 Chapter 55 We now come to a sad episode in our history, and yet one in which there is perhaps less romance and more truth than in any other scene yet depicted. We have already warned our reader that he will have to accompany us amidst appalling scenes of vice and wretchedness. We are about to introduce him to one of destitution and suffering, of powerful struggle and unavailing toil, whose details are so very sad that we have been able to find no better heading for our chapter than miserama, or very miserable things. The reader will remember that we have brought our narrative in preceding chapters up to the end of 1838. We must now go back for a period of two years in order to commence the herring details of our present episode. In one of the low dark rooms of a gloomy house in a court leading out of Golden Lane, St. Luke's, a young girl of seventeen sat at work. It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and a single candle lighted the miserable chamber, which was almost completely denuded of furniture. The cold wind of December whistled through the ill-closed casement in the broken panes over which the thin paper had been pasted to repel the biting chill. A small deal table, two common chairs, and a mattress were all the articles of furniture which this wretched room contained. A door at the end opposite the window opened into another and smaller chamber, and this latter one was furnished with nothing, save an old mattress. There were no blankets, no cover lids, in either room. The occupants had no other covering at night than their own clothes, and those clothes, God knows they were thin, worn, and scantily enough. Not a spark of fire burned in the grate, and yet that front room in which the young girl was seated was as cold as the nave of a vast cathedral in the depth of winter. The reader has perhaps experienced that icy chill which seems to strike to the very moral of the bones when entering a huge stone edifice, the cold which prevailed in that room and in which the young creature was at work with her needle was more intense, more penetrating, more bitter, more frost-like than even that icy chill. Miserable and cheerless was that chamber. The dull light of the candle only served to render its nakedness the more apparent, without relieving it of any of its gloom, and as the cold draught from the wretched casement caused the flame of the candle to flicker and oscillate, the poor girl was compelled to seat herself between the window and the table to protect her light from the wind. Thus the chilling December blast blew upon the back of the young seamstress whose clothing was so thin and scant so very scant. The seamstress was, as we have before said, about seventeen years of age. She was very beautiful, and her features, although pale with want and wan, with care in long verges, were pleasing and agreeable. The cast of her continence was purely Grecian, the shape of her head imminently classical, and her form was of a perfect and symmetrical mold. Although clothed in the most gantian wretched manners, she was singularly neat and clean in her appearance, and her air and demeanor were far above her humble occupation and her impoverished condition. She had indeed seen better days, reared in the lap of luxury by fond, but to indulgent parents, her education had been of high order, and thus her qualifications were rather calculated to embellish her in prosperity than to prove of use to her in adversity. She had lost her mother at the age of twelve, and her father, kind and fond and proud of his only child, had sought to make her shine in that sphere which she had been appeared distant to adorn. But misfortunes came upon them like a thunderbolt, and when poverty, grim poverty, stared them in the face, this poor girl had no resource save her needle. Now and then her father earned a trifle in the city by making out accounts or copying deeds, but sorrow and ill health had almost entirely incapacitated him from labor or occupation of any kind, and his young and affectionate daughter was compelled to toil from sunrise until late hour in the night to earn even a pittance. Then after another all their little comforts in the shape of furniture and clothing disappeared, and after vainly endeavouring to maintain a humble lodging in a cheap but respectable neighborhood, poverty compelled them to take refuge in that dark, narrow, filthy court leading out of golden lane. Such was the sad fate of Mr. Monroe and his daughter Ellen. At the time when we introduced the latter to our readers, her father was absent in the city. He had a little occupation in accounting house which was to last three days which kept him hard at work from nine in the morning till eleven at night, and for which he was to receive a pittance so small we dare not mention its amount. This is how it was, an official assignee belonging to the bankruptcy court had some heavy accounts to make up by a certain day. He was consequently compelled to employ an accountant to aid him. The accountant employed a petty striver to make out the palanquin's sheet and the petty striver employed Monroe to ease him of a portion of the toil. It is therefore plain that Monroe was not to receive much for his three days' labour. And so Ellen was compelled to toil and work and work and toil, to rise early and go to bed late so late that she had scarcely fallen asleep, worn out with fatigue when it appeared time to get up again, and thus the roses forsook her cheeks and her health suffered, and her head ached and her eyes grew dim, and her limbs were stiff with the chill. And so she worked and toiled and toiled and worked. We said it was about nine o'clock in the evening. Ellen's fingers were almost paralysed with cold and labour, and yet the work which she had in her hands must be done that night, else no supper then and no breakfast on the morrow, for on the shelf in that cheerless chamber there was not a morsel of bread. And for sixteen hours had the poor girl fasted already, for she had eaten a crust at five in the morning, when she had risen from her hard cold couch in the back chamber. She had left the larger portion of the bread then that remained for her father, and she had assured him that she had a few half-pints to purchase more for herself, but she had therein deceived him. Ah, how noble and generous was that deception, and how often, how very often, did that poor girl practice it. Ellen had risen at five that morning to embroider a silk shawl with eighty flowers. She calculated upon finishing it by eight in the evening, but although she had worked and worked and worked hour after hour, without ceasing, save for a moment, and long intervals to rest her aching head and stretch her cramped fingers, eight had struck, and nine had struck also, and still the blossoms were not all embroidered. It was a quarter to ten when the last stitch was put into the last flower. But then the poor creature could not rest. Not to her was it allowed to repose after that severe day of toil. She was hungry, she was faint, her stomach was sick for want of food, and at eleven her father would come home hungry, faint and sick at stomach also. Rising from her chair, every limb stiff, cramped and aching with cold and weariness, the poor creature put on her modest straw bonnet, with a faded ribbon, and her thin wretched shawl, to take home her work. Her employer dwelt upon Finsbury Pavement, and as it was now late the poor girl was compelled to hasten as fast as her aching limbs would carry her. The shop to which she repaired was brilliant with lamps and gas lights, articles of great variety and large value were piled in the windows, on the counters, on the shelves. Upwards of twenty young men were busily employed in serving the customers. The proprietor of that establishment was at that moment entertaining a party of friends upstairs at a champagne supper. The young girl walked timidly into the vast magazine of fashions and with downcast eyes advanced towards an elderly woman who was sitting at a counter at the farther end of the shop. To this female did she present the shawl. A pretty time of night to come murmured the shopwoman. This ought to have been done by three or four o'clock. I have worked since five this morning without ceasing answered Ellen, and I could not finish it before. Ah, I see exclaimed the shopwoman, turning the shawl over and examining it critically. There are fifty or sixty flowers, I see. Eighty, said Ellen. I was ordered to embroider that number. Well, miss, is there so much difference between sixty and eighty? Difference, ma'am, ejaculated the young girl, the tears starting in her eyes. The difference is more than four hours work. Very likely, very likely, miss, and how much do you expect for this? I must leave it entirely to you, ma'am. The poor girl spoke so differentially to this cold-hearted woman in order to make her generous. Oh, poverty renders even the innocence of seventeen selfish, modane, and calculating. Oh, you leave it to me, do you, said the woman, turning the shawl over and over and scrutinizing it at all points. But she could not discover a single fault in Ellen's work. You leave it to me? Well, it isn't so badly done, very tolerably for a girl of your age and inexperience. I presume she added, thrusting her hand into the till under the counter and drawing forth six pints. I presume that this is sufficient. Madam, said Ellen, bursting into tears, I have worked nearly seventeen hours at that shawl. She could say no more her voice was lost in sobs. Come, come, cried the shopwoman harshly. No whimpering here. Take up your money if you like it and if you don't leave it. Only decide one way or another and make haste. Ellen took up the six pints, wiped her eyes, and hastily turned to leave the shop. Do you not want any more work demanded the shopwoman abruptly? The fact was the poor girl worked well and did not shirk labor, and the woman knew that it was in the interest of her master to retain that young creature's services. Those words, do you not want any more work, reminded Ellen, that she and her father must live, that they could not starve. She accordingly turned towards that uncouth female once more and received another shawl to embroider it in the same manner and at the same price. Eighty blossoms for six pints. Sixteen hours work for six pints, a farthing and a half per hour. The young girl returned to the dirty court in Golden Lane after purchasing some food, course, and cheap on her way home. On the ground floor of a house in the same court dwelt an old woman, one of those old women who are the moral sewers of great towns, the sinks towards which flow all the impurities of the human passions. One of those abominable hags was she who dishonored the sanctity of old age. She had hideous wrinkles upon her face and as she stretched out her