“What does it contain?” asked Lady Rookwood.
“A warrior’s ashes,” returned Alan.
“There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen,” cried Lady Rookwood, holding down the light.
“It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house of Rookwood was stabbed,” said Alan, with a grim smile:
“Which whoso findeth in the tomb
Shall clutch until the hour of doom;
And when ’tis grasped by hand of clay,
The curse of blood shall pass away.
So saith the rhyme. Have you seen enough?”
“No,” said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the marble coffin. “That weapon shall be mine.”
“Come forth — come forth,” cried Alan. “My arm trembles — I cannot support the lid.”
“I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity,” shrieked Lady Rookwood, vainly endeavoring to wrest away the dagger, which was fastened, together with the linen upon which it lay, by some adhesive substance to the bottom of the shell.
At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror. The axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in the act to strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evident, existed between the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious image. But in the first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned his hold of the slab, and it sunk slowly downwards. He uttered a loud cry as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this cry. She raised herself at the same moment — the dagger was in her hand — she pressed it against the lid, but its downward force was too great to be withstood. The light was within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her features. The expression was terrible. She uttered one shriek and the lid closed for ever.
Alan was in total darkness. The light had been enclosed with Lady Rookwood. There was something so horrible in her probable fate, that even he shuddered as he thought upon it. Exerting all his remaining strength, he essayed to raise the lid, but now it was more firmly closed than ever. It defied all his power. Once, for an instant, he fancied that it yielded to his straining sinews, but it was only his hand that slided upon the surface of the marble. It was fixed — immovable. The sides and lid rang with the strokes which the unfortunate lady bestowed upon them with the dagger’s point; but those sounds were not long heard. Presently all was still; the marble ceased to vibrate with her blows. Alan struck the lid with his knuckles, but no response was returned. All was silent.
He now turned his attention to his own situation, which had become sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed, yet Luke had not arrived. The door of the vault was closed — the key was in the lock, and on the outside. He was himself a prisoner within the tomb. What if Luke should not return? What if he were slain, as it might chance, in the enterprise? That thought flashed across his brain like an electric shock. None knew of his retreat but his grandson. He might perish of famine within this desolate vault.
He checked this notion as soon as it was formed — it was too dreadful to be indulged in. A thousand circumstances might conspire to detain Luke. He was sure to come. Yet the solitude — the darkness was awful, almost intolerable. The dying and the dead were around him. He dared not stir.
Another hour — an age it seemed to him — had passed. Still Luke came not. Horrible forebodings crossed him; but he would not surrender himself to them. He rose, and crawled in the direction, as he supposed, of the door — fearful, even of the stealthy sound of his own footsteps. He reached it, and his heart once more throbbed with hope. He bent his ear to the key; he drew in his breath; he listened for some sound, but nothing was to be heard. A groan would have been almost music in his ears.
Another hour was gone! He was now a prey to the most frightful apprehensions, agitated in turns by the wildest emotions of rage and terror. He at one moment imagined that Luke had abandoned him, and heaped curses upon his head; at the next, convinced that he had fallen, he bewailed with equal bitterness his grandson’s fate and his own. He paced the tomb like one distracted; he stamped upon the iron plate; he smote with his hands upon the door; he shouted, and the vault hollowly echoed his lamentations. But Time’s sand ran on, and Luke arrived not.
Alan now abandoned himself wholly to despair. He could no longer anticipate his grandson’s coming, no longer hope for deliverance. His fate was sealed. Death awaited him. He must anticipate his slow but inevitable stroke, enduring all the grinding horrors of starvation. The contemplation of such an end was madness, but he was forced to contemplate it now; and so appalling did it appear to his imagination, that he half resolved to dash out his brains against the walls of the sepulchre, and put an end at once to his tortures; and nothing, except a doubt whether he might not, by imperfectly accomplishing his purpose, increase his own suffering, prevented him from putting this dreadful idea into execution. His dagger was gone, and he had no other weapon. Terrors of a new kind now assailed him. The dead, he fancied, were bursting from their coffins, and he peopled the darkness with grisly phantoms. They were around about him on each side, whirling and rustling, gibbering, groaning, shrieking, laughing, and lamenting. He was stunned, stifled. The air seemed to grow suffocating, pestilential; the wild laughter was redoubled; the horrible troop assailed him; they dragged him along the tomb, and amid their howls he fell, and became insensible.
