abuses away at once and in a moment;--not proceeding without certainty or uniformity, like a stream that is sometimes free and sometimes checked--but rushing on in a channel that is broad and deep;--not here diverted from its course by some obstacle--nor there dammed up until the weight of its waters break down the impediment,--but rolling on with a mighty and irresistible volume, and expanding into a glorious and illimitable flood!

THE END.

[ADVERTISEMENT.]

The Proprietor of the “MYSTERIES OF LONDON,” having, at present, an opportunity of carrying out his original design--viz. that of presenting the public with faithful and unexaggerated sketches of every class of society forming the “world of London,” has determined upon submitting to his readers a NEW SERIES of the “MYSTERIES OF LONDON,” and which will be from the pen of a writer of the most eminent reputation,

THOMAS MILLER, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF “ROYSTON GOWER;” “FAIR ROSAMOND;” “LADY JANE GREY;” “GODFREY MALVERN;” “PICTURES OF COUNTRY LIFE;” “RURAL SKETCHES;” “BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY;” “A DAY IN THE WOODS;” “THE POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS;” “THE BOY’S YEAR BOOK;” POEMS, ETC. ETC.

This NEW SERIES will be entitled “MYSTERIES OF LONDON; OR, LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF LONDON LIFE.”

THE FIRST NUMBER WILL APPEAR ON WEDNESDAY, 20th SEPTEMBER.

London: WALTER SULLY, Printer, “Bonner House,” Seacoal Lane.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See the First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.”

[2] See Chapter LIX.

[3] See Chapter LXIV.

[4] See last paragraph of Chapter LXV.

[5] See Chapter LXXIX.

[6] This was when Rainford quitted the packet-ship at Guernsey, and commenced his career as the Blackamoor.

[7] See first paragraph, second column, page 28, of this Volume of the Second Series.

[8] “An obscure threepenny print, called the Daily News, published in its impression of November 2nd, an article purporting to be a notice of the leading works belonging to the sphere of Cheap Literature, but in which a vile, cowardly, and ruffian-like attack was made upon Mrs. Reynolds’s novel of ‘GRETNA GREEN.’ The article alluded to appeared in the evening of the same date in the Express, a paper made up from the contents of the other, but of whose existence we were totally unaware until the occurrence of the matter in question. The attack, though evidently written by some silly boy, was so savage and malignant, and was made up of such a pack of atrocious lies, that it became necessary to take some kind of notice of it, although neither the Daily News nor its evening reflex enjoy a circulation or an influence sufficient to effect the amount of mischief which the dastardly scribe sought to accomplish. Our solicitors were accordingly instructed to write to the Editors of the News and Express, requiring a complete contradiction to the libel, or menacing an action as the alternative. The letter which our legal advisers despatched was a gentlemanly and talented remonstrance, which soon brought the stupid Editors of the Daily News and the Express to reason. Bradbury and Evans, the proprietors of those threepenny prints, shook in their shoes at the idea of an action, they already having enough law business on their hands in consequence of their treatment of Messrs. Powell and Wareing:--and, accordingly, the News and Express ate their own words, on Tuesday, Nov. 9th, in the following terms:--

“‘We have received a letter, protesting against Mrs. S. F. Reynolds’ work of “GRETNA GREEN” being included in that list of popular works described as marked by “looseness, warmth of colouring in criminal scenes, and the false glow cast around guilty indulgencies.” We must admit that “GRETNA GREEN” does not merit this; and that, whatever its faults it certainly contains nothing derogatory to the character or delicacy of a lady writer.’

“Now let our readers mark well the atrocity of the proceeding on the part of the News and the Express. They first denounce ‘GRETNA GREEN’ in the strongest terms: they are afterwards compelled, by the fear of law proceedings, to ’admit that “GRETNA GREEN” does not merit this, and that it contains nothing derogatory to the character or delicacy of a lady writer.’ Then how dared the wretched scribe to act such a miscreant’s part as to accuse a lady of writing with ’looseness,’ when he must have known the charge to be unfounded? He told a downright, deliberate, wilful lie: he has proclaimed himself, and likewise admitted himself to be, an abominable liar! And as such we denounce him.