huge dry and bony hand and tapped the young girl upon the shoulder as the latter hurried past her door, the very touch seemed to chill the maiden even through her clothes. Ellen turned abruptly round and shuddered, she scarcely knew why. When she found herself confronting that old hag by the dim luster of the lights was shown through the windows in the narrow court, that old woman who was the widow of crime assumed as pleasant an aspect as her horrible continence would allow her to put on and address the timid maiden in a strain which the latter scarcely comprehended. All that Ellen could understand was that the old woman suspected how heartily she toiled and how badly she was paid and offered to point out a more pleasant and profitable mode of earning money. Without precisely knowing why, Ellen shrank from the context of that hideous old hag and trembled at the words which issued from the crone's mouth. You do not answer me, said the rich. Well, well, when you have no bread to eat, no work, no money to pay your rent, and nothing but the workhouse before you, you will think better of it and come to me. Thus saying, the old hag turned abruptly into her own din, the door of which she banged violently, with her heart fluttering like a little bird in its cage, poor Ellen hastened to her own miserable abode. She placed the food upon the table but would not touch it until her father should return. She longed for a spark of fire, for she was so cold and so wretched, and even in warm weather misery makes one shiver. But that room was as cold as an ice-house, and the unhappiness of that poor girl was a burden almost too heavy for her to bear. She sat down and thought, Oh, how poignant is meditation in such a condition as hers! Her prospects were utterly black and hopeless. When she and her father had first taken those lodgings, she had obtained work from a middle woman. This middle woman was one who contracted with great drapery and upholstery firms to do their needlework at certain low rates. The middle woman had to live and was therefore compelled to make a decent profit upon the work, so she gave it out to poor creatures like Ellen Monroe, and got it done for next to nothing. Thus for some weeks had Ellen made shirts with collars, with span, and fronts all well stitched, for four pints the shirt. And it took her twelve hours, without intermission, to make a shirt and accost her a penny for needles and thread and candle. She therefore had three pints for herself. Twelve hours unwearied toil for three pints, one farthing an hour. Sometimes she had made dissecting trousers, which were sold to the medical students at the hospitals, and for those she was paid two pints half penny each. It occupied her eight hours to make one pair of those trousers. At length the middle woman had recommended her to the linen drapery's establishment on Finnsbury pavement, and there she was told that she might have plenty of work and be well paid. Well paid. At the rate of a farthing and a half per hour. Oh, it was mockery, a hideous mockery, to give that young creature gave flowers and blossoms to work, she who was working her own winding sheet. She sat shivering with the cold, awaiting her father's return. Ever and anon the words of that old crone who had addressed her in the court rang in her ears. What could she mean? How could she stern her own wretchedness herself, and perhaps stern to the wretchedness of others? How could that old hag possess the means of teaching her a pleasant and profitable mode of earning money? The soul of Ellen was purity itself, although she dwelt in that low obscene, filthy and disreputable neighborhood. She seemed like a solitary lily in the midst of a black morass swimming with reptiles. The words of the old woman were therefore unintelligible to that fair young creature of seventeen, and yet she intuitively reproached herself for pondering upon them, oh mysterious influence of an awe-wise and awe-sing providence, that thus furnishes warnings against dangers yet unseen. She tried to avert her thoughts from the contemplation of her own misery and of the tempting offer made to her by the wrinkled herraden in the adjoining house, and so she busied herself with thinking of the condition of the other lodgers in the same tenement which she and her father inhabited. She then perceived that there were others in the world as wretched and as badly off as herself. But in contradiction to the detestable maxim of Rochefacald, she found no consolation in this conviction. In the addicts were Irish families, whose children ran all day half naked about the court and lane, paddling with their poor cold bare feet in the puddle or the snow, and apparently thriving in dirt-hunger and probation. Ellen and her father occupied the two rooms on the second floor. On the first floor in the front room lived two families, an elderly man and woman, with their growing up sons and daughters, and with one of those sons were a wife and young children. Eleven souls thus herded together without shame in a room eighteen feet wide. These eleven human beings dwelling in sowswine-like manner existed upon twenty-five shillings a week, the joint earnings of all of them who were able to work. In the back chamber on the same floor was a tailor, with their paralytic wife and a complete tribe of children. This poor wretch worked for a celebrated clothing-mart, and sometimes toiled for twenty hours a day, nevertheless than seventeen. Sunday included, to earn what? Eight shillings a week. He made macintoshes at the rate of one shilling in three pints each, and he could make one each day. But then he had to find needles and thread, and the cost of these together with candles amounted to nine pints a week. He thus had eight shillings remaining for himself after working like a slave without recreation or rest, even upon the Sabbath, seventeen hours every day. A week contains a hundred and sixty-eight hours, and he worked a hundred and nineteen hours each week, and earned eight shillings, a decimal more than three farthing an hour. On the ground floor of the house the tenants were no better off, in the front room dwelt a poor costormonger or hawker of fruit, who earned upon an average seven shillings a week, out of which he was compelled to pay one shilling to treat the policeman upon the beat where he took his stand. His wife did a little washing, and perhaps earned eighteen pints, and that was all this poor couple with four children had to subsist upon. The back room, on the ground floor, was occupied by the landlady of the house. She paid twelve shillings a week for rent and taxes, and let the various rooms for an aggregate of twenty-one shillings. She thus had nine shillings to live upon, supposing that every one of her lodgers paid her, which was never the case. Poor Ellen, in reflecting in this manner upon the condition of her neighbors, found herself surrounded on all sides by Miserie. Miserie was above, Miserie below. Miserie was on the right and on the left. Miserie was a genius of that dwelling, and on every other in the court. Miserie was the cold and speechless companion of the young girl as she sat in the icy chamber. Miserie spread her meal, and made her bed. And was the chamber made at morning and at night. Eleven o'clock struck by St. Luke's church, and Mr. Monroe returned to his wretched abode. It had begun to rain shortly after Ellen had returned home, and the old man was wet to the skin. Oh, my dear father, exclaimed the poor girl, you are wet, and there is not a morsel of fire in the grate. And I have no money, dearest, return the heartbroken father, pressing his thin lips upon the forehead of his daughter. But I am not cold, Nell, I am not cold. Without uttering a word, Ellen hastened out of the room and begged a few sticks from one lodger and a little coal from another. It would shame the affluent grate. They did not know how ready are the miserable, miserable poor to assist each other. With her delicate taper fingers, with those little white hands, which seemed never made to do menial service, the young girl laid the fire, and when she saw the flame blazing cheerfully up the chimney, she turned towards the old man and smiled. She would not for worlds have begged anything for herself, but for her father, or she would have submitted to any degradation. And then for a moment a gleam of something like happiness stole upon that hitherto mournful scene, as a father and daughter partook of their very fugul and sparing meal together. As soon as it was concluded, Ellen rose, kissed her parent affectionately, wished him good night, and retired into her own miserable cold and naked chamber. She extinguished her candle in a few moments to induce her father to believe that she had sought repose, but when she knew that the old man was asleep, she lighted the candle once more and seated herself upon the old mattress, to embroider a few blossoms upon the silk which had been confided to her at the establishment in Finsbury. From the neighboring houses the sounds of boisterous rivalry fell upon her ears. She was too young and inexperienced to know that this mirth emanated from persons perhaps as miserable as herself, and that they were only drowning care and liquor instead of encountering their miseries face to face. The din of that hilarity and those shouts of laughter therefore made her sad. Presently that noise grew fainter and fainter, and at length it altogether ceased. The clock of St. Luke's church struck one, and all was then silent around. The lovely moon rose high in the heavens, the rain had ceased, the night was beautiful, but bitter, bitter cold. Waryed with toil, the young maiden threw down her work and, opening the casement, looked forth from her wretched chamber. The gentle breeze, though bearing on its wing the chill of ice, refreshed her, and as she gazed upwards to the moon, she wandered within herself whether the spirit of her departed mother was permitted to look down upon her from the impren palaces on high. Tears, large tears, trickled down her cheeks, and she was too much overcome by her feelings even to pray. While she was thus endeavouring to divert her thoughts from the appalling miseries of earth to the transcendent glories of heaven, she was diverted from her mournful river by the sound of a window opening in a neighbouring house, and in a few moments violent sobs fell upon her ears. Those sobs, evidently coming from a female bosom, were so acute, so heart-rendering, so full of anguish that Ellen was herself overcome with grief. At length those indications of extreme woe ceased gradually, and then these words, Oh my God, what will become of my starving babes fell upon Ellen's ears. She was about to inquire into the cause of that profound affliction, when the voice of a man was heard to exclaim gruffly, Come, let's have no