When he returned to himself, it was some time before he could collect his scattered faculties; and when the agonizing consciousness of his terrible situation forced itself upon his mind, he had nigh relapsed into oblivion. He arose. He rushed towards the door; he knocked against it with his knuckles till the blood streamed from them; he scratched against it with his nails till they were torn off by the roots. With insane fury he hurled himself against the iron frame; it was in vain. Again he had recourse to the trap-door. He searched for it; he found it. He laid himself upon the ground. There was no interval of space in which he could insert a finger’s point. He beat it with his clenched hand; he tore it with his teeth; he jumped upon it; he smote it with his heel. The iron returned a sullen sound.
He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair nerved his strength. He raised the slab a few inches. He shouted, screamed, but no answer was returned; and again the lid fell.
“She is dead!” cried Alan. “Why have I not shared her fate? But mine is to come. And such a death! — oh, oh!” And, frenzied at the thought, he again hurried to the door, and renewed his fruitless attempts to escape, till nature gave way, and he sank upon the floor, groaning and exhausted.
Physical suffering now began to take the place of his mental tortures. Parched and consumed with a fierce internal fever, he was tormented by unappeasable thirst — of all human ills the most unendurable. His tongue was dry and dusty, his throat inflamed; his lips had lost all moisture. He licked the humid floor; he sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from the walls; but, instead of allaying his thirst, they increased it. He would have given the world, had he possessed it, for a draught of cold spring-water. Oh, to have died with his lips upon some bubbling fountain’s marge! But to perish thus —— !
Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. He had to endure all the horrors of famine, as well as the agonies of quenchless thirst.
In this dreadful state three days and nights passed over Alan’s fated head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with him, was only measured by its duration, and that seemed interminable. Each hour added to his suffering, and brought with it no relief. During this period of prolonged misery reason often tottered on her throne. Sometimes he was under the influence of the wildest passions. He dragged coffins from their recesses, hurled them upon the ground, striving to break them open and drag forth their loathsome contents. Upon other occasions he would weep bitterly and wildly; and once — only once — did he attempt to pray; but he started from his knees with an echo of infernal laughter, as he deemed, ringing in his ears. Then, again, would he call down imprecations upon himself and his whole line, trampling upon the pile of
coffins he had reared; and lastly, more subdued, would creep to the boards that contained the body of his child, kissing them with a frantic outbreak of affection.
At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolution. To him the thought of death might well be terrible, but he quailed not before it, or rather seemed, in his latest moments, to resume all his wonted firmness of character. Gathering together his remaining strength, he dragged himself towards the niche wherein his brother, Sir Reginald Rookwood, was deposited, and placing his hand upon the coffin, solemnly exclaimed, “My curse — my dying curse — be upon thee evermore!”
Falling with his face upon the coffin, Alan instantly expired. In this attitude his remains were discovered.
L’ENVOY
Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we may be allowed to add a few words respecting two of the subordinate characters of our drama — melodrama we ought to say — namely Jerry Juniper and the knight of Malta. What became of the Caper Merchant’s son after his flight from Kilburn Wells we have never been able distinctly to ascertain. Juniper, however, would seem to be a sort of Wandering Jew, for certain it is, that somebody very like him is extant still, and to be met with at Jerry’s old haunts; indeed, we have no doubt of encountering him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot and Hampton.
As regards the knight of Malta — Knight of Roads— “Rhodes” — he should have been — we are sorry to state that the career of the Ruffler terminated in a madhouse, and thus the poor knight became in reality a Hospitaller! According to the custom observed in those establishments, the knight was deprived of his luxuriant locks, and the loss of his beard rendered his case incurable; but, in the mean time, the barber of the place made his fortune by retailing the materials of all the black wigs he could collect to the impostor’s dupes.