“But of what value can criticisms of the News and Express be, when a contemptible scribe is thus allowed to make the columns of these prints the vehicle for his own beastly malignity? What authority can belong to a reviewer who is obliged to say on the 9th of November, ‘I was guilty of a foul, cowardly, and unjustifiable calumny against a lady’s character on the 2nd of November.’ And these two papers belong to men who are so very particular that they turned off their sub--editors. Messrs. Powell and Wareing, because, forsooth, these gentlemen gave insertion to a particular bankruptcy case which the bankrupt himself had written to implore Bradbury and Evans not to publish!

“We hope the contemptible slanderer who ‘does the criticisms’ for the News and Express will treat his readers (two grown-up persons and a small boy for the News, and the small boy without the grown-up persons for the Express) with an account of the origin, progress, and present condition of those threepenny things. If so, he must state how the News first came out at five-pence with the intention of smashing every thing,--how Charles Dickens was the man entrusted with the obstetric process of introducing this phenomenon to the world,--how froth was never so frothy, and vapouring never so vapoury, as when the bills, placards, and advertisements appeared,--and how the mountain at last brought forth a mouse! In fact, no failure was ever more miserable--more ludicrous--more contemptible than that of the Daily News. When a friend once spoke of his uppermost garment to Brummell, the ‘exquisite,’ laying his finger upon the collar thereof, said, ‘Do you call this thing a coat?’--and when the News first came out, people held it up between the tips of their forefinger and thumb, and asked each other innocently, ‘Do you call this thing a newspaper?’ Well, after continuing remarkably sickly for some time, and seeing the utter folly of hoping to compete with the established daily newspapers, Bradbury and Evans--dear, kind, worthy souls!--said one morning to each other, ‘This will never do: the public will not be gulled--we must really sell our wares at what they are worth;’--and so down went the price of the News to twopence-halfpenny! ‘Hurrah for the cheap newspaper press!’ vociferated they who now affect to look down with contempt on cheap literature altogether: and forthwith they fetch Mr. Dilk all the way from the Athenæum office in Wellington Street to manage their paper for them. And such management as it has been! Mr. Dilk knows about as much of newspapers in general as he does of courtesy in the Athenæum in particular;--and Bradbury and Evans very soon found that a twopenny-halfpenny daily thing was ‘no go.’ The price is accordingly raised to threepence; and, just to eke out by hook and by crook, the Express is issued as an evening paper, its contents being precisely those of the News, with perhaps half-a-dozen lines of new matter just to make a show under the head of ‘Latest Intelligence.’ Thus has the Daily News been tinkered about in all shapes and ways, with the hope of establishing it on some kind of basis or another;--and, after such a career, it fancies itself to be respectable and influential enough to undertake the duties of Mentor! But it has entrusted the office to a disgusting twaddler who scruples not to season his mawkish composition with diabolical lies, as a make-shift for ‘Attic salt.’ However, enough of this for the present:--we have compelled the News and the Express to acknowledge themselves to be slanderers;--but we are afraid that after all they have got the better of us, inasmuch as they probably provoked us only for the purpose of obtaining a gratuitous advertisement through the medium of any reply which might be made to them in THE MISCELLANY.”--Reynolds’s Miscellany, No. 56.

[9] The readers of the First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON” will recollect the character of Lady Adeline Enfield in the “History of an Unfortunate Woman.” Lady Caroline Jerningham is drawn expressly in contrast with that heroine,--one of the objects of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON” being to depict the good and the bad--the generous and the selfish--of all classes of society.

[10] Fact.

[11] Fact. This incident shows how the Ministers of the Established Church will at times unscrupulously set the laws of the land at defiance.

[12] Equivalent to “Miss” in English.

[13] The Industrious classes in Great Britain should take into their serious consideration the ensuing plan, which the operatives in France have submitted to the Provisional Government. The basis of a similar scheme might be established in London; and there are doubtless many persons, possessing the intelligence required for the initiative of the grand work, who would devote a few hours per week, without fee or reward, to the foundation of so glorious an institution. The plan alluded to is conceived as follows; but we have substituted the equivalent sums of English money for the French coins specified in the original document;--

“Petition for a bill to establish a National Pension Fund for every workman that has attained the age of fifty-five years.

“Every citizen of the two sexes from seventeen to fifty-five years of age shall be bound to pay each day one farthing, or 7½_d._ per month, or 7_s._ 6_d._ per annum; every town or village shall be bound to pay for the totality of its inhabitants.