more of this gammon. We must all go to the workhouse in the morning, that's all, and then the window was closed violently. The workhouse, that word sounded like a fearful knell upon Ellen's ears. Oh, for hours and hours together had that poor girl meditated upon the condition of her father and herself, until she had traced in imagination their melancholy career up to the very door the workhouse, and there she had stopped, she dared think no more, or she would have gone mad, raving mad, for she had heard of the whores of those asylums for the poor, and she knew that she should be separated from her father on the day when their stern destinies should drive them to that much dreaded refuge, and depart from him from the parent whom she loved so tenderly and who loved her so well. No, death was far preferable. The workhouse, how was it that the idea of this fearful home more dreaded than the prison, less formidable than the grave, had taken so strong a hold upon the poor girl's mind, because the former tenant of the miserable room, which was now hers, had passed thence to the workhouse, but ere she went away she left behind her record of her feelings in anticipation of that removal to the pauper's home. Impelled by the influence in which she could not control, that species of impulse which urges the timid one to gaze upon the corpse of the dead, even while shuddering at the aspect of death. Ellen closed the window and read for the hundredth time the following lines, which were penciled in a neat hand upon the white-washed wall of the naked chamber. I had a tender mother once. I had a tender mother once, whose eyes so sad and mild, beamed tearfully yet kindly on her little orphan child. A father's care I never knew but in that tender mother, dear, was centered everything to love to cherish and revere. I loved her with that fervent love, which daughters only know, and often o'er my little head her bitter tears would flow. Perhaps she knew that death approached to snatch her from my side, and on one gloomy winter day this tender mother died. They later in the pauper's ground and hurried o'er the prayer. It nearly broke my heart to think that they should place her there. And now it seems I see her still within her snowy shroud, and in the dark and silent night my spirit weeps aloud. I know not how the years have passed since my poor mother died, but I too have an orphan girl that grows up by my side. O God thou knoweth I do not crave to eat the bread of sloth. I labor hard both day and night to earn enough for both. But though I starve myself for her, yet hunger wastes her form, my God and must that darling child soon feed the loathsome worm. Tis vain, for I can work no more my eyes with toil or dim. My fingers seem all paralyzed and stiff in every limb. And now there is but one resource, the pauper's dreaded doom, to hasten to the workhouse and there find a living tomb. I know that they will separate my darling child from me, and though twill break our hearts yet both must bow to that decree, and sporth our tears must fail apart, nor flow together more. And from to-day our prayers may not be mingled as before. O God is this the Christian creed, so merciful and mild, the daughter from the mother snatched the mother from her child. I wish I'll never be blessed again till death has closed our eyes, and we meet in the pauper's ground where my poor mother lies. Though sad this chamber it is bright to what must be our doom, the portal of the workhouse is the entrance of the tomb. Ellen read these lines till her eyes were dim with tears. She then retired to her wretched couch, and she slept through her sheer fatigue, but dreams of hunger and of cold filled up her slumbers, and yet those dreams were alight beside the waking pangs which realized the visions. The young maiden slept for three hours, and then arose unrefreshed and paler than she was on the preceding day. It was dark, the moon had gone down, and some time would get elapsed year the dawn. Ellen washed herself in water upon which the ice floated, and the cold piercing breeze of the morning whistled through the window upon her fair and delicate form. As soon as she was dressed, she lighted her candle and crept gently into her father's room, the old man slept soundly. Ellen flung his clothes, or her arm, took his boots up in her hand, and stole, noiselessly, back to her own chamber. She then brushed those garments, and cleaned those boots, all bespattered with thick mud as they were, and this task, so hard for her delicate and diminutive hands, she performed with the most heartfelt satisfaction. As soon as this occupation was finished, she sat down once more to work. Thus that poor girl knew no rest. The Mysteries of London by George Reynolds Chapter 56 The Road to Ruin About two months after the period when we first introduced Ellen Monroe to our readers, the old woman, or whom we have before spoken, and who dwelt in the same court as that poor maiden and her father, was sitting at work in her chamber. The old woman was ill-favoured in countenance, and vile in heart. Hers was one of those hardened dispositions which no pity, no charity, no love, no friendship, no yearning after anything proper to human fellowship. She was poor and wretched, and yet she, in all her misery, had a large, easy chair left to sit upon, warm blankets to cover her at night, a Dutch clock to tell her the hour, a cupboard in which to keep her food, a mat whereon to let her feet, and a few turfs burning in the grate to keep her warm. The walls of her room were covered with cheap prints, coloured with glaring hues and representing the exploits of celebrated highwaymen and courtesans, scenes upon the stage in which favourite actresses figured, and extrable imitations of Hogarth's Rake's Progress. The coverlet of her bed was of patchwork, pieces of silk, satin, cotton, and other stuffs, all of different patterns, sizes and shapes being sewn together. Strange and expressive remnants of a vicious and faded luxury. Upon the chimneypiece there were two or three cent bottles which for years had contained no perfume, and in the cupboard was a champagne bottle in which the hag now kept her gin. The pillow of her couch was stuffed neither with wool nor feathers, but with well-worn silk stockings, tattered lace collars, faded ribbons, a piece of a muff and a boa, the velvet off a bonnet, and old kid gloves, and more singular than all the other features of her room, the old hag had a huge Bible with silver clasps upon a shelf. This horrible woman was darning old stockings and stooping over her work when a low knock at the door of her chamber fell upon her ear. That knock was not imperative and commanding, but gentle and timid, and therefore the old woman did not hurry herself to say, come in. Even after the door had opened and the visitor had entered the room, the old hag proceeded with her work for a few moments. At length, raising her head, she beheld Ellen Monroe. She was not surprised, but as she gazed upon that fair thin face whose roundness had yielded to the hand of starvation, and that blue eye whose fire was subdued by long and painful vigils, she said, And so you have come at last, and I have been expecting you every day. Expecting me, and why? exclaimed Ellen, surprised at these words which appeared to contain a sense of dark and mysterious import that was ominous to the young girl. Yes, I have expected you, repeated the old woman. Did I not tell you that when you had no money, no work and no bread, and no dearies of rent, you would come to me? Alas, and you predict it truly, said Ellen with a bitter sigh. All the miseries which you have detailed have fallen upon me, and more, for my father lies ill upon the one mattress that remains to us. Poor creature! exclaimed the old woman, endeavouring to assume a soothing tone. Then, pointing to a footstool near her, she added, Come and sit near me, that we may talk together upon your sad condition. Ellen really believed that she had excited a feeling of generous and disinterested sympathy in the heart of that hag, and she therefore seated herself confidently upon the stool, saying at the same time, You told me that you could serve me, if you have still the power in the name of heaven delay not, for, for, we are starving. The old woman glanced round to assure herself that the door of her cupboard was closed, for in that cupboard were bread and meat and cheese. Then, turning her eyes upwards, the hag exclaimed, Go bless us all, dear child, I am dying of misery myself, and have not a morsel to give you to eat. But when she had uttered these words, she cast her eyes upon the young girl, who was now seated familiarly as it were by her side, and scanned her from head to foot, and from foot to head. In spite of the wretched and scanty garments which Ellen wore, the admirable symmetry of her shape was easily described, and the old woman thought within herself how happy she should be to dress that sweet form in gay and gorgeous garments for her own unhallowed purposes. You do not answer me, said Ellen. Do not keep me in suspense, but tell me whether it is in your power to procure me work. The old hag's countenance wore a singular expression when these last words fell upon her ears. Then she began to talk to the poor starving girl in a manner which the latter could not comprehend, and which we dare not describe. Ellen listened for some time as if she were hearing a strange language which she was endeavouring to make out, and then she cast a sudden look of doubt and alarm upon the old hag. The wretch grew somewhat more explicit, and the poor girl burst into an agony of tears, exclaiming as she covered her blushing cheeks with her snow-white hands. No, never, never! Still she did not fly from that den and from the presence of that accursed old hag, because she was so very, very wretched, and had no hope elsewhere. There was a long pause, and the old hag and the young girl sat close to each other, silent and musing. The harridan cast upon her pale and starving complexion a look of mingled anger and surprise. But the poor creature saw it not, for she was intent only on her own despair. Suddenly a thought struck the hag. I can do nothing for you, miss, since you will not follow my advice, she said after a while, and yet I am acquainted with a statuary who would pay you well for casts of your countenance, for his Madonna's, his actresses, his Esmeralda's, his Queens, his Princesses, and his Angels. These words sounded upon the ears of the unhappy girl, like a dream, and parting with her wasted fingers the ringlets that clustered around her brow, she lifted up her large moist eyes in astonishment towards the face of the aged hag. But the old woman was serious in her offer. I repeat, will you sew your countenance to a statuary? She said, it is a good one, and you will