The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  The landlord bustled about to serve up the best his house could afford in such haste; and in the meantime the new-comer addressed himself to our hero.

  “Rather chilly this evening, sir,” he said.

  “And yet you can scarcely feel the cold, considering the pace at which you appear to ride,” returned Richard with a smile.

  “Egad! I do not ride so for pleasure, I can assure you,” observed the man. “But I presume that you are travelling in this country for your amusement,” he added: “for I perceive by your accent that you are not a Castelcicalan, and I can judge your avocation by that portfolio lying near you.”

  “You have guessed correctly,” answered Richard. “Have you travelled far to-day?”

  “A considerable distance. I am, as perhaps you may know by my dress, a government courier: and I am the bearer of dispatches from Montoni to the Captain-General of Montecuculi.”

  “Any thing new in the capital?” asked Richard, scarcely able to conceal the anxiety with which he waited for a reply.

  “Great news,” was the answer. “The Grand Duchess has fled.”

  “Fled!” ejaculated Markham.

  “Yes—left the capital—gone no one knows where, and no one knows why,” continued the courier. “Montoni is in a dreadful ferment. Martial law was proclaimed there the day before yesterday; and a tremendous crowd collected in the Palace-square in the evening. The military were called out, but refused to fire upon the people. Numerous conflicting reports are in circulation: some say that the Grand Duke has sent to demand the aid of an Austrian force. The people attacked the mansion of the Prime Minister; and the firmness of the Political Prefect alone prevented serious mischief. In fact, sir,” added the courier, sinking his voice to a whisper, “we are on the eve of great events; and for my part—although I am in the government employment—I don’t think it’s treason to say that I would as soon serve Alberto as Angelo.”

  At that moment the landlord entered with a tray containing the courier’s supper; and the conversation ceased. Nor had our hero an opportunity of reviving it; for the courier was too busily engaged with his knife and fork to utter a word during his meal; and the moment it was terminated, he wished Markham good night and took his departure.

  Still our hero had gleaned enough to afford him some clue to the mystery of the post-chaise. The Grand Duchess had fled: the reason of her flight was not publicly known. Was it not probable that she was an occupant of the post-chaise which journeyed so swiftly? did not this idea receive confirmation from the fact that Mario Bazzano accompanied the vehicle?

  Then again occurred the question, had the Grand Duchess involved herself in difficulty by her generosity towards him? The bare supposition of such an occurrence was the source of the most poignant anguish in the breast of Richard Markham.

  He retired to rest; but his sleep was uneasy; and he awoke at an early hour, little refreshed. He was however compelled to pursue his melancholy journey, which he resumed with a heavy heart and with a mind oppressed by a thousand vague apprehensions.

  There was one circumstance which especially afflicted him. He had not dared to write a letter to Isabella; and he knew that the tidings of the failure of the invasion would shortly reach her. Then what must be her feelings! She would believe that he had either fallen in the conflict, or was a prisoner in some Castelcicalan fortress; and he entertained so profound a conviction of her love for him,—a love as sincere as that which he experienced for her,—that he dreaded the effects which would be produced upon her by the most painful uncertainty or the worst apprehensions concerning his fate.

  Still, how could he write to her with any hope that the letter would reach her? In the existing condition of Castelcicala, he felt persuaded that all correspondence addressed to Prince Alberto or any member of his family, would be intercepted. This conviction had hitherto prevented him from addressing a word to that charming girl whose image was ever present to his mind.

  But as he journeyed wearily along, it suddenly struck him that he might write to Whittingham, and enclose a note for Isabella. Besides, he was also anxious to acquaint that faithful servant, as well as Mr. Monroe and Ellen, with the hopes that he entertained of being shortly enabled to return to his native land. He accordingly resolved to put the project into execution.

  For that purpose he was compelled to pass the next night at a town where there was a post-office. He wrote his letters in the most guarded manner, and omitted the signature. When they were safely consigned to the letter-box, he felt as if a considerable load had been taken off his mind.

  At this town he gleaned a great deal of information concerning the agitated condition of the country. Martial law had been proclaimed in every province; and the worst fears existed as to the Grand Duke’s ulterior views. The idea of Austrian intervention appeared to be general; and deep, though not loud, were the curses which were levelled against the policy of that sovereign who could venture to call in a foreign soldiery to rivet the shackles of slavery which he had imposed upon his subjects.

