The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “ ‘You must be informed,’ he said, ‘that my name is Morcar, and that I am the son of Zingary, king of the gipsies. The female whom you saw with me yesterday and this morning, is my wife. A considerable portion of the money earned by our race consists of fees paid by the simple and credulous, for having their fortunes told. In order to obtain the necessary information relative to the inhabitants of those places or dwellings which we visit, we are compelled to assume many disguises, or to make use of the agency of others, not connected with us, to gather that information for us. Some days ago, at an early hour in the morning, I was loitering about in the neighbourhood of the Three Compasses, and from behind a hedge saw you make off with the boots and trousers which a boy had been brushing in the yard. Chance led me that same afternoon to the village where you played your famous trick upon old Dobbin; and, as the story spread like wild-fire through the place immediately after your detection by cousin George, I could not avoid hearing all the particulars. I got a lift in a cart from that village to the market-town where I met you the same night at the inn. I could not help admiring your boldness and ingenuity; and, while I sat quietly smoking my pipe in the tap-room, listening to the discourse of the inmates, and picking up a variety of information, to be turned to future account, I noticed your embarrassment at the appearance of the waiter to collect the money owing by each individual. I had made a good day’s work in a certain way, and was disposed to be liberal: accordingly, at a moment when you were turned in another direction, I placed the two half-crowns close by where you sate on the bench. Next day I threw off what I call my sallow disguise, and repaired to another public-house, near the market, to glean additional information, all of which our women have since turned to ample profit. There I was enabled to give you a warning which was really important to you, as old Dobbin’s cousin George had actually arrived that morning in the town to attend the market. A few days afterwards I was roving with my wife along the by-lanes in the neighbourhood of Clodhopper’s farm, endeavouring by some means to glean what we could concerning the young women at that place—for our finest harvests are always reaped at farm-houses. Again I met you; and I made you the instrument of my design. But,’ added Morcar, with a smile, ‘you went farther than you were instructed: you did a thing which we never do—I mean, steal money. We take for our use a sucking-pig, a fowl, or a goose; and we do not consider that stealing. We also snare rabbits and game; and we look upon it as no crime. However, you saw the scrape into which that business of the purse got me and my wife this morning. You saved us, and I vowed to save you also. The moment I was discharged I went to the stable where the horse that was to convey you to gaol was kept, and bribed the ostler to drive a nail into his foot so as to touch the flesh. Then I found the man who was to drive you, and plied him so well with liquor that he was unable to perform his duty. My object was to delay your journey until the evening, because I knew that I could ensure your escape in the dark. You have seen how well my plans have succeeded, because you are now free.’

  “You may suppose that I thanked my kind deliverer most sincerely for all he had done to serve me. He, however, cut me short in my expressions of gratitude, by saying, ‘What are you going to do? If you will join us, you will be assured of your daily food, and will be more or less protected from danger. My father has a van, in which you can at any time hide when concealment is necessary; and we will do all we can to serve you, for I still consider myself to be indebted to you on account of your generous conduct of this morning. I could have borne punishment myself; but the idea of my wife being plunged into such misery—no, never—never!’

  “I accepted the welcome offers of Morcar, and that very night was conducted to the encampment where his father and mother had taken up their quarters. Eva presented her son to me, saying, ‘You have preserved for this little one a father and mother: henceforth the Zingarees will know thee as a friend!’ From that moment I have lived with the gipsies until the present time; and, though some years have passed away since I first joined them, I have not yet become weary of our wandering mode of existence.”

  CHAPTER CXXXIV.

  THE PALACE IN THE HOLY LAND.

  THE wanderer amidst the crowded thoroughfares of the multitudinous metropolis cannot be unacquainted with that assemblage of densely populated streets and lanes which is situate between High Street (St. Giles’s) and Great Russell Street (Bloomsbury).

  The district alluded to is called the Holy Land.

  There poverty hides its head through shame, and crime lurks concealed through fear;—there everything that is squalid, hideous, debauched, and immoral, makes its dwelling—there woman is as far removed from the angel as Satan is from the Godhead, and man is as closely allied to the brute as the idiot is to the baboon;—there days are spent in idleness, and nights in dissipation;—there no refinement of habit or of speech is known, but male and female alike wallow in obscene debauchery and filthy ideas;—there garments are patched with pieces of various dyes, and language is disfigured with words of a revolting slang;—there the natural ruffianism and brutal instincts of the human heart are unrepressed by social ties or conventional decencies;—there infamy is no disgrace, crime no reproach, vice no stain.

  Such is the Holy Land.

  In a dark and gloomy alley, connecting two of the longer streets in this district, stood a large house four storeys high, and with windows of such narrow dimensions that they seemed intended to admit the light of day only by small instalments.

  Four steep stone steps, each only about six inches broad, led to the front door, which always stood open during the day-time.