obtain a handsome price for it. Ellen was literally stoopified by this strange proposal, but when she had the power to collect her ideas into one focus she saw her father pining upon a bed of sickness and surrounded by all the horrors of want and privation, and she herself, the unhappy girl, had not tasted food for nearly thirty hours. Then on the other side was her innate modesty, but this was nothing in the balance compared to the poignancy of her own and her parents' sufferings. So she agreed to accompany the old hag to the house of the statuary in Leather Lane, Hoban. But first she hurried home to see if her father required anything, a vain act of filial tenderness, for if he did she had nothing to give. The old man slept soundly, worn out with suffering, want and sorrowful meditation, and the landlady of the house promised to attend to him while Ellen was absent. The young maiden then returned to the old woman, and they proceeded together to the house of the statuary. Up to flights of narrow and dark stairs, precipitated as ladders, did the trembling and almost heartbroken girl follow the hag. They then entered a spacious depository of statues, modelled in plaster of Paris. A strange assembly of images was that. Even gods seemed to fraternize with angels, Madonna's and Christian Saints. Napoleon and Wellington stood motionless side by side. George the Force and Greenacre occupied the same shelf. William Pitt and Cobbitt appeared to be contemplating each other with silent admiration. Thomas Payne elbowed a bishop. Lord Carcelery seemed to be extending his hand to welcome Jack Ketch. Cupid pointed his arrow at the bosom of a pope. In a word, that strange pale male of statues was calculated to awaken ideas of a most wild and ludicrous character in the imagination of one whose thoughts were not otherwise occupied. The statuary was an Italian, and as he spoke the English language imperfectly, he did not waste much time over the bargain. With the cool criticism of a sportsman examining a horse or a dog, the statuary gazed upon the young maiden. Then, taking a rule in his hand, he measured her head, and with a pair of blunt compasses he took the dimensions of her features. Giving a nod of approval, he consulted a large book which lay open upon a desk, and finding that he had orders for a queen, an opera dancer and a Madonna, he declared that he would take three casts of his new model's countenance that very morning. The old woman whispered words of encouragement in Ellen's ear, as they all three repaired to the workshop where upwards of twenty men were employed in making statues. Some were preparing the clay models over which the plaster of Paris was to be laid. Others joined legs and arms to trunks. Some polished the features of the countenances. Others effaced the seams that betrayed the various joints in the complete statues. One fixed wings to angels' backs, another swords to warrior's sides, a third repaired a limb that had been broken, a fourth stuck on a new nose in the place of an old one knocked off. Ellen was stretched at full length upon a table, and a wet cloth was placed over her face. The statuary then covered it with moist clay, and the process was only complete when she was ready to faint through difficulty of breathing. She rested a little while, and then the second cast was taken. Another interval to recover breath, and the third and last mould was formed. The statuary seemed well pleased with this trial of his new model, and placing a sovereign in the young maiden's hand, he desired her to return in three days, as he should require her services again. The poor trembling creature's eyes glistened with delight as she balanced the gold in her little hand, and she took her departure, accompanied by the hag, with her heart comparatively light. You would have plenty to do there, said the old woman as they proceeded homewards. I have introduced you to a good thing. You must therefore divide your first day's earnings with me. Ellen really felt grateful to the selfish Harridan, and having changed her gold for silver coin at a shop where she stopped to buy provisions, she counted ten shillings in the withered sinewy hand which the hag thrust forth. Thus for three months did Ellen earn the means of a comfortable subsistence by selling her countenance to the statuary, and that countenance might be seen belonging to the statues of Madonna's in Catholic chapels, opera dancers and actresses in theatrical clubs, nymphs holding lamps in the halls of public institutions, and queens in the staircase windows of insurance offices. She never revealed to her father the secret spring of that improved condition which soon restored him to health, but assured him that she had found more needle work and was well paid for it. The old man had too good an opinion of his daughter to suspect her of crime or frailty, and he believed her innocent and well-meant falsehood the more readily inasmuch as he saw her constantly engaged with her needle when he was at home. Three months passed away and already had a little air of comfort succeeded to the former dismal aspect of those two chambers which the father and daughter occupied, when the statuary died suddenly. Ellen's occupation was once more gone, and after vainly endeavouring to obtain needle work for that which she did in the presence of her father was merely a pretense to make good her tale to him. She again repaired to the abode of the old hag who had introduced her to the statuary. The age it female was, if possible, more wrinkled and hideous than before. The contrast between her and her fair young visitant was the more striking inasmuch as the cheeks of the latter had recovered their roundness and her form its plumpness by means of good and sufficient food. You have come to me again, said the hag. Doubtless I should have never seen you more if you had not wanted my services. The statuary is dead, returned Ellen, and has left behind him an immense fortune. His son has therefore declined the business and has discharged everyone in the employment of his late father. And what would you have me do for you, miss? demanded the old woman. I am not acquainted with another statuary. Ellen heaved a deep sigh. The hag contemplated her for some time in silence and then exclaimed, Your appearance has improved. You have a tinge of the carnation upon your cheeks and your eyes have recovered their brightness. I know an artist of great repute who will be glad of you as a copy for his shepherdesses, his huntresses, his seed-nymphs, and even goddesses. Let us lose no time in proceeding to his residence. This proposal was far more agreeable to the maiden than the one which had led her into the service of the statuary. And she did not for a moment hesitate to accompany the old woman to the abode of the artist. The great painter was about forty years of age and dwelt in a splendid house in Bloomsbury Square. The rooms on the third floor were his studio as he required a clear and good light. He accepted the services of Ellen Monroe as a copy and remunerated the old woman out of his own pocket for the introduction. But he required the attendance of his copy every day from ten till four. And she was accordingly compelled to tell her father another story to account for these long intervals of absence. She now assured him that she was engaged to work at the residence of her family in Bloomsbury Square, and the old man believed her. Her countenance, having embellished statues, was now transferred to canvas. Her grecian features and classic head appeared surmounted with the crescent of Diana, the helmet of Minerva, and the crown of Juno. The painter purchased dresses suitable to the characters which he wished her to adopt. And although she was frequently compelled to appear before him in a state which at first was strongly repugnant to her modesty, with naked bust, naked arms, and naked legs, the feeling of shame gradually wore away. Thus, though in body she remained pure and chaste, yet in soul, she was gradually hardened to the sentiments of maiden delicacy and female reserve. It is true that she retained her virtue because it was not tempted. The artist saw not before him a lovely creature of warm flesh and blood. He beheld nothing but a beautiful and symmetrical statue which served as an original for his heathen divinities and pastoral heroines, and in this light did he treat her. He paid her hamsomely, and her father and herself were enabled to remove to better lodgings, and in a more respectable neighbourhood than those which had been the scene of so much misery in Golden Lane. The artist whom Ellen served was a portrait painter as well as a delineator of classical subjects. When he was employed to paint the likeness of some vain and conceited West End daughter of the aristocracy, it was Ellen's hand, or Ellen's hair, or Ellen's eyes, or Ellen's bust, or some feature or peculiar beauty of the young maiden in which the fashionable lady somewhat resembled her that figured upon the canvas. Then, when the portrait was finished, the artist would assemble his friends at the same time that the lady and her friends called to see it, and the artist's friends, well-tuted beforehand, would exclaim one, now like is the eye, another, the very mouth, a third, the hair to the life itself, a fourth, the exact profile, and so on. And all the while it was Ellen's eye, or Ellen's mouth, or Ellen's hair, or Ellen's profile which the enthusiasts admired. Then the lady, flattering herself that she alone was the original, and little suspecting that the charms of another had been called in to enhance the beauty of her portrait, persuaded her fond and auxorious husband to double the amount of the price bargain for, and have the picture set in a very costly frame to hang in the most conspicuous place in her mansion. It happened one day that the artist obtained the favour of a Marchioness of forty-six by introducing into her portrait the nose, eyes, and mouth of that fair young maiden of seventeen. The great lady recommended him to the Russian ambassador as the greatest of English painters, and the ambassador immediately retained him to proceed to St. Petersburg to transfer to canvas the physiognomy of the tsar. Ellen thus lost her employment once more, and again did she repair to the den of the old hag who had recommended her to the statuary and the artist. The step of the maiden was less timid than formally, and her look was more confident. She was also dressed in a style which savored of coquetry, for her occupation of the artist had taught her the value of her charms, and prompted her how to enhance them. She had imbibed the idea that her beauty was worth much, and should at least produce her a comfortable livelihood, even if it did not lay the foundation for a fortune. She therefore occupied all her leisure time in