Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
dress-house
in Ada Street, Hackney Road. All the remuneration I received there
was board and lodging; and I was actually a slave to the old woman that kept
it. I was forced to walk the streets at night with a little girl following me
to see that I did not run away; and all the money I received I was forced to
give up to the old woman. While I was there, several other girls were turned out
of doors, and left to die in ditches or on dunghills, because they were no
longer serviceable. All this frightened me. And then I was so ill-used, and
more than half starved. I was forced to turn out in all weathers - wet or
dry-hot or cold - well or ill. Sometimes I have hardly been able to drag myself
out of bed with sickness and fatigue - but, no matter, out I must go - the rain
perhaps pouring in torrents, or the roads knee-deep in snow - and nothing but a
thin cotton gown to wear! Winter and summer, always flaunting dresses - yellow,
green, and red! Wet or dry, always silk stockings and thin shoes! Cold or warm,
always short skirts and a low body, with strict orders not to fasten the
miserable scanty shawl over the bosom! And then the little girl that followed
me about was a spy with wits as sharp as needles. Impossible to deceive her! At
length I grew completely tired of this kind' of life; and so I gave the little
spy the slip one fine evening. I was then sixteen, and I came back to this
neighbourhood. But one day I met the old woman who kept the dress-house, and
she gave me in charge for stealing wearing apparel - the clothes I had on my
back when I ran away from her!"
"Always the police - the police - the police, when the
poor and miserable are concerned," whispered the Resurrection Man to the
Cracksman.
"But did the inspector take the charge?"
demanded the coal-heaver.
"He not only took the charge," answered the
unfortunate girl, "but the magistrate next morning committed me for trial,
although I proved to him that the clothes were bought with the wages of my own
prostitution! Well, I was tried at the Central Criminal Court —"
"And of course acquitted? "
"No - found
Guilty
—"
"What - by an English jury?"
"I can show you the newspaper - I have kept the report
of the trial ever since."
"Then, by G—d, things are a thousand-times worse than I
thought they was!" ejaculated the coal-whipper, striking his clenched fist
violently upon the table at which he was seated.
"But the jury recommended me to mercy," continued
the unfortunate young woman, "and so the Recorder only sentenced me to
twenty-one days' imprisonment. His lordship also read me a long lecture about
the errors of my ways, and advised me to enter upon a new course of life; but
he did not offer to give me a character, nor did he tell me how I was to obtain
honest employment without one."
" That's the way with them beaks," cried one of
the male inmates of the parlour: " they can talk for an hour; but
supposing you’d said to the Recorder, '
My Lord, will your wife take
me
into her service as scullery-girl?
'
he would have stared in
astonishment at your impertinence."
"When I got out of prison," resumed the girl who
was thus sketching the adventures of her wretched life, "I went into Great
Titchfield Street. My new abode was a dress-house kept by French people. Every
year the husband went over to France, and returned with a famous supply of
French girls, and in the meantime his wife decoyed young English women up from
the country, under pretence of obtaining situations as nursery-governesses and
lady's-maids for them. Many of these poor creatures were the daughters of
clergymen and half- pay officers in the marines. The moment a new supply was
obtained by these means, circulars was sent round to all the persons that was
in the habit of using the house. Different sums, from twenty to a hundred
pounds —"
"Ah! I understand," said the coal-whipper. "
But did you ever hear say how many unfortunate gals there was in London?"
"Eighty thousand. From Titchfield Street I went into
the Almonry, Westminster. The houses there are all occupied by
fences,
prigs, and gals of the town."
"And the parsons of Westminster Abbey, who is the
landlords of the houses, does nothink to put 'em down," said the
coal-whipper.
"Not a bit," echoed the young woman, with a laugh.
"We had capital fun in the house where I lived - dog-fighting,
badger-baiting, and drinking all day long. The police never visits the Almonry
—"
"In course not, 'cos it's the property of the parsons.
They wouldn't be so rude."
This coarse jest was received with a shout of laughter; and
the health of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster was drunk amidst uproarious
applause, by the thieves and loose women assembled in the
Dark-House
parlour.
[* The causes which produce prostitution are as follows:
I. Natural causes - 1. Licentiousness of inclination. 2.
Irritability of temper. 3. Pride and love of dress. 4. Dishonesty, and desire
of property, 5. indolence.