Such is the latest piece of intelligence that has reached us of the Arch-hoaxer of Canterbury!
Turpin — why disguise it? — was hanged at York in 1739. His firmness deserted him not at the last. When he mounted the fatal tree his left leg trembled; he stamped it impatiently down, and, after a brief chat with the hangman, threw himself suddenly and resolutely from the ladder. His sufferings would appear to have been slight: as he himself sang,
He died, not as other men, by degrees,
But at once, without wincing, and quite at his ease!
We may, in some other place, lay before the reader the particulars — and they are not incurious — of the “night before Larry was stretched.”
The remains of the vagrant highwayman found a final resting-place in the desecrated churchyard of Saint George, without the Fishergate postern, a green and grassy cemetery, but withal a melancholy one. A few recent tombs mark out the spots where some of the victims of the pestilence of 1832-33 have been interred; but we have made vain search for Turpin’s grave — unless — as is more than probable — the plain stone with the simple initials R. T. belongs to him.
The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown at York Castle, and are of prodigious weight and strength; and though the herculean robber is said to have moved in them with ease, the present turnkey was scarcely able to lift the ponderous irons. An old woman of the same city has a lock of hair, said to have been Turpin’s, which she avouches her grandfather cut off from the body after the execution, and which the believers look upon with great reverence. O rare Dick Turpin!
We shall, perhaps, be accused of dilating too much upon the character of the highwayman, and we plead guilty to the charge. But we found it impossible to avoid running a little into extremes. Our earliest associations are connected with sunny scenes in Cheshire, said to have been haunted by Turpin; and with one very dear to us — from whose lips, now, alas! silent, we have listened to many stories of his exploits — he was a sort of hero. We have had a singular delight in recounting his feats and hairbreadth escapes; and if the reader derives only half as much pleasure from the perusal of his adventures as we have had in narrating them, our satisfaction will be complete. Perhaps, we may have placed him in too favorable a point of view — and yet we know not. As upon those of more important personages, many doubts rest upon his history. Such as we conceive him to have been, we have drawn him — hoping that the benevolent reader, upon finishing our Tale, will arrive at the same conclusion; and, in the words of the quaint old Prologue to the Prince of Prigs’ Revels,
—— Thank that man,
Can make each thief a complete Roscian!
THE END
JACK SHEPPARD
Serially published in Bentley’s Miscellany from 1839 to 1840, with illustrations by George Cruikshank, this historical romance and Newgate novel is based on the real life and adventures of the eighteenth century criminal Jack Sheppard. Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist ran at the same time in Bentley’s Miscellany. Dickens, previously a friend of Ainsworth’s, became distant from him as controversy brewed over the scandalous nature around Jack Sheppard and Oliver Twist, with both works describing criminal life. The plots are similar, in that both deal with an individual attempting to corrupt a boy. Ainsworth’s child is corrupted, whereas Dickens’ Oliver is not. When the relationship between the two authors broke up, Dickens retired from the magazine as its editor and made way for Ainsworth in that role at the end of 1839. A three volume edition of Jack Sheppard was published by Bentley in October 1839. The novel was adapted to the stage and eight different theatrical versions were produced in autumn 1839, attesting the novel’s public popularity.
The narrative is divided into three parts, titled “epochs”. The “Jonathan Wild” epoch comes first. The events of the story begin with the notorious criminal and thief-catcher Jonathan Wild encouraging Jack Sheppard’s father to a life of crime. Wild, who once pursued Sheppard’s mother, eventually turns Sheppard’s father into the authorities and he is soon after executed. Sheppard’s mother is left to raise Sheppard, a mere infant at the time, alone. Paralleling these events is the story of Thames Darrell. On 26 November 1703, the date of the first section, Darrell is separated from his immoral uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard, and is given to Mr. Wood to be raised. The third epoch takes place in 1724 and spans six months. Sheppard is a thief that spends his time robbing various people. When he and Blueskin burgle the Wood’s household, Blueskin murders Mrs. Woods. This upsets Sheppard and results in his separation from Wild’s group. Sheppard befriends Thames again and spends his time trying to correct Blueskin’s wrong.