studying how to set it off to the greatest advantage. Thus Diane's necessity had compelled that charming young creature to embrace occupations which awoke all the latent female vanity that had slumbered in her bosom throughout the period of her pinching poverty, and that now shone forth in her manner, her gait, her glance, her speech, and her attire. The old hag observed this change and was not surprised, for she was a woman of the world, but she muttered to herself, little while, my dear, and you will suit by purposes altogether. I am come again, you see, said Ellen, seating herself without waiting to be asked. My artist has left England suddenly, and I am once more without occupation. Have you any money? demanded the old hag. I have three sovereigns left, replied Ellen. You must give me two, said the woman, and you must promise me half your first week's earnings for the new introduction which I shall presently give you. Ellen placed two sovereigns in the hands of the bell-darm, and the old wretch opened her table-draw to search for something which she required. That draw contained a strange incongruity of articles, old Valentine letters, knots of faded ribbon, cards, prophetic almanacs, tooth-powder boxes, and scented oil-bottles, all alike empty. The visiting cards of several noblemen and gentleman playbills, theatrical journals, masquerade tickets, never used, pieces of music, magazines of fashion, a volume of the memoirs of Harriet Wilson, immoral prints, a song-book, some leaves torn from the Nuget calendar, medical drugs wrapped up in papers, a child's call, pieces of poetry and manuscript, amortary epistles on sheets of various tints, rits from the courts of request, summonses from police courts, etc., etc. The contents of that filthy draw furnished a complete history of that old hag's former life. The object of the old woman's search was a card, which, having found it, she handed to the young maiden, saying, Here is the address of an eminent sculptor. He requires a model of a bust for the statue of a great lady, whom maybe it's said to have no bust at all. You will suit him. Helen received the card and hastened to Hulkin Street, Belgrave Square, where the sculptor resided. She was shown first into a parlour upon the ground floor. Then, when the object of her visit was made known, she was requested to walk upstairs to the studio of the great man. She found him contemplating, with profound satisfaction, a head which he had already cut from the top part of a block of marble. He was an old man of sixty, and he stooped in his gate, but his eyes were dark and piercing. A bargain between the sculptor and Helen was soon terminated, and the next morning she entered upon her new employment. Stripped to the waist, she had to stand in a certain position for several hours each day, in the presence of the sculptor. The old man laboured diligently at his statue, and allowed her little rest, but he paid her munificently, and she was contented. The lady whose statue was thus supposed to be in progress called daily, and remained at the sculptor's house for hours. She always came alone, and sat in the studio the whole time during which her call lasted. It was therefore imagined, by all her friends, that she really formed the model of the statue, which was to bear her name. But Helen's neck, and Helen's shoulders, and Helen's bosom, and Helen's arms were in truth the pattern of the bust of that statue, which was to be a great sculptor's masterpiece, and to hand down the name of a great lady to posterity. The very day upon which Helen was to leave the sculptor's employments, her service as a model being no longer required, this great lady happened to observe that she was in want of a nursery governess for her two daughters. Helen ventured to offer herself as a candidate for the situation. The lady raised her eyes and hands to heaven in astonishment, exclaiming, You miss a companion for my children? A girl who gets her livelihood by standing half-daked in the presence of anybody as a model? And the lady was compelled to have recourse to her scent bottle to save herself from fainting. She forgot that she would have herself stood to the sculptor if she had possessed a good bust. The answer and the behaviour of this lady opened the eyes of Helen to the nature of the opinion which the world must now form of her. She suddenly comprehended the real position which she occupied in society, about one remove above the unfortunate girls who were the avowed daughters of crime. Were she now to speak to the world of her virtue, that world would laugh insultingly in her face. Thus the die necessity which had urged her upon this career began by destroying her sense of female delicacy and shame. It now destroyed in her estimation every inducement to pursue a virtuous career. Again she sought the dwelling of the old hag. For the fourth time she demanded the assistance of the bell dam. It seems, my child, said the old woman, that my advice has produced beneficial consequences. Each time that you cross my threshold I observe that you are freer and lighter in step and more choice in your apparel. You know that I am not detestably ugly, mother, arts and Ellen, with a smile of complacence. And surely it is as cheap to have a gown well made as badly made and a becoming bonnet as one altogether out of date. I see that you study the fashions, exclaimed the old woman with a sigh, for she recalled to mind the pleasures and pursuits of her own youthful days, over which she retrospected with regret. Then after a pause she said, How old are you? Eighteen and a half, replied Ellen. And with all that beauty is your heart still unoccupied by the image of some favoured suitor. Oh, ejaculated Ellen, laughing heartily, so as to display her brilliant teeth. I have not thought of that yet. I have lately read a great deal about love in novels and romances, for I never do any needlework now, but I have not experienced the passion. I dare say my time will come, sooner or later, and again she laughed. But, hasten, mother, I am losing my time. Tell me, do you know of father employment for me? I am acquainted with a French gentleman of science at the West End, answered the hag, who has invented a means of taking likenesses by the aid of the sun. I do not know what the process is. All that concerns me and you is that the Frenchman requires a beautiful woman to serve as a pattern for his experiments. Give me his address, said Ellen, and if he engages me I will pay you liberally. You know that you can rely upon me? The old woman once more had recourse to her filthy draw, in which her present memoranda were mingled with the relics of the luxury of former days. And taking thence a letter, which she had only received that same morning, she tore off the address for the use of the young maiden. Ellen, who a few months previously had been accustomed to work for 17 or 18 hours without ceasing, now took a cab to proceed from the neighborhood of St. Luke's to Leicester Square. The French scientific experimentalist was at home, and Ellen was conducted up four flights of stairs to a species of belvedere, or glass cabinet, built upon the roof of the house. The windows of this belvedere and the paper with which the woodwork of the interior was covered were of a dark blue in order to mitigate the strength of the sun's rays. Within this belvedere the Frenchman was at work. He was a short, middle-aged, sallow-faced, sharp-featured person, entirely devoted to matters of science, and having no soul for love, pleasure, politics, or any kind of excitement, save his learned pursuits. He was now busily employed at a table, covered with copper plates coated with silver, files of nitric acid, cotton wool, pounce, a camera obscure, several boxes each of about two feet square, and other materials necessary for photography. The Frenchman spoke English tolerably well, and, eyeing his fair visitant from head to foot, he expressed himself infinitely obliged to the person who had sent her. He then entered into particulars, and Ellen found to her surprise that the photographer was desirous of taking full-length female portraits in a state of nudity. She drew her veil over her countenance, and was about to retire in disgust and indignation when the Frenchman, who was examining a plate as he spoke, and therefore did not observe the effect of his words had produced upon her, mentioned the price which he proposed to pay her. Now the artist paid better than the statuary, the sculptor better than the artist, and the photographer better than the sculptor. She therefore hesitated no longer, but entered the service of the man of science. We shall not proceed to any details connected with this new avocation to which that lovely maiden lent herself. Suffice it to say that having sold her countenance to the statuary, her likeness to the artist, and her bust to the sculptor, she disposed of her whole body to the photographer. Thus her head embellished images white and bronzed. Her features and her figure were perpetuated in diverse paintings. Her bust was immortalized in a splendid statue, and her entire form is preserved in all attitudes and on many plates in the private cabinet of a photographer at one of the metropolitan galleries of practical science. At length the photographer was satisfied with the results of his experiments regarding the action of light upon every part of the human frame, and Ellen's occupation was again gone. A tainted soul now resided in a pure body. Every remaining sentiment of decency and delicacy was crushed, obliterated, destroyed by this last service. Pure souls have frequently resided in tainted bodies, witness Lucretia after the outrage perpetrated upon her, but here was essentially a foul soul in a chaste and virgin form. And what dread cause had consummated this sad result? Not the will of the poor girl, for when we first saw her in her cold and cheerless chamber her mind was spotless as the alpine snow. But dire necessity, that necessity which became an instrument in the old hag's hands to model the young maiden to her purposes. For it was with ulterior views that the designing harridan had introduced the poor girl to that career which, without being actually criminal, led step by step towards criminality. The wretch knew the world well and was unable to calculate the influence of exterior circumstances upon the mind and the passions. After the first conversation which she had had with Ellen, she perceived that the purity of the virgin was not to be undermined by specious representations, nor by dazzling theory, nor by delusive sophistry, and the hag accordingly placed the confiding girl upon a path which, while it supplied her with the necessities of life, gradually presented to her mind scenes which were calculated to destroy her purity of thought and chastity of feeling