“Every workman employing workmen or servants is bound to keep back this amount from their wages, and is to be considered responsible therefore.

“Every father of a family who is unfortunate, and has several mouths to support, shall be de jure exempted from paying his annual quota until such time as his family shall be able to work.

“Are excluded from the advantages of the pension-fund all persons having a revenue above 32_l._ a year; the most severe laws to be made against such persons as should rob the money of the poor.

“A scale of pension is to be fixed, giving 20_l._ a year at 55 years, 28_l._ at 65 years, and 44_l._ at 75 years.

“The pension-fund is to be for all citizens: thus bankers, notaries, advocates, in a word, all persons who may have been favoured by fortune all their life-time, will have as much right to it, if they become unfortunate, as the workman who all his life-time has known only labour and privation.

“What workman is there who cannot save 1¾d. per week? Who is there that would not blush to receive alms when age shall have weakened his strength and courage?

“The pension which he will receive will be the economy of his whole life; and if he throws a glance backwards, it will be to bless the progress of civilisation.

“The day on which this law will pass, the payment of the pension may commence; since from the age of 17 to 55 all citizens will contribute to the common stock; and since the funds, in place of being capitalised, will be distributed every year. During 15 years the State will have little to add in order to complete the pensions, but after that period it will every year have some sacrifice to make. Let, during the fifteen years, the money hitherto spent on royalty be capitalised. Let the resources of the Civil List be added to them, and the sum will be more than sufficient. If fears are entertained not to obtain a sum sufficient to pay all the pensions, let the diamonds of the crown be sold. The most glorious crown of a government aught to be the happiness of the people.”

[14] Witness the noble conduct of the Parisian operatives, as described in the following extract from the Constitutional newspaper:--

“We have already stated that by the care of the Minister of the Interior prompt measures had been taken to ensure the preservation of the furniture and other articles of value at the Tuileries. The following are some further details:--The citizen Chalon d’Argé, one of the special commissaries appointed by the minister, after having concerted with Captain St. Amand, commandant of the Tuileries, proceeded to an inventory of the jewels, objects of art, &c., found there. These gentlemen soon ascertained that the people had respected the various articles scattered about. The apartment of the Duke de Nemours had alone been thrown into disorder, but nothing was taken away. The apartments of the other members of the royal family remained intact. Not a picture was touched in the saloons of the late Duke of Orleans, containing, as they did, a celebrated collection. The most valuable pictures were taken to the Louvre, under the direction of M. Mérinée. A great quantity of coined money was found in the different apartments; a man of the people conceived the idea of throwing all this money into a baignoire, over which he placed a coverlet, so as to give it the appearance of a couch. He then placed himself on it, and waited in that position until some persons came up who could save the treasure which he had collected. To give an idea of the wealth thus preserved, we may state that on Saturday alone four fourgons, and on Sunday two others, transported to the Treasury masses of silver plate, as well as coffers containing the diamonds of the ex-princesses. In these fourgons there was property to the amount of several millions. The same people which had contributed to save these valuable articles helped to pack them up, and escorted them to the national Treasury. It was a touching sight to behold these hard hands taking up with the greatest precautions diamonds, necklaces, jewels of all kinds. It is useless to say that not an article in the inventory was missing. When M. Bastide and M. Bixio, who had been entrusted by the Provisional Government to take charge of the jewels and other valuable property left behind in the Tuileries, and which had been collected and packed up by men of the people, and an inventory taken of them under the superintendence of a student of the Polytechnic School, and a National Guard, the Government commissioners found the chests, trunks, and other packages in which they had been placed, under the charge of some of the people who had been employed in collecting them. When the whole were removed, one of the men went up to M. Bastide, and said, ‘Sir, we have been forgotten since yesterday. It is now twelve o’clock, and we have not yet anything to eat. Can you order me some bread? All present were deeply affected by this proof of disinterested fidelity to men, resisting the temptation of property at their command greater in value than any they had ever before seen, and demanding a piece of bread as their only reward. M. Bastide repeatedly urged the man who spoke to him to give his name, but he constantly refused, saying--‘We want nothing more. We can earn our food by our labour. To-morrow we shall return to work, and to-day ask only for the bread we have been unable to obtain.’ They were then fed, and took their departure with the same resolution.”

