The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “And how crowded upon Drawing-Room days are all the passages and corridors of St. James’s Palace,” continued the countess. “On the last occasion many of the peers and peeresses of the highest rank were compelled thus to wait for nearly three hours before their carriages could reach the palace-gates.”

  “The most beautiful view of splendid equipages is found in a glance upon the Ambassador’s Court at Saint James’s, the carriages of the foreign ministers being decidedly the finest and most tasteful that are seen in the vicinity of the palace on those occasions.”

  “Of a truth, this must be the most splendid court in the world,” said the countess, “since France became half republican (how I hate the odious word Republic!), and since Spain was compelled to copy France.”

  “Yes—our court is the most splendid in the world,” echoed the duchess, in a tone of triumph, as if her grace were well aware that of that court she herself formed a brilliant ornament; “and more splendid still will it be when the queen shall have conferred her hand upon the interesting young prince who arrived yesterday.”

  “Have you heard when the royal intentions to contract an union with his Serene Highness Prince Albert, will be communicated to the country?”

  “Not until the close of the year; and the marriage will therefore take place at the commencement of 1840. The prince will pay but a short visit upon this occasion, and then return to Germany until within a short period of the happy day.”

  “God send that the union may be a happy one!” ejaculated the countess. “But——”

  “Oh! my dear friend, do not relapse again into those gloomy forebodings which rendered me melancholy all yesterday evening,” interrupted the duchess.

  “Alas! your grace is well aware of my devoted attachment to our royal mistress; and if there be times when I tremble for the consequences of——”

  “Breathe it not—give not utterance to the bare idea!” cried the duchess, in a tone of the most unfeigned horror. “Providence will never permit an entire empire to experience so great a misfortune as this!”

  “Maladies of that kind are hereditary,” said the countess, solemnly;—“maladies of that species descend through generations—unsparing—pitiless—regardless of rank, power, or position;—oh! it is horrible to contemplate!”

  “Horrible—most horrible!” echoed the duchess. “The mind that thus labours under constant terror of the approach of that fearful malady, requires incessant excitement—perpetual change of scene; and this restlessness which we have observed on the part of our beloved Sovereign—and those intervals of deep gloom and depression of spirits, when that craving after variety and bustle is not indulged——”

  “Are all——”

  “Oh! I comprehend you too well.”

  “And marriage in such a case——”

  “Perpetuates the disease! Yes—yes—we must surround our sovereign with all our love, all our affection, all our devotion—for bitter, bitter are the moments of solitary meditation experienced at intervals by our adored mistress.”

  “Such is our duty—such our desire,” said the countess. “The entire family of George the Third has inherited the seeds of disease—physical and mental——”

  “Scrofula and insanity,” said the duchess, with a cold shudder.

  “Which were inherent in that monarch,” added the countess. “Did your grace ever hear the real cause and spring of that development of mental alienation in George the Third?”

  “I know not precisely to what incident your ladyship alludes,” said the duchess.

  “That unhappy sovereign,” resumed the countess, “when Prince of Wales, fell in love with a beautiful young Quakeress, whose name was Hannah Lightfoot, and whom he first beheld at the window of a house in Saint James’s Street. For some time his Royal Highness and the young lady met in secret, and enjoyed each other’s society. At length the passion of the prince arrived at that point when he discovered that his happiness entirely depended upon his union with Hannah Lightfoot. His Royal Highness confided his secret to his next brother Edward, to Dr. Wilmot (who was really the author of the letters of Junius), and to my mother. Those personages were the only witnesses of the legal marriage of the Prince of Wales with Hannah Lightfoot, which was solemnized by Dr. Wilmot, in Curzon Street Chapel, May Fair, in the year 1759.”[137]

  “I have heard that such a connection existed,” said the duchess; “but I never thought until now that it was of so serious and solemn a nature.”

  “Your grace may rely upon the truth of what I now tell you. Not long after the prince came to the throne, the Ministers discovered his connection with the Quakeress. The ‘Royal Marriage Act’ was ultimately framed to prevent such occurrences with regard to future princes; but it did not annul the union between George the Third and Hannah Lightfoot.”

  “Was there any issue from this marriage?” inquired the duchess.

  “There was issue,” answered the countess solemnly, a deep gloom suddenly passing over her countenance. “At my mother’s death I discovered certain papers which revealed to me many, many strange events connected with the court of George the Third; and in which she was a confidant. But the history of Hannah Lightfoot is a sad one—a very melancholy one; and positively can I assert that it led to the subsequent mental aberration of the king.”

  “And there was issue resulting from that union, your ladyship says?” exclaimed the duchess, deeply interested in these disclosures.

  “Yes—there was, there was!” returned the countess. “But do not question me any more at present—on a future occasion I will place in the hands of your grace the papers which my deceased mother left behind her, and which I have carefully treasured up in secret—unknown even to my husband!”

  “And are the revelations so very interesting?” demanded the duchess.

  “The events which have taken place in the family of George the Third would make your hair stand on end,” replied the countess, sinking her voice almost to a whisper. “But, pray—question me no more at present. Another time—another time,” she added hastily, “you shall know all that I know!”