forever. When Ellen left the surface of the photographer, she repaired for the fifth time to the dwelling of the hag. The old woman was seated, as usual, at her work, and she was humming to herself an opera air which she remembered to have heard many, many years back. The Frenchman requires my service is no longer, said Ellen. What next can you do for me? Alas, my poor child, answered the old woman, the times were never so bad as they are at present. What is to become of us? What is to become of us? And the hag rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, as if overcome by painful reflections. You can then do nothing for me, observed Ellen interrogatively. That is a pity, for I have not a shilling left in the world. We have lived up to the income which my occupations produced. My poor old father fancies up to the present moment that I have been working at dressmaking and embroidery at the houses of great families, and he will wonder how all my engagements should so suddenly cease. Think, mother, are you not acquainted with another artist or sculptor? Why, my child, do you pitch upon the artist and the sculptor? inquired the hag, regarding Ellen, fixedly in the face. Oh! answered the young maiden lightly, because I do not like to have my countenance handled about by the dirty fingers of the statuary. And you cannot suppose that out of the four services I should voluntarily prefer that of the photographer. The old woman looked disappointed, and muttered to herself, Not quite yet, not quite yet. What did you say, mother? inquired Ellen. I say, replied the hag, assuming a tone of kindness and conciliation, that you must come back to me in ten days, and in the meantime I will see what is to be done for you. Ten days, observed Ellen, be it so, and she took her departure downcast and disappointed from the old hags of old. End of chapter 56, recorded by Dave Wills Chapter 57 Of the Mysteries of London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Dave Wills The Mysteries of London by George Reynolds Chapter 57 The Last Resource Poverty once again returned, with all its hideous escort of miseries, to the abode of Monroe and his daughter. The articles of comfort, which they had lately collected around them, were sent to the pawnbroker. Necessities then followed to the same destination. Ellen no longer sought for needlework. She had for some time passed, led a life which incapacitated her for close application to monotonous toil, and she confidently reposed upon the hope that the old woman would procure her more employment with an artist or a sculptor. But at the expiration of the ten days, the hag put her off for ten days more, and then again for another ten days. Thus a month passed away in idleness for both father and daughter, neither of whom earned a shilling. They could no longer retain the lodgings which they had occupied for some time in a respectable neighbourhood, and now behold them returning to the very same, cold, miserable and cheerless rooms which we saw them occupying in the first instance, in the court leading out of Golden Lane. What ups and downs constitute existence? Two years had now passed away since we first introduced the reader to that destitute lodging in Golden Lane. We have therefore brought up this portion of our narrative, as well as all the other parts of it, to the close of the year 1838. Misery, more grinding, more pinching and more acute than any which they had yet known, now surrounded the father and daughter. They had parted with everything which would produce the wear with to purchase food. They lay upon straw at night, and for days and days they had not a spark of fire in the grate. They often went six and thirty hours together without tasting a morsel of food. They could not even pay the pittance of rent which was claimed for their two chambers, and if it had not been for their compassionate neighbours, they must have starved all together. Monroe could obtain no employment in the city. When he had failed during the time of Richard Markham's imprisonment, he lost all his friends, because they took no account of his misfortunes, and looked only to the fact that he had been compelled to give up business. Had he passed through the bankruptcy court and then opened his counting-house again to commence affairs upon credit, he would have found admirers and supporters. But as he had paid his creditors every farthing, left himself a beggar and spurned the idea of entering upon business without capital of his own, he had not a friend to whom he could apply for a shilling. At length the day came when the misery of the father and the daughter arrived at an extreme when it became no longer tolerable. They had fasted for forty-eight hours, and their landlady threatened to turn them out of their empty rooms into the street, unless they paid her the arrears of rent which they owed. They had not an article upon which they could raise the price of a loaf. It was the depth of a cold and severe winter, and Ellen had already parted with all her undergarments. My dear child! said the heartbroken father, embracing his daughter affectionately on the morning when their misery thus reached its utmost limit. I have one resource left, a resource to which I shall never fly safe and an extreme like this. What mean you? inquired the daughter, anxiously glancing in the pale and haggard countenance of her sire. I mean that I will apply to Richard Mockham, said the old man. He does not suspect our appalling state of destitution, or he would seek us out. He would fly to our sucker. And you will apply to him who has already suffered so much by you, said the daughter, shaking her head. Alas, he will refuse you the sucker you require. No, no, not he, ejaculated the old man. Be of good cheer, Ellen. I shall not be long absent, nor my return. Thou shalt have fooled and fire and clothes. God grant that it may be so, cried Ellen, clasping her hands together. I have, moreover, a piece of news relative to that villain Montague to communicate to him, added Monroe, and for that reason is for none other should I have called at his residence to-day. While I was roving about in this city yesterday to endeavor to procure employment, I accidentally learnt that Montague was pursuing his old game at the West End, under the name of Greenwood. Ah, why do you not rather call upon this man, cried Ellen, and represent to him the misery to which his villainy has reduced us. He is doubtless wealthy and might be inclined to give a few pounds to one whom he robbed a thousand. Alas, my dear Ellen, you do not know the world as I know it. I have no means of convincing Montague, old Greenwood, that I lost money by him. He only knew Ellen in the entire transaction. He never saw me in his life, nor I him, at least to my knowledge. Ellen is dead. How then can I present myself to this man whom villainy has no doubt rendered hard-hearted and selfish with mere assertions of losses through his instrumentality? He would eject me ignominiously from his abode. No, I should repair to Richard Markham. He is my last and only hope. With these words the old man embraced his daughter affectionately and left the room. The moment he was gone, Eliza said to herself, My father has undertaken a hopeless task. It is not probable that Markham, whom he has reduced to admissible pittance, will spare from that pittance ought to relieve our necessities. What is to be done? There are no more artists or sculptors who require my services. No more statuaries or photographers who need my aid. And yet we cannot starve. When I last saw the old woman, she spoke out plainly. Her meaning could not be misunderstood. I rushed away from her presence as if she were a venomous reptile, fool that I was. Starvation is undermining those charms which I have learned to value. Hunger is defacing that beauty which gave me bread for nearly two years, and which may give me bread again in the same way. I am clothed in rags and shiver with the cold. My hands, once so white, are becoming red. My form, lately so round and plump, is losing its fullness and its freshness. My cheeks grow thin and hollow, and in a few hours my poor old father will return home, wasted with fatigue, and overwhelmed with famine and disappointment. Oh, my God! She continued, clasping her hands together, and an evolution of intense agony. Pardon! Oh, pardon! I can hesitate no longer. And straight away she proceeded to the dwelling of the old hag. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Mr. Monroe returned to the court in Golden Lane. His countenance was animated with an expression of joy as he encountered the landlady upon the threshold of the house in which he resided. Miss Monroe is not coming yet, said the woman, roughly. Here is the key of your lodgings. Not that I think there is much the worth the locking up. However, this key you don't have again till my wint is paid. Yeah, pay yourself, pay yourself, cried the old man, taking a handful of gold and silver from his pocket. The woman's manner instantly changed into cringing politeness. She was not now pressed for the rent. She could wait till it was convenient. She always knew that she had to deal with the gentleman. What did it matter to her when she was paid, since she felt convinced the money was safe? Monroe cut shorter compliments by settling the area's due, and sending the landlady out to purchase some food. The old man was determined to be extravagant that day. He was so happy. Markham had declared that he and his daughter should never know one again, and then he had such a surprise for Ellen. They were to proceed next day to take up their abode with Richard. The young man had insisted upon it. Whittingham had supported the proposal, and so it was all resolved upon. No more poverty, no more cold, no more hunger. It was for this that the old gentleman was resolved to be extravagant. He was anxious to provide a delicate little treat for his daughter, and he was glad that she was not at home when he returned. He felt convinced that she had gone out to seek for work, and hoped that she would not be long ere she returned. By means of the landlady he procured a cold fowl, a piece of ham, and a bottle of cheap wine, and his own thin and meager hands spread the dainties upon the table, while the landlady lighted a fire in the grate. When these arrangements were complete, Monroe dispatched the now obsequious mistress of the house to redeem from pledge the various articles which had been pawned during this latter period of destitution. And when she returned, laden with the necessaries and the comforts, which had thus been temporarily disposed of, Monroe felt pleasure in arranging them in such a way that they might strike Ellen's eyes the moment she should return. The poor old man was so joyful, so happy, as he executed his task, that he did not