  This front-door gave admission into a small square compartment, which was denominated “the lobby,” and from which a second door opened into the house.

  The inner door just alluded to was kept constantly shut, save when admittance was demanded by any one who had the right of entry into the habitation. But even that admittance was never granted without precaution. In the ceiling of the little hall or lobby described, there was a small trap-door, let into the floor of the room above; and by these means the sentinel on duty up-stairs was enabled to reconnoitre every one who knocked at the inner door.

  The interior of the house resembled a small barrack. The apartments on the ground floor were used as day-rooms or refectories, and were fitted up with long tables and forms. The floors were strewed with sand; and the appearance of the place was more cleanly and comfortable than might have been expected in such a neighbourhood. The lower panes of the windows were smeared with a whitewash, which prevented passers-by from peering from the street into the apartments.

  The upper storeys were all used as dormitories, some being allotted to the male and others to the female inmates of the house. These rooms were furnished with mattresses, blankets, and coverlids; but there were no bedsteads. The aspect of the dormitories was as cleanly as that of the day-rooms.

  To the ceiling over the landing-place of the second floor was hung a large bell, to the wheel of which were attached numerous ropes, which branched off, through holes in the walls and floors, in all directions, so that an alarm could be rung from every room in that spacious tenement.

  Behind the house there was a large yard, surrounded by the dead walls which formed the sides of other buildings; thus, in no way, was the dwelling which we have described, overlooked by the neighbours. At the bottom of the yard was a door opening into a court which communicated with another street; and thus a convenient mode of egress was secured to any one who might find it prudent to beat a precipitate retreat from the house.

  We have now endeavoured to furnish the reader with an idea of King Zingary’s Palace in the Holy Land.

  In order to complete the description, it only remains for us to state that the various precautions to which we have alluded, in connexion with the Palace, were adopted for the protection and safety of those inmates who, either in the course of their avocatio
ns or otherwise, might happen to render themselves obnoxious to the myrmidons of the law. Not that the pursuits of the subjects of King Zingary necessarily comprised practices which rendered their head-quarters liable to constant visits from the police: but persons accustomed to a vagabond kind of existence, could not be otherwise than often tempted into lawless courses; and his Majesty did not dare disown or discard a dependant who thus became involved in danger. Moreover, the protection of the gipsies was frequently accorded to persons who rendered them a service, or who could pay for such succour, as in the respective cases of Skilligalee and the Rattlesnake: or it was not unusually granted upon motives of humanity, as in reference to the man called the Traveller. This intercourse with characters of all descriptions was another reason for the adoption of precautionary measures at the Palace; but seldom—very seldom was it that the necessity of those measures was justified by events, the police being well aware that no good ever resulted from a visit to the royal mansion in the Holy Land.

  It was ten o’clock at night; and the king of the gipsies was presiding at the banqueting-table in his palace.

  Upwards of sixty gipsies, male and female, were assembled round the board. These consisted of the chiefs of the different districts into which the gipsy kingdom was divided, with their wives and daughters.

  Skilligalee, the Rattlesnake, and the Traveller were also seated at the table, and were honoured as the king’s guests.

  The meal was over; and the board was covered with bottles containing various descriptions of liquor, drinking mugs, pipes, and tobacco.

  With all the solemn gravity of a chairman at a public dinner, Zingary rapped his knuckles upon the table, and commanded those present to fill their glasses.

  The order was obeyed by both men and women; and the king then spoke as follows:—

  “Most loyal and dutiful friends, this is the hundred and thirty-first anniversary of the institution of that custom in virtue of which the provincial rulers of the united races of Egyptians and Bohemians in England assemble together once every year at the Palace. A hundred and thirty-one years ago, this house was purchased by my grandfather King Sisman, and bequeathed to his descendants to serve as the head-quarters and central point of our administration. There is scarcely an individual of the united races who has not experienced the hospitality of this Palace. Every worthy Zingaree who visits the metropolis enjoys his bed and his board without fee and without price for seven days in our mansion, the superintendence of which is so ably conducted, while we are absent, by our brother on my right.” Here the king glanced towards a venerable-looking gipsy who sate next to him. “In his hands our treasures are safe; and to-morrow he will place before you an account of the remittances he has received from the provincial districts, and the expenditures he has made in the maintenance of this establishment. You will find, I have reason to believe, a considerable balance in our favour. Let us then celebrate with a bumper the hundred and thirty-first anniversary of the opening of our royal palace!”

  This toast was drunk without noise—without hurrahs—without clamour,—but not the less sincerely on that account.

  “My pretty Eva,” said the king, after a pause, “will now oblige us with a song?”

  Zingary’s daughter-in-law did not require to be pressed to exhibit her vocal powers; but in a sweet voice she sang the following air:—

  THE GIPSY’S HOME.

  Oh! who is so blythe, and happy, and free

  As the ever-wandering Zingaree?

