Van,” observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head.
“Ja, ja, Muntmeester,” said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply; —“very bad — very.”
“But then they’re staunch supporters of our friend over the water,” continued Baptist, winking significantly; “so we must e’en hush it up in the best way we can.”
“Ja,” answered Van Galgebrok. “But — sapperment! — I wish they hadn’t broken my pipe.”
“JONATHAN WILD promises well,” observed the Master, after a pause: “he’ll become a great man. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so.”
“He’ll be hanged nevertheless,” replied the Hollander, giving his collar an ugly jerk. “Mind, I, Rykhart Van Galgebrok predict it. And now let’s go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.”
“Alas!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way to a passionate flood of tears; “were it not for my child, I should wish to be in the place of that unfortunate lady.”
CHAPTER 5.
THE DENUNCIATION.
For a short space, Mrs. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. “Open my heart, Father of Mercy!” she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, “and make me sensible of the error of my ways. I have sinned deeply; but I have been sorely tried. Spare me yet a little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor babe.” Her utterance was here choked by sobs. “But if it is thy will to take me from him,” she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her — “if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother’s feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment. Spare him! — pity me!”
With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.
“Halloa, widow!” shouted a rough voice from below, “where the devil are you?”
Mrs. Sheppard returned no answer.
“I’ve got something to say to you,” continued the speaker, rather less harshly; “something to your advantage; so come out o’ your hiding-place, and let’s have some supper, for I’m infernally hungry. — D’ye hear?”
Still the widow remained silent.
“Well, if you won’t come, I shall help myself, and that’s unsociable,” pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the action to the word. “Devilish nice ham you’ve got here! — capital pie! — and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. You’re in luck to-night, widow. Here’s your health in a bumper, and wishing you a better husband than your first. It’ll be your own fault if you don’t soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. Here’s his health likewise. What! mum still. You’re the first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure. I’ll try the effect of a jolly stave.” And he struck up the following ballad:—
SAINT GILES’S BOWL.1
I.
Where Saint Giles’ church stands, once a lazar-house stood;
And, chain’d to its gates, was a vessel of wood;
A broad-bottom’d bowl, from which all the fine fellows,
Who pass’d by that spot, on their way to the gallows,
Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
II.
By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles’s was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottom’d bowl was removed to the Crown.
Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
III.
There Mulsack and Swiftneck, both prigs from their birth,
Old Mob and Tom Cox took their last draught on earth:
There Randal, and Shorter, and Whitney pulled up,
And jolly Jack Joyce drank his finishing cup!
For a can of ale calms, A highwayman’s qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
“Singing’s dry work,” observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. “And now, widow,” he continued, “attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o’ yours.”
IV.
When gallant Tom Sheppard to Tyburn was led —
“Stop the cart at the Crown — stop a moment,” he said.
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying, “Keep it till call’d for by Jonathan Wild!
“The rascal one day, “Will pass by this way, “And drink a full measure to moisten his clay! “And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled “Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as Jonathan Wild!”
V.
Should it e’er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I’ll summon the landlord — I’ll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I’ll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!
“Devil seize the woman!” growled the singer, as he brought his ditty to a close; “will nothing tempt her out? Widow Sheppard, I say,” he added, rising, “don’t be afraid. It’s only a gentleman come to offer you his hand. ‘He that woos a maid’ — fol-de-rol —(hiccupping). — I’ll soon find you out.”
Mrs. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions had been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder’s departure after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in the extreme by seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the stairs. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other.
“Oh, you’re here, are you?” said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh: “I’ve been looking for you