II. Accidental causes :-1 . Seduction. 2. Inconsiderate and
ill-sorted marriages. 3. Inadequate remuneration for female work. 4. Want of
employment, 5. Intemperance. 6. Poverty. 7. Want of proper looking after their
servants on the part of masters and mistresses. 8. Ignorance, 9. Bad example of
parents. 10. Harsh and unkind treatment by parents and other relations. 11.
Attendance on evening dancing schools, and dancing parties. 12. Theatre-going
13. The publication of improper works, and obscene prints. 14. The countenance
and reward given to vice, 15. The small encouragement given to virtue.
The proportions amongst those females who have deviated from
the path of virtue may be quoted as follows:-
1. One-fourth from being servants in taverns and
public-houses, where they have been seduced by men frequenting these places of
dissipation and temptation.
2. One-fourth from the intermixture of the sexes in
factories, and those employed in workhouses, shops, &c.
3. One-fourth by procuresses, or females who visit country
towns, markets, and places of worship, for the purpose of decoying good-looking
girls of all classes.
4. One-fourth may be divided into four classes :- l. Such as
being indolent, or possessing had tempers, leave their situations. 2. Those who
are driven to that awful course by young men making false promises. 3. Children
who have been urged by their mothers to become prostitutes for a livelihood. 4.
Daughters of clergymen, half pay officers, &c., who are left portionless
orphans.]
"Well, go on, my dear," said the coal-whipper, when
order was somewhat restored.
"I never was in a sentimental humour before to-night -
not for many, many years," resumed the young woman; "and I don't know
what's making me talk as I am now."
"'Cos you haven't had enough gin, my dear,"
interrupted a coarse-looking fellow, winking to his companions.
Scarcely was the laughter promoted by this sally beginning
to subside, when a short, thick-set, middle-aged man, enveloped in a huge
great-coat, with most capacious pockets at the sides, entered the parlour, took
his seat near the door, and called for a glass of hot gin-and-water.
THE RESULT OF MARKHAM'S ENTERPRISE
THE reader at all acquainted with German literature may probably remember
some of those old tales of demonology and witchcraft, in which assemblies of
jovial revellers are frequently dismayed and overawed by the sudden entrance of
some mysterious stranger - perhaps a knight in black armour, with his visor
closed, or a monk with his cowl drawn over his countenance. If the recollection
of such an episode in the sphere of romance recur to the reader's mind, he will
have no difficulty in comprehending as when we state that the presence of the
short, thick-set, middle-aged stranger caused an immediate damp to fall upon
the spirits of the company in the
Dark-House
parlour.
The stranger seemed to take no notice of any one present,
but drank his grog, lighted his cigar, and settled himself in his seat,
apparently with the view of making himself very comfortable.
Still there was something sinister and mysterious about this
man, which did not exactly please the other inmates of the room; and as we
cannot suppose that the consciences of these persons were over pure, the least appearance
of ambiguity to them was an instantaneous omen of danger. Like the dog that
scents the corpse of the murdered victim, even when buried deep in the earth,
those wretches possessed an instinct marvellously sensitive and acute in
perceiving the approach or presence of peril.
And yet, to a common beholder, there was nothing very
remarkable about that stranger. He was a plain-looking, quiet, shabbily dressed
person, and one who seemed anxious to smoke his cigar in peace, and neither
speak nor be spoken to.
Good reader - it was the reserve of this man, - his staid
and serious demeanour - his tranquil countenance - and his exclusive manner
altogether, that created the unpleasant impression we have described. Had he
entered the room with a swagger, banged the door behind him, sworn at the
waiter, or nodded to one single individual present, he would have produced no
embarrassing sensation whatever. But he was unknown :- what, then, could he do
there, where all were well known to each other?
However, be continued to smoke, with his eyes intently fixed
upon the blueish wreaths that ascended slowly and fantastically from the end of
his cigar; and for five minutes after his entrance not a word was spoken.
At length the coal-whipper broke silence.
"Well, my dear," he said, addressing himself to
the unfortunate girl who had already narrated a portion of her adventures,
"you haven't done your story yet."
"Oh! I do not feel in the humour to go on with it
to-night," she exclaimed, glancing uneasily towards the stranger. "
Indeed, I recollect - I have an appointment - close by —"
She hesitated; then, apparently mustering up her courage,
cried "Good-night, all," and left the room.