  ’Tis his at his own wild will to roam;

  And in each fair scene does he find a home,—

  Does he find a home!

  The sunny slope, or the shady grove,

  Where nightingales sing and lovers rove;

  The fields where the golden harvests wave,

  And the verdant bank which the streamlets lave,

  Are by turns his home.

  The busy town with its selfish crowd,

  The city where dwell the great and proud,

  The haunts of the mighty multitude,

  Where the strong are raised and the weak subdued,

  Are to him no home.

  Oh! ever happy—and ever free,

  Who is so blest as the Zingaree?—

  Where nature puts on her gayest vest,

  Where flowers are sweetest and fruits are best,

  Oh! there is his home.

  “Thank you, sweet Eva,” said the king, when the gipsy woman had concluded her song, in the chorus of which the other females had joined in a low and subdued tone. “Ours is indeed a happy life,” continued Zingary. “When roving over the broad country, we enjoy a freedom unknown to the rest of the world. No impost or taxes have we then to pay: we drink of the stream at pleasure, and never feel alarmed lest our water should be cut off. We can choose pleasant paths, and yet pay no paving-rate. The sun lights us by day, and the stars by night; and no one comes to remind us that we owe two quarters’ gas. We pitch our tents where we will, but are not afraid of a ground-landlord. We do not look forward with fear and trembling to Lady-day or Michaelmas, for the broker cannot distress us. We move where we like, without dreading an accusation of shooting the moon. In fine, we are as free and independent as the inhabitants of the desert. A health, then, to the united races of Zingarees!”

  This toast was drunk in silence, like the former; and the king then called upon the pretty dark-eyed daughter of one of the chiefs to favour the company with a song.

  The request was complied with in the following manner:—

  “COME HITHER, FAIR MAIDEN.”

  Come hither, fair maiden! and listen to me,

  I’ve a store of good tidings to tell unto thee—

  Bright hopes to call smiles to those sweet lips of thine,

  And visions of bliss little short of divine.

  Come hither, fair maiden! the poor Zingaree

  Hath promise of love and of fortune for thee:

  Away from the future the dark cloud shall fly,

  And years yet unborn be revealed to thine eye.

  Come hither, fair maiden! no more shalt thou be

  Alarmed lest the fates act unkindly to thee;—

  The planet that governed the hour of thy birth

  Shall guide thee to all the fair spots of the earth!

  Come hither, fair maiden! futurity’s sea

  Shall roll on no longer unfathomed by thee;

  With me canst thou plunge in its dark depths, and know

  How rich are the pearls that Hope treasures below

  In this manner did the gipsies pass the evening, until the clock struck eleven, when they separated to their dormitories.

  The Rattlesnake was astonished to observe the order and regularity which prevailed with the strange association amongst which accident had thrown her. The festival had passed without noise and without intemperance; the presence of the king and queen seemed alone sufficient to maintain tranquillity and prevent enjoyment from passing the barriers of propriety.

  We need not, however, linger upon this portion of our tale. Suffice it to say that a fortnight glided away, during which the king of the gipsies was detained in the metropolis by the business which he had to transact with his chiefs. The Rattlesnake did not venture out of the house; and Skilligalee was her constant companion.

  The Traveller meantime disguised himself in a manner which would have defied the penetrating eyes of even a parent, had he met his own mother; and from morning until evening did he prowl about London, in search of the one individual against whom he nourished the most terrible hatred. But, every evening, when he returned home to the Gipsy Palace, his countenance was more gloomy and his brow more lowering; and, if questioned relative to the causes of his rage or grief, he replied in a savage tone, “Another day is gone—and he
still lives: but I will never rest until I trace him out.”

  And then he would grind his teeth like a hyena.

  CHAPTER CXXXV.

  THE PROPOSAL.—UNEXPECTED MEETINGS.

  RETURN we once more to Markham Place.

  Mr. Monroe had so far recovered from the malady into which the dread discovery of his daughter’s dishonour had plunged him, as to be enabled to rise from his bed and sit by the fire in his chamber.

  Ellen was constant in her attentions to the old man; and, with her child in her arms, did she keep him company.

  By a strange idiosyncrasy of our nature, Mr. Monroe, instead of abhorring the sight of the infant which proclaimed his well-beloved daughter’s shame, entertained the most ardent affection for the innocent cause of that disgrace; and he rapidly recovered health and spirits, as he sate contemplating that young unwedded mother nursing her sin-begotten babe.

  Richard Markham pursued his studies, though rather for amusement than with any desire of gain, inasmuch as the money repaid him by Count Alteroni had once more restored him to a condition of comfort, although not of affluence.

  His mind was far more easy and tranquil than it had wont to be; for he knew that he was beloved by Isabella; and, although she was a high-born princess of Europe, he felt convinced that no circumstances could alienate her affections from him.

  One evening, when the year 1840 was about three weeks old, Whittingham introduced Mr. Gregory into our hero’s library.