  One circumstance peculiarly struck our hero: the Grand Duke seemed to possess no supporters—no apologists. The hatred excited by his tyranny was universal. Castelcicala only required a champion to stand forward—a leader to proclaim the cause of liberty—and Richard felt convinced that the whole nation would rise as one man against the despot.

  That the Grand Duchess had fled precipitately from Montoni, was a fact now well known; but the motives and details of her departure were still veiled in the most profound mystery.

  There was another circumstance which forced itself on Markham’s observation: this was that the deepest sympathy existed in behalf of the prisoners who had been taken in the conflict near Ossore, and who, it seemed, had all been despatched to the fortress of Estella. Richard’s prowess in rallying the troops also appeared to be well known; and on more occasions than one, during his wanderings in Castelcicala, did he find himself the object of the most flattering discourse, while those who eulogised him little suspected that the hero of their panegyric was so near.

  But it is not our intention to follow him through those wanderings. Suffice it to say that he found his journey more wearisome than he had anticipated; and that he was frequently compelled to avail himself of a carrier’s van along the by-roads, or to hire a horse, in order to diminish the fatigues of his wayfaring.

  It was on the twelfth evening after he left Friuli, where he had parted with Morcar, that he crossed the river Usiglio at a ferry about four miles to the east of Pinalla.

  He was now only forty miles from the Neapolitan frontier; and in twenty-four hours more he fondly hoped to be beyond the reach of danger.

  He had partaken of but little refreshment during that day, for the nearer he approached the point where peril would cease and safety begin, the more anxious did he become.

  Having crossed the ferry, he inquired of the boatman the way to the nearest inn. A dreary by-lane was pointed out to him, with an intimation that it would lead to a small public-house, at the distance of about a mile.

  Richard pursued his way, and had proceeded about three hundred yards down the lane, which was shaded on either side by large chesnut-trees, when several individuals rushed upon him so suddenly that he had no time to offer any effectual resistance.

  He, however, struggled desperately, as two of the banditti (for such his assailants were) attempted to bind his arms with cords.

  But his endeavours to free himself from their grasp were vain and fruitless, and only provoked a rougher treatment at their hands; for one of the banditti drew a pistol from his belt, and with the butt-end of the weapon aimed a desperate blow at our hero’s head.

  Richard fell, bleeding and insensible, upon the ground.

  * * * * *

  When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed.

 
Putting aside the damask-silk curtains, he glanced anxiously around the room, which was sumptuously furnished.

  He fell back on his pillow, and strove to collect his scattered ideas. His head pained him: he raised his hand to his forehead, and found that it was bandaged.

  Then the attack of the banditti in the dark lane flashed across his mind; and he mechanically thrust his hand into his bosom.

  Alas! Armstrong’s letter was gone!

  CHAPTER CLXXX.

  THE “BOOZING-KEN” ONCE MORE.

  We must now direct our readers’ attention for a short space to the parlour of the Boozing-Ken on Saffron Hill.

  It was nine o’clock in the evening; and, as usual, a motley company was assembled in that place.

  A dozen persons, men and women, were drinking the vile compounds which the landlord dispensed as “Fine Cordial Gin,” “Treble X Ale,” “Real Jamaica Rum,” “Best Cognac Brandy,” and “Noted Stout.”

  At one of the tables sate the Buffer, smoking a long clay pipe, and from time to time paying his respects to a pot of porter which stood before him. He occasionally glanced towards the clock as if he were expecting some one; and then an impatient but subdued curse rose to his lips, proving that the individual for whom he waited was behind his time.

  “Well, as I was saying,” exclaimed an old shabbily-dressed and dissipated looking man, who sate near the fire, “it’s a burning shame to make people pay so dear for such liquor as this;”—and he made a quart-pot, which he held in his hand, describe sundry diminutive circles, in order to shake up the liquor whereat he gazed with disgust.

  “Why do you drink it, then, friend Swiggs?” demanded the Buffer, in a surly tone. “You was once a licensed witler yourself: and I’ll be bound no one ever doctored his lush more than you did.”