[15] At the “monster meeting” in Trafalgar-square, on Monday, March 6th, we were called upon to preside in the absence of Mr. Cochrane. The London Telegraph contained the ensuing sketch or outline of the speech which we delivered on that occasion, and which we now transfer to the pages of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON” simply for the purpose of convincing our readers that we are not afraid to proclaim in all possible ways the opinions which we have for years promulgated through the medium of our writings:--

“Mr. Reynolds rose, and, suggesting that the parties present should form a meeting to congratulate the Parisians on their recent triumph, addressed the meeting. He had been voted to preside at this assembly, in the absence of Mr. Cochrane. Where that gentleman was, he could not say. His conduct was, at least, extraordinary, in convening a meeting which he neglected to attend. He (Mr. Reynolds) must beg of the meeting to be orderly; it was moral force which would gain their ends for them. Let them, therefore, show that, though met to demand their rights, they knew how to conduct themselves. The French revolution was a glorious triumph of public feeling. The French had recognised the rights of the working-classes. What the people of this country wanted was, that every man who was willing to work and fit for work should have work to do. (Loud cheers.) The working-classes only wanted fair wages. They were willing to give the fair value of labour for them. (Hear.) The right of labour had been recognised in France; and the rights of labour must be recognised in England. Let them not take the leading articles of aristocratic newspapers as the public voice; but let them listen to the shout which they would now hear from thousands of people met to express their adhesion to the principles of liberty. (Loud cheers). This meeting had been called to oppose the income-tax. Let them show by their cheers that they were opposed to all oppressive taxation. But let them be peaceable. Let there be no disturbance. Let them show the police and the Government-spies in plain clothes, that the working-classes of England could conduct themselves in a quiet orderly manner when met to discuss their wrongs. Mr. Reynolds sat down amidst the most vociferous cheering.”

In the evening of the same day we attended another “monster meeting” held on Clerkenwell Green, on which occasion the following outline of the speech which we delivered was given by the London Telegraph and other newspapers:--

“Mr. Reynolds, the well-known author, next spoke at some length. He drew attention to the meeting which had taken place that day in Trafalgar-square, and commented on the aggressive conduct of the police. The time, he also contended, was come, when they ought no longer to mince matters. (Cheers.) The people of France had really done their duty, and it now remained with the people of this country to do the same. They were bound to demand their rights by every moral means; and if they were forced to have recourse to bloodshed, their oppressors would have to account for the result, not themselves. (Cheers.) He rejoiced at the exhibition of feeling that had taken place in France. (Cheers.) The people had raised a man to power, who had turned round and sought, by a large array of armed forces, to crush them. (Groans.) They, however, he rejoiced to find, gave him his deserts, and hurled him from his throne. (Cheers.) He was now in this country--an exiled villain. (Cheers.) Far, indeed, was it from him (the speaker) to wish that the tyrant should be molested or disturbed while suffering in a foreign land the pangs of remorse. No; he wished him to remain harmless and in insignificance. (Hear, hear.) But he did not see why the gallant and noble people of France were to be insulted by the feelings of sympathy which Her Majesty and some other personages were exhibiting towards the exiled tyrant (Hear.) He complained of this, and particularly that the people of England should be identified with the anti-liberal opinions of those persons. (Hear, hear.) What, if the gallant people of France were to be so exasperated as to declare war against this country, would the hard-working people of England, Scotland, and Ireland consent to be war-taxed became of the caprice of a number of individuals--(no, no)--who, while wallowing in luxury, had no sympathy whatever with the masses of their fellow-creatures suffering from sickness and starvation? Mr. Reynolds, at some length, very ably and forcibly dwelt on the evils of class-legislation, and showed, from his writings, that he had ever been the friend of the working-men. He concluded, amidst much cheering, by proposing the first resolution.”

[16] Letting the thieves know that he was aware of the fact of the robbery, and demanding a portion for himself. This is a common practice amongst thieves; and the claim of the person thus “declaring on” is seldom disputed, even though he had nothing to do with the robbery.

[17] Share of the plunder.

[18] This mighty warrior ran away from London when danger was apprehended in consequence of the glorious democratic meeting of 250,000 enlightened working men, at Kennington Common, on the 10th of April, 1848.