"Who the deuce is that feller, Tony?" demanded the
Cracksman, in a whisper, of his companion. "I can't say I like his
appearance at all."
"Oh! nonsense," answered the Resurrection Man
"he is some quiet chap that doesn't like to smoke and talk at the same
time."
"But don't it seem as how he'd throwed a damp on the
whole party?" continued the Cracksman, in the same subdued tone.
"Do you take me for a child that s frightened at a
shadow?" said the Resurrection Man savagely. "I suppose you're afraid
that this young Holford will play us false. Why - what could he do to us? Any
thing he revealed would only implicate himself. He knows nothing about our
games up by the Bird-cage Walk there."
"I forgot
that
- no more he doesn't," cried
the Cracksman. "There a nobody can do us any harm, that I know on."
" One - and one only," answered the Resurrection
Man, sinking his already subdued tone to the lowest possible whisper,-
"one only, I say, can injure us; and he will not dare to do it!"
"Who the devil do you mean?" demanded the
Cracksman.
"I mean the only man that ever escaped out of the crib
up by the walk after he had received a blow from my stick," answered the
Resurrection Msn.
"You don't mean to say, Tony," whispered the
Cracksman, his countenance giving the most unequivocal signs of alarm, " that
there's a breathing soul which ever went in the door of that crib an intended
wictim, and come out alive agin!"
" Never do you mind now. We shall make all the people
stare at us if we go on whispering in this way. Supposing any one did mean to
nose upon its haven't we got our barkers in our pocket?"
"Ah! Tony," said the
Cracksman, in whose mind these words of his companion seemed to arouse a sudden
and most disagreeable idea,- "talking about
nosing
makes use remember someot that I was told a few days ago up in
Rat's Castle in the Rookery."
"And what was that?" asked the Resurrection Man
surveying his friend with his serpent-like eyes in a manner that made him
actually quail beneath the glance.
"What was it?" repeated the Crackaman, who appeared
to hesitate whether he should proceed, or not: "why - I heard a magsman
say that you nosed upon poor Crankey Jem, and that was the reason he got lagged
and you was acquitted three year ago at the Old Bailey."
"And what did you say to that?" demanded the
Resurrection Man, looking from beneath his bushy brows at the Cracksman, as the
ghoul in eastern mythology may be supposed to gaze on the countenance of him
whom he marks for his victim.
"What did I say?" answered the Cracksman in s
hoarse whisper: "why - I knocked the fellow down to be sure."
"And you did what you ought to do, and what I should
have done if any one had told me that of you," said the Resurrection Man
in a tone of the most perfect composure.
While this conversation took place, hurriedly and in
whispers, the mysterious stranger continued to smoke his cigar without once
glancing around him; and the other inmates of the
Dark-House
parlour, recovering a little from
their panic at the entrance of that individual, made a faint attempt to renew
the discourse.
But although the eyes of the stranger were apparently
occupied in watching the wreaths of smoke, as they curled upwards to the
ceiling, they were in reality intent upon the parlour window, the lower part of
which alone was darkened by the sliding shutter that lifted up and down. There
was a bright lamp over the front door of the public-house; and thus the heads
of all the passengers in the street might be descried, as they passed the
window, by the inmates of the parlour.
"I say, Ben," exclaimed one reveller to another,
"have you heerd that they're a goin' to lay out a park up by Bonner's Road
and Hackney Wick?"
Yes - the Wictora Park," was the reply. "On'y
fancy giving them poor devils of Spitalfields weavers a park to walk in instead
o' filling their bellies. But I spose they'll make a preshus deep pond in
it."
"What for?" demanded the first speaker.
"Why - for the poor creturs to drown their selves in,
to be sure."
At this moment the countenance of a man in the street peered
for a single instant over the shutter, and was then immediately withdrawn; but
not before a significant glance had been exchanged with the stranger sitting in
the neighbourhood of the door.
All this, however, remained entirely unnoticed by the male
and female revellers in the parlour.
"Well, it's gone nine," whispered the Cracksman to
his companion, " and this fellow Holford don't come. It's my opinion he
ain't a-going to."
"We'll give him half an hour's grace," returned he
Resurrection Man. "The young fool is hard up, and won't let the hope of
five couters slip through his brain quite so easy."
" Half an hour's grace, as you say, Tony,"
whispered the Cracksman; "and then if he don't come we'll be off -
eh?"