  “Of course I did!” ejaculated the old man. “The publican can’t live without it. Look how he’s taxed—look how the police preys upon him—look at the restrictions as to hours that he’s subject to. I tell you the publican must adulterate his liquor—aye, even the most honest. But I don’t like to drink it so, none the more for all that. Besides, this beer is so preciously done up, that one does not know whether there’s most cocculus indicus or most tobacco-juice in it.”

  “What’s cocculus indicus?” asked the Buffer.

  “An Indian berry of so poisonous a nature,” was the reply, “that the natives throw it into the ponds to render the fish insensible and make them float on the surface, when of course they’re easily caught. That will show you the strength of it—ha! ha!”

  And the old man chuckled with a sort of malignant triumph, as he recalled to mind his own practices when he was in business, and ere dissipation ruined him.

  “Oh! I have the Vintners’ Guides all by heart, I can assure you,” continued Swiggs; “and now that I’m out of the business, and never likely to be in it again, I don’t mind telling you a secret or two. Let us begin with the beer. In the first place the brewer adulterates it, to save his malt and hops; and then the publican adulterates it, to increase its quantity. His business is to make one butt of beer into two—aye, and sometimes three. Ha! ha! Now, how do you think he does it? He first deluges it with water: then, of course, it’s so weak and flat that no one could possibly drink it. It wants alcohol, or spirit in it; it wants the bitter flavour; it wants pungency; it wants age; and it wants froth. All these are supplied by means of adulteration. Cocculus indicus, henbane, opium, and Bohemian rosemary are used instead of alcohol: these are all poisons; and the Bohemian rosemary is of so deadly a nature, that a small sprig produces a raving intoxication. Ha! ha! that’s good so far! Then aloes, quassia, wormwood, and gentian supply the place of hops, and give bitterness to the hell-broth. Ginger, cassia-buds, and capsicum, produce pungency. Treacle, tobacco-juice, and burnt sugar give it colour. Oil of vitriol not only makes it transparent, but also imparts to it the taste of age; so that a butt so doctored immediately seems to be two years old. I needn’t tell you what sort of a poison oil of vitriol is: I don’t want to suggest the means of suicide—ha! ha! But when the brew has gone so far, it wants the heading—that froth, you know, which you all fancy to be a proof of good beer. Alum, copperas, and salt of tartar will raise you as nice a heading as ever you’d wish to dip your lips in.”

  “You don’t mean to say all that’s true, Swiggs?” exclaimed the Buffer; “for though I ain’t partickler, I don’t think I shall ever like porter again.”

  “True!” ejaculated the old man, contemptuously: “it’s as true as you’re sitting there! But there’s a dozen other ingredients that go into the stuff you lap up so pleasantly, and pay for as beer. What do you think of extract of poppies, coriander, nux vomica, black extract, Leghorn juice, and bitter beans? But all these names are Greek to you. They ain’t to the publicans, though—ha! ha! Why, half the poor people that go to lunatic asylums, are sent there by the poison called beer.”

  “What have you got to say agin blue ruin, old feller?” demanded the Knacker, who was regaling himself with a glass of gin-and-water.

  “Blue ruin—gin!” cried the old man. “Ah! I can tell you something about that too. Oil of vitriol is the chief ingredient: it has the pungency and smell of gin. When you take the cork out of a bottle of pure gin, it will never make your eyes water: but the oil of vitriol will. Ha! ha! there’s a test for you. Try it! Oil of turpentine, sulphuric æther, and oil of almonds are used to conceal the vitriol in the made-up gin. What is called Fine Cordial Gin is the most adulterated of all: it is concocted expressly for dram-drinkers—ha! ha!”

  “Rum, I should think, is the best of all the spirits,” said the Buffer.

  “Because you like it best, perhaps?” exclaimed the old man. “Ha! ha! you don’t know that the Fine Jamaica Rum is nothing else but the vile low-priced Leeward Island rum, which is in itself a stomach-burning fire-water of the deadliest quality, and which is mixed by the publican with cherry-laurel water and devil.”

  “What’s devil?” asked the Knacker.