Ainsworth’s Rookwood and Jack Sheppard were fundamental in popularising the “Newgate novel” tradition, a combination of the historical and Gothic novel genres. The tradition itself stemmed from a Renaissance literary tradition of emphasising the actions of well-known criminals. With its publication, Ainsworth told James Crossley in an 8 October 1839 letter, “The success of Jack is pretty certain, they are bringing him out at half the theatres in London.” These words proved true and Jack Sheppard sold more books than Ainsworth’s previous novels Rookwood and Crichton. It was published in book form in 1839, before the serialised version was completed, even outselling early editions of Oliver Twist. Ainsworth’s novel was adapted into a successful play by John Buckstone in October 1839 at the Adelphi Theatre starring Mary Anne Keeley.
The autograph manuscript of the novel
How the novel originally appeared in serial format
CONTENTS
EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703, JONATHAN WILD
CHAPTER I. THE WIDOW AND HER CHILD.
CHAPTER II. THE OLD MINT.
CHAPTER III. THE MASTER OF THE MINT.
CHAPTER IV. THE ROOF AND THE WINDOW.
CHAPTER V. THE DENUNCIATION.
CHAPTER VI. THE STORM.
CHAPTER VII. OLD LONDON BRIDGE.
EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715, THAMES DARRELL
CHAPTER I. THE IDLE APPRENTICE.
CHAPTER II. THAMES DARRELL.
CHAPTER III. THE JACOBITE.
CHAPTER IV. MR. KNEEBONE AND HIS FRIENDS.
CHAPTER V. HAWK AND BUZZARD.
CHAPTER VI. THE
FIRST STEP TOWARDS THE LADDER.
CHAPTER VII. BROTHER AND SISTER.
CHAPTER VIII. MICHING MALLECHO.
CHAPTER IX. CONSEQUENCES OF THE THEFT.
CHAPTER X. MOTHER AND SON.
CHAPTER XI. THE MOHOCKS.
CHAPTER XII. SAINT GILES’S ROUND-HOUSE.
CHAPTER XIII. THE MAGDALENE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE FLASH KEN.
CHAPTER XV. THE ROBBERY IN WILLESDEN CHURCH.
CHAPTER XVI. JONATHAN WILD’S HOUSE IN THE OLD BAILEY.
CHAPTER XVII. THE NIGHT-CELLAR.
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW JACK SHEPPARD BROKE OUT OF THE CAGE AT WILLESDEN.
CHAPTER XIX. GOOD AND EVIL.
EPOCH THE THIRD, THE PRISON-BREAKER, 1724.
CHAPTER I. THE RETURN.
CHAPTER II. THE BURGLARY AT DOLLIS HILL.
CHAPTER III. JACK SHEPPARD’S QUARREL WITH JONATHAN WILD.
CHAPTER IV. JACK SHEPPARD’S ESCAPE FROM THE NEW PRISON.
CHAPTER V. THE DISGUISE.
CHAPTER VI. WINIFRED RECEIVES TWO PROPOSALS.
CHAPTER VII. JACK SHEPPARD WARNS THAMES DARRELL.
CHAPTER VIII. OLD BEDLAM.
CHAPTER IX. OLD NEWGATE.
CHAPTER X. HOW JACK SHEPPARD GOT OUT OF THE CONDEMNED HOLD.
CHAPTER XI. DOLLIS HILL REVISITED.
CHAPTER XII. THE WELL HOLE.
CHAPTER XIII. THE SUPPER AT MR. KNEEBONE’S.
CHAPTER XIV. HOW JACK SHEPPARD WAS AGAIN CAPTURED.
CHAPTER XV. HOW BLUESKIN UNDERWENT THE PEINE FORTE ET DURE.
CHAPTER XVI. HOW JACK SHEPPARD’S PORTRAIT WAS PAINTED.
CHAPTER XVII. THE IRON BAR.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE RED ROOM.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 65