  There was something so exceedingly mysterious and exciting in the tone and manner of the countess, that the duchess evidently burned with curiosity to make further inquiries. But her fair companion avoided the subject with terror and disgust; and the conversation accordingly reverted to the engagement existing between Prince Albert and Queen Victoria. Nothing more was, however, said which we deem it necessary to record;—but when the two ladies had retired from the apartment, Holford had plenty of food for mental digestion. He had discovered the fatal drawback to the perfect happiness of his sovereign; and he now perceived that those who dwell in palaces, and wear diadems upon their brows, are not beyond the reach of the sharpest arrows of misfortune.

  During the remainder of that evening Holford was the uninterrupted possessor of the Yellow Drawing-Room. There was a grand ball in another suite of apartments; but it was not until between three and four o’clock in the morning that the pot-boy considered it safe to quit his hiding-place.

  He was now undecided whether to beat a retreat from the royal dwelling, or to favour it with his presence a little longer. The last conversation which he had overheard between the duchess and the countess, had excited within him the most lively interest; and he was anxious to hear more of those strange revelations connected with the family of George the Third, a continuation of which the countess had appeared to promise her noble friend. He was moreover emboldened by the success which had hitherto attended his adventures in the palace; and he consequently resolved upon prolonging his stay in a place where a morbid taste for the romantic encountered such welcome food.

  Upon leaving the Yellow Drawing-Room, at about half-past three in the morning, as before stated, Holford proceeded to the pantry to lay in a sup
ply of provender, as usual. He was so pressed with hunger upon this occasion, that he commenced an immediate attack upon the provisions; and was thus pleasantly engaged when, to his horror and dismay, he beheld the shadow of a human form suddenly pass along the wall—for he was standing with his back to the lamp that was burning in the passage.

  He turned round—and his eyes encountered the cadaverous and sinister countenance of the Resurrection Man.

  “Well this is fortunate,” said the latter.

  “What! you here!” ejaculated Holford, trembling from head to foot.

  “Yes—certainly: why not?” said the Resurrection Man. “It struck me that as you never came near me and the Cracksman, you must be still in the royal crib; and I considered that to be a sign that all was right. So I mustered up my courage, and came to look after you. The Cracksman’s waiting on the hill.”

  “Then let us leave this place immediately,” cried Holford. “We can do nothing at present—I was going to take my departure within an hour. Come—let us go; and I will tell you every thing when we are in a place of security.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” demanded the Resurrection Man. “You can’t have been here all this time without having found out where the plate is kept.”

  “Listen for one moment,” said Holford, a sudden idea striking him: “the queen leaves for Windsor the day after to-morrow—then will be the time to do what you require; and I can give you all the information you will want. At present nothing can be done—nothing; and if we stay here much longer, we shall be discovered.”

  “Well,” said the Resurrection Man; “provided that some good will result from your visit——”

  “There will—there will.”

  “Then I must follow your advice; for of course you are better able to judge of what can be done and what can’t be done in this crib, than me.”

  The Resurrection Man glanced around him; but fortunately there was no plate left upon the shelves on this occasion. Holford felt inwardly pleased at this circumstance; for the idea of abstracting anything beyond a morsel of food from the palace was abhorrent to his mind.

  The Resurrection Man intimated that he was ready to depart; and the pot-boy was only too glad to be the means of hurrying him away.

  They left the palace, and entered the gardens, which they threaded in safety. A profound silence reigned around: the morning air was chill and piercing. The fresh atmosphere was nevertheless most welcome and cheering to the young pot-boy, who had passed so many hours in close and heated rooms.

  They reached the wall on Constitution Hill in safety, and in a few moments were beyond the enclosure of the royal domains.

  CHAPTER LXI.

  THE “BOOZING KEN” ONCE MORE.

  MORNING dawned upon the great metropolis.

  The landlord and landlady of the “Boozing-Ken” on Saffron Hill were busily employed, as we have seen them upon a former occasion, in dispensing glasses of “all sorts” to their numerous customers. The bar was surrounded by every thing the most revolting, the most hideous, and the most repulsive in human shape.

  “Well, Joe,” said the landlord to a man dressed like a butcher, and whose clothes emitted a greasy and carrion-like smell, “what news down at Cow Cross?”

  “Nothink partikler,” answered the man, who followed the pleasant and agreeable calling of a journeyman-knacker. “We have been precious full of work lately—and that’s all I knows or cares about. Seventy-nine horses I see knocked down yesterday; and out of them, fifty-three was so awful diseased and glandered when they was brought in, that we was obleeged to kill ’em and cut ’em up with masks and gloves on. It was but three weeks ago that we lost our best man, Ben Biddle;—you recollects Ben Biddle?”

  “I knowed him well,” said the landlord. “He took his ‘morning’ here reglar for sixteen years, and never owed a penny.”

  “But do you know how he died?” demanded the knacker, staring the landlord significantly in the face.

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “He died of a fearful disease which is getting more and more amongst human creeturs every day,” continued the knacker:—“he died of the glanders!”