[19] The memorable day of the 10th of April, 1848.

[20] With deep sorrow and indignation we have frequently noticed blackguard boys and dirty vagabonds insult private soldiers in the streets. Nothing can be more reprehensible than such conduct as this; but we are sure that the British soldier is too enlightened and too generous-hearted to suppose that any respectable working-man would treat him with indignity. There is and ought to be a deep sympathy between the military and the operative-classes,--both alike being diabolically oppressed by the aristocratic and wealthy classes, and both having rights to claim, privileges to acquire, abuses to rectify, and tyranny to subdue. In the name of common sense and common justice, let no insult ever be offered to the private soldier who conducts himself properly.

[21] It may seem astonishing how any respectable journals could be induced to lend themselves to such disgraceful puffery: but we will give our readers some little explanation upon the subject. The fact is that the quacks pay in the first instance for the insertion of the puffs as “paragraph-advertisements,” and then quote them as being the editorial opinions of the newspapers in which they are thus inserted! We quote from some of the quack-advertisements a few specimens of these “ad captandum” notices:--

“The task of preparing and producing the work entitled * * * *, by Messrs. * * *, though apparently not one of magnitude, demands a most intimate acquaintance with the mysteries of a profession of the highest character. To say that the author has produced a volume which cannot be otherwise considered than as a treasure, and a blessing to the community, is not saying too much; and being written by a duly qualified medical practitioner, its pages give evidence of the results of much personal investigation, and great researches in the study of medicine. In a word, the work has merits which develope no superficial attainments, and we cordially and most earnestly recommend it for general perusal.--Weekly Chronicle.”

“To the gay and thoughtless we trust this little work will serve as a beacon to warn them of the danger attendant upon the too rash indulgence of their passions; whilst to some it may serve as a monitor in the hour of temptation, and to the afflicted as a sure guide to health.--Chronicle.”

“Their long experience and reputation is the patient’s guarantee, and well deserves for the work its immense circulation.--Era.”

“This is a medical publication, ably written, and developes the treatment of a class of painful maladies which has too long been the prey of the illiterate and the designing.--United Service Gazette.”

“The author of this singular and talented work is a legally qualified medical man, who has had considerable experience in the treatment of the various disorders arising from the follies of early indiscretion. The engravings demonstrate the consequences of excesses, and, by its perusal, many questions may be satisfactorily replied to that admit of no appeal, even to the most confidential friend.--Era.”

To explain more fully still the proceedings of the quacks and the artfulness of quackery, we refer our readers to the Weekly Dispatch of Sunday, July 2; and at the bottom of a column (not in the regular advertising department) will be found the ensuing advertisement:--

“[ADVERTISEMENT.]--Holloway’s Pills an excellent Remedy for Indigestion, Bilious and Liver Complaints.--All painful and distressing sensations arising from these complaints (which are too well known to sufferers to require a description here of their symptoms) may be easily removed by a few doses of this inestimable medicine; for such is its efficacy, that the most debilitated constitutions are effectually strengthened, and the aversion to motion overcome, thus giving buoyancy to the spirits, creating an appetite, and promoting digestion. At this season, when epidemics are so prevalent, these pills should be taken, as they surpass every other remedy as a preventative of disorders, even of the most malignant kind. Sold by all Druggists, and at Professor Holloway’s Establishment, 244, Strand, London.”

This advertisement was of course duly paid for: but Mr. Holloway may now, if he choose to do so, quote the Dispatch as having recommended the efficacy of his medicines to “strengthen the most debilitated constitutions;” and the public, trusting to such a powerful and honest authority as the Dispatch, will be induced to purchase the pills. Our readers can now comprehend how the medical quacks obtain reviews of their obscene books.

[22] Luck.

[23] Piece of luck.

[24] Money.