  “Aye, what is it, indeed? It’s nothing but chilie pods infused in oil of vitriol—that’s all! But now for Best Cognac Brandy,” continued the old man. “Do you think the brandy sold under that name ever saw France—ever crossed the sea? Not it! Aqua ammonia, saffron, mace, extract of almond cake, cherry-laurel water, devil, terra japonica, and spirits of nitre, make up the brandy when the British spirit has been well deluged with water. That’s your brandy! Ha! ha!”

  “What a precious old sinner you must be, Swiggs,” said one of the company, “if you used to make up such poisons as you’re now talking about.”

  “Dare say I was—dare say I was,” observed the old man, composedly. “Nearly every publican does the same, I tell you. Those who don’t, go into the Gazette—that’s all. Ha! ha! But if the poor are cheated and poisoned in that way, how do you think the middle classes and rich ones are served? Shall I tell you any thing about wine—eh?”

  “Yes—do,” cried several voices. “Let’s hear how the swell cove is served out.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you that too,” continued the old man. “There’s hundreds of Wine-Guides that contain instructions for the merchants, and vintners, and publicans. Take a bottle of cheap Port wine, and get a chemist to analyse it: he’ll tell you it contains three ounces of spirits of wine, fourteen ounces of cyder, one ounce and a half of sugar, two scruples of alum, one scruple of tartaric acid, and four ounces of strong decoction of logwood. That’s the way I used to make my Port wine. Not a drop—not a single drop of the juice of the grape. Ha! ha! Families bought it wholesale—three-and-sixpence the bottle—rank poison! Ha! ha! Nearly all fictitious wines possess too high a colour—particularly sherry: the way to make such wine pale is to put a quart of warm sheeps’ blood in the butt, and, when it’s quite fine, to draw it off. I always did that—but I didn’t tell the families so, though! Which do you
think is the greatest cheat of all the cheap wines!—the Cape. The publicans sell it at eighteen-pence and two shillings. Why—it’s nothing more than the drippings from the casks, the filterings of the lees, and all the spoiled white wines that happen to be in the cellar, mixed together with rum-cowe and cyder, and fined with sheep’s blood.”

  “I’m glad to hear the rich is humbugged as well as the poor,” observed the Knacker: “that’s a consolation, at any rate.”

  “So it is,” said a cat’s-meat man, nodding his head approvingly.

  “Humbugged!” ejaculated Swiggs, triumphantly: “I b’lieve you! I’ll tell you how two-thirds of all the Port wine drunk in the United Kingdom is made:—Take four gallons of cyder, two quarts of the juice of red beet-root, two quarts of brandy, four ounces of logwood, half a pound of bruised rhatany root, and one ounce of alum: first infuse the logwood and rhatany root in the brandy and a gallon of the cyder for ten days; then strain off the liquor and mix all the other ingredients with it; put it into a cask, keep it for a month, and it will be fit to bottle. Not a drop of grape-juice there. Ha! ha! If the colour isn’t quite right, an infusion of raspings of red sandars wood in spirits of wine will soon give it a beautiful red complexion. But then the bees’-wing. Ha! the bees’-wing—eh! A saturated solution of cream of tartar, coloured with Brazil-wood or cochineal, will give the best crust and bees’-wing you can imagine. There’s for you! Port made in a month or six weeks can be passed off for wine ten or a dozen years old. The corks can easily be stained to indicate age—and who’s to discover the cheat? Nobody but the chemist—ha! ha!”

  “Well, I’ve learnt someot to-night,” said the Knacker.

  “Learnt something! You know nothing about it yet,” cried the old man, who was on his favourite topic. “You don’t know what poison—rank poison—there is in all these cheap wines;—aye, and in the dear ones too, for that matter. Sugar of lead is a chief ingredient! I needn’t tell you that sugar of lead is a deadly poison: any fool knows that. Sal enixum and slaked lime are used to clear muddy wine; and litharge gives a sweet taste to wines that are too acid. Bitter almonds imparts to port a nutty flavour; cherry-laurel water gives it a bouquet; and tincture of raisin seeds endows it with a grapy taste—which it hasn’t got and can’t have otherwise. But I’ve told you enough for to-night. And now I dare say you wonder why I drink beer or spirits at all? Because I am old and miserable; because I am poor and wretched; because I must kill care somehow or another; and therefore I take daily doses of those slow poisons.”