  “The glanders!” ejaculated the landlady, with a shudder; and all the persons who were taking their “morning” at the bar crowded around the knacker to hear the particulars of Ben Biddle’s death.

  “You see,” resumed the knacker, now putting on a very solemn and important air, “there is more diseased horses sold in Smithfield-Market than sound ’uns. The art of doctoring a dying horse so that he looks as lively and sound as possible to any one which ain’t wery knowing in them matters, is come to sich a pitch, that I’m blowed if the wisest ain’t taken in at times. We have horses come into our yard that was bought the same morning in Smithfield, and seemed slap-up animals; but in a few hours the effects of the stimulants given to ’em goes off, the plugs falls out of their noses, and there they are at the point of death. Why—if a horse has got four white feet, they’ll paint three, or perhaps all on ’em black; and that part of the deception isn’t never found out till they’re flayed in our yard.”

  “But about poor Biddle?” said the landlord.

  “Well, in comes a horse one day,” continued the knacker; “and although we saw he was dead lame and altogether done up, we never suspected that he had the glanders. So Ben Biddle had the killing on him. He drives the pole-axe into the animal’s skull; and he takes the wire and thrusts it into the brain as business-like as possible. While he was stooping over the beast, his hat falls off his head, and his handkerchief, which he always carried in his hat, fell just upon the horse’s mouth. The brute snorted out a last groan at the wery moment that Ben picks up his handkerchief. So Ben puts the handkerchief again into his hat, and puts his hat upon his head; and away we all goes to the public-house to have a drop of half-and-half.”

  “Very right too,” said the landlord, who no doubt spoke feelingly.

  “Well,” proceeded the knacker, “Ben drinks his share, and presently he takes his handkerchief out of his hat quite permiscuous like, and wipes his face. In a few minutes he feels a strange pain in the eyes just as if some dust had got in;—but he didn’t think much on it, and so we all goes back to the yard. In a few hours Ben was taken so bad he was obliged to give up work; and by eight or nine o’clock we was forced to take him to Bartholomew’s Hospital. He was seized with dreadful fits of womiting; and matter come out of his nose, eyes, and mouth. By the morning his face was all covered over with sores; holes appeared in his eyes, just for all the world as if they had got a most tremendous small-pox in ’em; and his nose fell off. By three o’clock in the arternoon he was a dead man; and I heerd say that he died in the most awful agonies.”

  “And that was the glanders?” said the landlady.

  “Yes he got ’em by wiping his face with the pocket-handkerchief that had fallen on the horse’s nostrils.”

  “How shocking!” ejaculated several voices.

  “And is the glanders increasing?” asked the landlord.

  “The glanders is increasing,” answered the knacker; “and I feel convinced that it will soon become a disease as reglar amongst human beings as the small-pox or measles; ’cos the authorities doesn’t do their duty in preventing the sale of diseased animals.”

  “And how would you remedy the evil?”

  “I would have the Lord Mayor and Corporation appoint a proper veterinary surgeon as Inspector in Smithfield Market—a man of great experience and knowledge, who won’t let himself be humbugged or gammoned by any of those infernal thieves that gets a living—aye, and makes fortunes too, by selling diseased animals doctored up for the occasion.”

  “Yes—that’s certainly a capital plan of your’n,” said the landlord approvingly. “But what becomes of all the flesh o
f the horses that go to your yards?”

  “You may divide the horses that’s killed by the knackers into three sorts,” answered the man: “that is—first, those horses that is quite healthy but that has met with accidents in their limbs; second, those that is perhaps the least thing diseased, or in the wery last stage through old age; and third, those that is altogether rotten. The flesh of the first is bought by men whose business it is to boil it carefully, and sell it to the sassage-makers: it makes the sassages firm, and is much better than beef. There isn’t a sassage shop in London that don’t use it. Then the tongues of these first-rate animals goes to the butchers, who salts and pickles ’em; and I’m blow’d if any one could tell ’em from the best ox-tongues.”

  “Well, I’ll never eat sassages or tongues again!” cried the landlady.

  “Oh! nonsense—it’s all fancy!” exclaimed the knacker. “Half the tongues that is sold for ox-tongues is horses’ tongues. A knowing hand may always tell ’em, ’cos they’re rayther longer and thinner: for my part, I like ’em just as well—every bit.”

  “And the flesh of the second sort of horses?”

  “That goes to supply the cat’s-meat men in the swell neighbourhoods; and the third sort, that is altogether putrid and rotten, is taken up by the cat’s-meat men in the poor neighbourhoods.”

  “And do you mean to say that there’s a difference even in cat’s-meat between the rich and the poor customers?” demanded the landlord.

  “Do I mean to say so?” repeated the knacker, in a tone which showed that he was surprised at the question being asked: “why, of course I do! The poor may be pisoned—and very often is too—for what the rich cares a fig. I can tell you more too: some of the first class horses’-meat—the sound and good, remember—is made into what’s called hung-beef; some is potted; some is sold to the boarding-schools round London, where they takes in young gen’lemen and ladies at a wery low rate; and some is disposed of—but, no—I don’t dare tell you—”