[25] In a publication entitled The Medical Adviser, and issued some years ago, we find the following observations relative to quacks and quackery:--“The legislators in almost every civilized society have considered them as pests and a disgrace to every country where they are to be found, and penal laws have therefore been enacted for the suppression of quackery. The Colleges of Physicians were instituted in different kingdoms of Europe, to examine all persons who undertook the practice of the art, to inspect all drugs in the apothecaries’ shops, and destroy such as were unfit; and there can be no doubt but their power extended to the examinations of nostrums in general, and on their report, the vendors were subject to severe penalties. In the reign of James I., an order of council, grounded on former laws, was issued for the apprehension of all quacks, in order to their being examined by the censors of the College of Physicians; on that occasion several mountebanks, water-tasters, ague-charmers, and vendors of nostrums were fined, imprisoned, and banished. This wholesome severity, it may be supposed, checked the evil for a time; but in the reign of William III. it became again necessary to put the laws in force against these base vermin and miscreants, in consequence of which many of them, when examined, confessed their utter ignorance to such a degree, as to be unable either to read or write; others, it was found, had been attempting to procure abortion in unfortunate single women; several of them were discovered to be fortune-tellers, match-makers, frauders, pimps, and bawds; some of these miscreants were set in the pillory, some put on horseback with their faces to the horse’s tail, with their noses and lips slit, and their necks decorated with a collar of urinals, and afterwards whipped, imprisoned, branded, and banished.”

The victims of quacks might even now show the scoundrels, if they chose, that there are laws in existence fully strong enough to punish them; and we should advise those who have been plundered to state their cases to their solicitors. It is intolerable that the public should be prayed upon by a set of villains who live in splendid mansions, ride in their carriages, and maintain luxurious tables at the expense of the unfortunate dupes whom their advertisements entrap.

Several years ago, Mr. Charles Dunne, a surgeon, presented to Parliament a petition against Quackery; and in that well reasoned document we find the ensuing paragraph, which, we feel convinced, our readers will peruse with interest:--

“That the mal-practices of quack doctors are wisely guarded against in every country of Europe, except Britain; for no person (under pain of fine and imprisonment), is allowed to take the charge of the sick, or even to direct the application of medicines, without having gone through the proper ordeals of examination as to his professional knowledge and acquirements. In England it is notorious that we have not only carpenters, tailors, bricklayers’ labourers, lead-pencil-makers, Jews old clothes men, journeymen, linen-drapers, and men of colour, but even women quacks, who practise their duplicities on the unwary and unthinking part of the public, by plundering all those who have the folly to approach them, whilst many are absolutely deprived of life by them, and others, who have the misfortune to escape death, are left to drag on a miserable existence with an entirely broken constitution for the remainder of their days. The baneful effects, too, of patent medicines, as they are called, deserve particular notice, the composition of which is formed in such a manner as to render their administration at all times dangerous, and but too often fraught with death; whereas, on the Continent, no medicines (similar to those with us called patent) are permitted to be sold, without first having been analyzed by the constituted chemical authorities, and duly examined by the respective faculties of medicine. It is clear from what occurs in law, divinity, and physic, that a foundation or competent education by a course of study, is essentially necessary to exercise any of these different departments, and whoever exercises them without this education cannot possibly do it with advantage to the community. For an unscientific knowledge of the treatment of any disease, even if occasionally successful in its object, can never be trusted to; for if any unforeseen circumstance should arise, such practitioner can neither avert the mischief, nor find means to relieve the patient, as a man of real science would do;--mere experience alone, devoid of science, can have no other claim on public notice than as empiricism, and, like a seaman, incapable of taking an observation when anything inauspicious occurs at sea, is unable to direct his course. Empiricism in all professions being the opposite to science, and directed by no regular principle but the knowledge of one or two isolated facts, is evidently hostile to the advancement of liberal principles, and too often ruinous to those confiding in such hollow pretensions. Empiricism, therefore, in religion, law, politics, and physic, is the hydra to be guarded against, as the bane of real knowledge and improvement; and wherever encouraged, such empiricism is always subversive of the best interests of mankind. The great object of legislation should be to impose a wholesome restraint on any attempt calculated to overstep the just and fair bounds, which the welfare of the people requires.”

[26] Flash, or fictitious, notes.

[27] Pass off, or change.

[28] Dark lanthorn.

[29] A crow-bar used by burglars.

[30] Burglary.

[31] Eliza Sydney. See First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.”

[32] This was the case with the celebrated Watt, the improver of the steam-engine. He was driven from the city of London, at the commencement of his career, through his inability to pay the fine, then amounting to 40_l._ This fact remains on record to the immortal disgrace of the Corporation.

[Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]