observe the lapse of time. Six o'clock struck, and the candle had been burning for some time upon the mantelpiece, and Monroe began to wonder what could keep his daughter so long away. Another half hour passed, and her well-known step was her descending the stairs. The door opened, and Ellen rushed into the room, exclaiming, my dear father, here is gold, here is gold! This, then, appears to be a day of good fortune, said the old man, glancing triumphantly around him. I also have gold, and these are the fruits of the first juice which I have made of it. What! exclaimed Ellen, gazing wildly upon the well-spread table and the various articles redeemed from the pawnbroker. Richard Markham? My, it's an angel! cried Monroe. He will never let us know one again. Oh, my God! ejaculated Ellen, throwing herself upon a chair, and burying her face in her hands. Why did I not wait a few hours? Why did I not have patience and hope till you return? Ellen, what mean those words? demanded the old man. Speak, tell me. Simply, my dear father, she answered, raising her head, and at the same time exercising an almost superhuman control over her inward emotion. That I have consented to receive work at a price which will scarcely find us in bread, and you shall not hold to your bargain, dearest, interrupted Monroe. The money which you may have received in advance, for you said I think you had money, shall be returned to those who would condemn you to a slavery more atrocious than that endured by the negroes in the West Indies. Take courage, my beloved Ellen. Take courage, a brighter day will yet dawn upon us. Ellen made no reply, but her countenance was so singular an expression that her father was alarmed. My dearest daughter, he exclaimed, you have no longer any hope. I see by your looks that you despair. God knows that we have encountered enough to teach us to place but little reliance upon the smiles of fortune. Nevertheless, let us not banish hope altogether from our bosoms. Tomorrow we shall leave this dismal abode and prepare to the house of our young benefactor, Markham. Markham, cried Ellen, the very name appearing to arouse agonizing emotions in her mind. Have you promised, Mr. Richard Markham, that we will reside with him? Yes, dearest Ellen, and in so doing I had hope to give thee pleasure. You have known each other from infancy. We think I see thee now, a little child, climbing up that healing company with Richard and his brother. His brother, repeated Ellen, a cold shudder passing over her entire frame. My dearest girl, you are not well, said the old man, and pouring some wine into a glass, he added, drink this, Ellen, it will revive thee. The young lady partook of the exhilarating beverage and appeared refreshed. Her father and herself then seated themselves at the table and partook of the meal. Ellen ate but little. She was pensive and melancholy, and every now and then her countenance wore an expression of supreme horror, which denoted intense agony of feeling within her bosom. She, however, contrived to veil from her father's eyes much of the anguish which she thus experienced, and the old man's features were animated with a gleam of joy as he sat by the cheerful fire and talked to his daughter of brighter prospects and happier days. On the following morning they took leave of those rooms in which they had experienced so much misery and repaired to the dwelling of Richard Markham. It was the first of January, 1839. The weather was cold and inclement, nature and nakedness appeared to recline upon the turfless grave of summer. The ancient river which intersects the mightiest city upon the surface of the earth was swollen, and in the country, through which it wound its way, the fields were flooded in many parts. The trees were stripped of their verter, the singing of birds had ceased. Gloomy and mournful was the face of nature, somber and lowering the aspect of the proud city. So pale so faint were the beams of the midday sun that the summit of St. Paul's, which a few months back, was want to glitter as if it were crowned with a diadem of gold, was now veiled in a murky cloud, and the mirrored pinnacles of the modern Babylon, which a few were each tipped, as with a star, pointed upwards to a sky onymus and foreboding. Nevertheless the ingenuity and wondrous perseverance of man had adopted all precautions to expel the cold from the palaces of the rich and powerful, and to surround the lordly owners of those splendid mansions with the most delicious wines and the most luxurious food indoors to induce them to forget that winter rained without. Soft carpets, thick curtains, satin and velvet and silk, downy beds beneath gorgeous canopies, warm clothing and cheerful fires, combine to defy the approach of winter and to render the absence of junior summer a matter of small regret. Then when the occupants of these palaces went abroad, there was no bold exertion required for them to face the nipping cold, for they stepped from their thresholds into carriages thickly lined with wool, and supplied with cushion, soft, luxurious and warm. But that cold which thus expelled from the palaces of the rich took refuge in the dwellings of the poor. And there it remained sharp as a razor, pitiless, as an executioner, exorbitable as a judge, and keen as the northwestern wind that blows from the ice-bound coasts of Labrador. No silks, nor satins, nor velvets, nor carpets, nor canopies, nor curtains had the dwellings of the poor to defy, or even mitigate the freezing malady of that chill which engendered in the arctic regions of eternal snow, and having swept over the frozen river in the mighty force of America had come to event its collected spite upon the islands of Europe. Shivering, starving in their miserable hovels, the industrious many, by the sweat of whose brow the indolent few were supplied with their silks and their satins and their velvets, what bitter, bitter tears over their suffering and famished children, and nurse the day on which their little ones were born. For the winter was a very hard one in bread, bread was very dear. Yes, bread which thou, almighty God, hath given to feed those whom thou doth create after thine own image, and even bread was too dear for the starving poor to buy. How long, O Lord, wilt thou permit a few to rest everything from the many, to monopolize, accumulate, and gripe, snatch, drag forth, cling to the fruits of the earth for their own behoof alone? How long shall there exist such spells on the privilege of birth? How long must all happiness and all misery be summed up in the words wealth and poverty? We said that it was New Year's Day, 1839. In the palaces of the great were rejoicings in music and festivity and diamonds glittered and feathers waved in silks rustled, the elastic floors bent beneath the steps of the dancers, the wine flowed in crystal cups, and the fruits of summer were amongst the dainty's spread to tempt the appetite of the aristocracy. There was happiness indeed in thus welcoming the New Year, for those who there greeted its presence were well assured that it would team with the joys and planishments which had characterized the one that had just sunk into the grave of time. And how was it with the poor of this mighty metropolis, the imperial city, to whose marts whole navies waft the commerce of the world? The granaries were full, the pastures had surrendered a oxen to commemorate the season, the provision shops teamed with food of the most luxurious and humblest kinds alike. A stranger walking through this great city would have wondered where the mouths were that could consume such vast quantities of food, and yet thousands famished for one of the merest necessities of life. The hovels of the poor echoed not to the sounds of mirth and music, but to the wail of hunger and the cry of misery. In those sad abodes there was no jovelty to welcome a New Year, for a New Year was a curse, a mere prolongation of the acute and poignant horrors of the one gone by. Alas, that New Year's Day was one of strange contrasts in the social sphere of London. And as London is the heart of this empire, the disease which prevails in the core is conveyed through every vein and artery over the entire national frame. The country that contains the greatest wealth of all the territories of the universe is that which also knows the greatest amount of hideous, revolting, heart-rendering misery. In England men and women die of starvation in the streets. In England women murder their children to save them from a lingering death by famine. In England the poor commit crimes to obtain an asylum in a jail. In England aged females die by their own hands in order to avoid the workhouse. There is one cause of all these miseries and horrors, one fatal scourge invented by the rich to torture the poor, one infernal principle of mischief and of woe, which has taken root in the land, one element of a cruelty so keen and so refined that it outdoes the agonies endured in the inquisition of the old in time. And this fertile source of misery and murder and suicide and crime is the treatment of the workhouse. Alas, when the bees have made the honey, the apparatus comes and takes all away, begrudging the industrious insects, even a morsel of the wax. Let us examine for a moment the social scale of these realms. The sovereign, the aristocracy, the clergy, the middle class, the industrious classes, the lowest step in the ladder is occupied by that class, which is the most numerous, the most useful, and which ought to be the most influential. The average annual incomes of the individuals of each class are as follows. The sovereign, five hundred thousand pounds. The member of the aristocracy, thirty thousand pounds. The priest, seven thousand five hundred pounds. The member of the middle class is three hundred pounds. The member of the industrious class, twenty pounds. Is this reasonable? Is this just? Is this even consistent with common sense? It was New Year's Day, 1839. The rich man sat down to a table-crowned with every luxury. The pauper in the workhouse had not enough to eat. The contrast may thus be represented. The aristocracy, turtle, venison, turkey hair, pheasant, paragord pie, plum pudding, mince pies, jellies, blank manager, trifle, preserves, cakes, fruits of all kinds, wines of every description. The industrious poor, one half pound bread, four ounce bacon, one half pound potatoes, one and a half pint agru. And this was New Year's Day, 1839. But to proceed, it was five o'clock in the evening, three persons were conversing together on Constitution Hill beneath the wall of the palace gardens. Two of them, who were wrapped up in warm pilot coats, are well known to our readers. The third was a young lad of about sixteen or seventeen in very short and stature. He was dressed in a blue jacket, dark waistcoat, of course, materials, and