Chapter 30. How Jonathan Wild’s House was burnt down.
Chapter 31. The Procession to Tyburn.
Chapter 32. The Closing Scene.
“Upon my word, friend,” said I, “you have almost made me long to try what a robber I should make.”
“There is a great art in it, if you did,” quoth he.
“Ah! but,” said I, “there’s a great deal in being hanged.”
Life and Actions of Guzman d’Alfarache.
EPOCH THE FIRST.
1703.
JONATHAN WILD.
CHAPTER 1.
THE WIDOW AND HER CHILD.
On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. He wore a three-cornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure.
Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
“Well, good night, Mr. Wood,” said she, in the deep, hoarse accents of consumption; “and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your kindness! You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and now you’ve proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy.”
“Poh! poh! say no more about it,” rejoined the man hastily. “I’ve done no more than my duty, Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. ‘Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;’ that’s my comfort. And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered earlier, if I’d known where you’d taken refuge after your unfortunate husband’s —”
“Execution, you would say, Sir,” added Mrs. Sheppard, with a deep sigh, perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. “You show more consideration to the feelings of a hempen widow, than there is any need to show. I’m used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I’m not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Wood; but they never come now. I have never wept since that day.”
“And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul,” replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, “unless it be tears of joy. Pshaw!” added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, “I can’t leave you in this way. I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile.”
So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.
The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled “Rosa Solis.” Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor and filth.
Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be “The last Dying Speech and Confession of TOM SHEPPARD, the Notorious Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703.” This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the unhappy malefactor at the place of execution. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.
Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, “Paul Groves, cobler;” and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow’s fate, “Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;” accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine.
“You’ve but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood, glancing round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.
“It’s wretched enough, indeed, Sir,” rejoined the widow; “but, poor as it is, it’s better than the cold stones and open streets.”
“Of course — of course,” returned Wood, hastily; “anything’s better than that. But take a drop of wine,” urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; “it’s choice canary, and’ll do you good. And now, come and sit