"Oh! just as you like," growled the Resurrection
Man. "You seem quite chicken-hearted tonight, Tom."
"I don't know how it is," answered the Cracksman;
"but I've got a persentiment - as they calls it - of evil. The sight of
that there feller there —" and he nodded towards the stranger.
"Humbug!" interrupted the Resurrection Man.
"you haven't had grog enough - that's it."
He accordingly ordered the waiter to supply fresh tumblers
of hot liquor; and the next half hour slipped away rapidly enough; but no Henry
Halford made his appearance.
At a quarter to ten the two villains rose, and, having
settled their score, departed.
Scarcely had the parlour door closed behind them, when the
short thick-set stranger also retreated precipitately from the room.
Disappointed and in an ill-humour, the Resurrection Man and
the Cracksman hurried away from the
Dark-House
towards the den situate in the immediate vicinity of the Bird-cage
Walk.
The streets were ankle-deep in mud: a thin mizzling rain was
falling; and neither moon nor stars appeared upon the dark and murky field of
heaven.
The two men walked one a little in advance of the other,
until they reached the top of Brick Lane, where they separated for the purpose
of proceeding by different routes towards the same point - a precaution they
invariably adopted after quitting any public place in each other's company.
But so well were the arrangements of the police concocted,
that while the Resurrection Man, continued his way along Tyssen Street, and the
Cracksman turned to the right in Church Street until he reached Samuel Street,
up which he proceeded, an active officer followed each: while in the
neighbourhood of Virginia Street and the Bird-cage Walk numerous policemen were
concealed in dark alleys, lone courts, and obscure nooks, ready to hasten to
any point whence the spring of rattles might presently emanate."
Also concealed in a convenient hiding-place, and anxiously
awaiting the result of the various combinations effected to discover the den of
the murderers, Richard Markham was prepared to aid in the operations of the
night.
Meantime, the Resurrection Man pursued one route, and the
Cracksman another, both converging towards the same point; but neither
individual suspected that danger was on every side! They advanced as
confidently as the flies that work their way amidst the tangled web of the
spider.
At length the Resurrection Man reached his house; and almost
at the same moment the other ruffian arrived at the door.
"All right, Tom."
"All right, Tony."
And the Resurrection Man opened the door, he simply pressing
his foot forcibly against it in a peculiar manner.
He entered the passage, followed by the Cracks man, which
latter individual turned to close the door, when it was burst wide open and
half a dozen policemen rushed into the house.
"Damnation!" cried the Resurrection Man; "we
are sold!"- and, darting down the passage, he rushed into the little back
room, the door of which he succeeded in closing and fastening against the
officers.
But the Cracksman had fallen into the hands of the police,
and was immediately secured. Rattles were sprung; and the sudden and unexpected
din, breaking upon the solemn silence of the place and hour, startled the poor
and the guilty in their wretched abodes.
"Break open the door
there!" cried the serjeant who commanded the police, and who was no other
than the mysterious stranger of the
Dark-House
parlour: "break open that
door - and two of you run up stairs this moment!"
As he spoke, a strong light shone from the top of the
staircase. The officers cast their eyes in that direction, and beheld a hideous
old woman scowling down upon them. In her hand she carried a candle, the light
of which was thrown forward in a vivid flood by the reflection of a large
bright tin shade.
This horrible old woman was the Mummy.
Already were two of the officers half-way up the staircase,
- already was the door of the back room on the ground floor yielding to the
strength of a constable, - already were Richard Markham and several
officers hurrying down the street towards the spot, obedient to the signal
conveyed by the springing of the rattles, - when a terrific explosion took
place.
"Good God!" ejaculated Markham: "what can
that mean?"
"There - there!" cried a policeman near him:
"it is all over with the serjeant and my poor comrades!"
Immediately after the explosion, and while Markham and the
officer were yet speaking, a bright column of fire shot up into the air :-
millions and millions of sparks, glistening vividly, showered down upon the
scene of havoc ; - for a moment - a single moment - the very heavens seemed on
fire ;-then all was black - and silent - and doubly sombre.
The den of the assassins had ceased to exist: it had been
destroyed by gunpowder.
The blackened remains and dismembered relics of mortality
were discovered on the following morning amongst the ruins, or in the immediate
neighbourhood ;- but it was impossible to ascertain how many persons had perished
on this dread occasion.