corduroy trousers. His countenance was effeminate, and by no means bad-looking. His eyes were dark and intelligent, his teeth good. The name of this youth was Henry Holford. Well, my boy, said the resurrection man, for he was one of the lad's companions, the other being the redoubtable cracksman. Well, my boy, do you feel equal to this undertaking? Quite answered Holford in a decided tone. If we succeed, you know, observed the cracksman. It will be a jolly good thing for you, and if you happen to get nabbed, why, all the beaks can do to you, will be to send you for a month or two upon the stepper. In that their case, Tony and me will take care of you when you come out, won't we, Tony? Certainly, replied the resurrection man. But if you get scented, Harry, he continued addressing himself to the lad. As you approached the big house, you must have a run for it, and we shall stay here and leave the rope over the wall for two hours. If you don't come back by that time, we shall suppose that you either got into some quiet corner of the palace, or that you're taken, and then whichever happens of these two events, we shan't be any service to you. One thing I should like you to bear in mind, youngster, said the cracksman, and that is if you don't pluck up your courage well and prepare for all kinds of dangers and difficulties, you much better give up the thing at once. We don't want you to run neck and heels into a business that you're afraid of. Afraid, exclaimed the youth contemptuously, I shall not fail for want of courage. I have made up my mind to risk the venture and let the result be what it will. I shall go through with it. That's what I call speaking like a man, so the burglar. Though you are but a boy, take a drop of brandy before you begin. Not a drop, answered Holford. I require a clear head and quick eye and dare not drink. Well, as you will, said the cracksman, and he took a tolerably long drop from the case bottle which he had produced from his pocket. He then handed the bottle to the resurrection man, who also paid his respects to it with a hearty goodwill. I am ready, said Holford. There's no use in delay. Not a bit, observed the cracksman. Tony and me will help you over the wall in a jiffy. By the aid of the resurrection man and the burglar, the youth sealed the wall of the palace gardens, and ere he dropped upon the inner side. He said in a low but firm tone, good night. Holford was now within the enclosure of the royal demiss. The evening was very dark, but at a distance the windows of the palace shone with a effulissance. Thitherward did he proceed, advancing cautiously along, for he knew that there was a piece of water in the pleasure grounds. This small lake he soon left on his right hand, and he was shortly within fifty yards of the back part of Buckingham Palace. At that moment he was suddenly startled by hearing voices close to him. He stood still and listened. Steps approached and he heard a gardener issue some instructions to a subordinate. There was a tuft of trees near at hand. Holford had not a moment to lose. He darted into the thicket of evergreens where he concealed himself. What was that, said the gardener, stopping short. I heard nothing, answered the man. Yes, there was a rustling of those trees. A cat, perhaps. Or one of the aquatic birds. All was still and the gardener, accompanied by his man, proceeded on his way. The sounds of their footsteps were soon lost in the distance and Holford emerged from his hiding-place. Without any farther alarm, he reached the back premises of the palace. He now became involved in a maze of outhouses and offices and was at a loss which direction to take. He was going cautiously along the wall of one of those buildings when he suddenly ran against a man who was advancing rapidly in a contrary direction. Hola, who the devil is this, cried the man in clutching hold of Holford's collar. He dragged him a few paces until he brought him beneath the window whence dreamed a powerful light. I suppose you're the new boy that the head gardener hired this morning. Yes, sir, answered Holford, gladly availing himself of an excuse thus so conveniently suggested by the air of the man who had collared him. Then, mind which way you go in future, young broccoli sprout, exclaimed the other, and dismissing the youth with a slight cuff on the head, he passed on. Holford, hastened away from the light of the window and crossing a small court, reached a glass door opening into the back part of the palace. The adventurous lad laid his hand upon the latch. The door was not locked, and he hesitated not a moment to enter the royal abode. He was now in a low vestibule, well-lighted, and at the extremity of which there was a staircase. In one corner of the vestibule was a marble table on which lay several cloaks, the skirts of which hung down to the ground. This circumstance was particularly fortunate for the safety of the intruder in as much as he had scarcely entered the vestibule when the sound of footsteps rapidly descending the staircase fell upon his ears. He hastened to conceal himself beneath the table, the cloaks serving effectively, to veil his person. Two footmen in glorious libraries shortly made their appearance in the vestibule. Where did you say her majesty is demanded one? In the Roman drawing room replied the other, the sculptural gallery is to be lighted up this evening. You can attend to that duty at once, if you will. Very well said the first speaker, and he left the vestibule by means of a door on the right-hand side, but which door he neglected to close behind him. The other servant advanced straight up to the marble table and, sweeping off the cloaks, threw them all over his left arm. Holford's person was now exposed to the eyes of anyone who might happen to glance beneath the table. The domestic was, however, a tall and state-lead individual and kept his head elevated. Having taken the cloaks from the table, he slowly retraced his steps up the stairs and disappeared from Holford's view. The young adventurer started from his hiding-place, the door by which one of the servants had left the vestibule for the purpose of repairing to the sculpture gallery was open. It communicated with a long passage, only feebly lighted. Holford hesitated not a moment and proceeded in this direction. He advanced to the end of the passage and entered a narrow corridor, branching off to the right and lighted by lamp-sustained in the hands of two tall statues. Again the sound of footsteps fell upon Holford's ears and he had scarcely time to slip behind one of these statues. When the domestic whom he had before seen entered that part of the building appeared at the end of the corridor, the servant passed without observing him and the youthful intruder emerged from his lurking-place. He now pursued his way without interruption through several passages and rooms until he reached a magnificent marble hall at the farther extremity of which were numerous dependents of the palace grouped together and conversing in a low tone. Holford instantly shrank back into the passage by which he had reached the hall. Exactly opposite was the entrance to the sculpture gallery. To retrace his steps was useless. He determined to proceed, but how was he to cross the hall? A few moments' reflection suggested to him an expedient. He walked boldly across the hall and his presence excited no suspicion, it being impossible for the dependents collected together the other end to observe the nature of his garb at that distance. He now gained access to the sculpture gallery, but there he found no means of concealment. He determined to explore elsewhere and speedily found himself in a magnificent saloon adjoining the library and where he beheld sofas with the drapery hanging down to the carpet. It was beneath one of these downy sofas that the daring intruder into the royal dwelling took refuge and there comfortably extended at full length he chuckled triumphantly at the success which had up to this moment attended his adventurous undertaking. We have before said that he was a very small stature and he moreover thin and delicate and easily packed away. Some time passed and no one appeared to interrupt the reflections of Henry Holford. Hour after hour glided by and at length the palace clock struck nine. Scarcely had the last chime died away when the folding doors were thrown open and a gorgeous procession of nobles and ladies entered the apartment. The magnificence of the dresses worn by England's pierces and high-born dames, the waving plumes, the glittering jewels, the sparkling diamonds, combined with a glorious assemblage of female loveliness formed a spectacle at once awe-inspiring, ravishing, and delightful. A little in advance of that splendid courtage, conversing easily with the ladies who walked one pace behind her on either side and embellished with precious stones of regal price, moved the sovereign of the mightiest empire in the universe. Upon her high and polished brow, Victoria wore a tear of diamonds, diamonds innumerable and of immense value, studded her stomacher. Diamond penance adorned her ears and diamonds also glistened upon her wrists. She walked with grace and dignity, and her noble bearing compensated for the shortness of her statue. The queen advanced to the very sofa beneath which Holford lay concealed and seated herself upon it. The ladies and nobles of the court, together with the guests present upon the occasion, stood at a respectful distance from the sovereign. The splendor of the scene was enhanced by the brilliant uniforms of several military officers of high rank and the court dresses of the foreign ambassadors, the blaze of light in which the room was bathed was reflected from the diamonds on the ladies and the stars in orders which the nobles wore upon their breasts. At that time Victoria was yet a virgin queen, if not strictly beautiful, her continence was very pleasing, her light brown hair was worn quite plain, her blue eyes were animated with intellect, and when she smiled her lips revealed a set of teeth white as orienta pearls, her bust was magnificent in her figure good in spite of the lowness of her statue. Her manner was distinguished by somewhat of the impatience which characterized all the family of George III and which seemed to result from a slightly nervous temperament. She appeared to require answers to her questions more promptly than the court etiquette permitted those around her to respond to her inquiries. With regard to the condition of the humbler classes of her subjects she was totally ignorant, she knew that they were suffering some distress, but the fearful amount of that misery was carefully concealed from her. She only read the journals favourable to the ministry and they took care to report nothing which might offend or wound her. Thus she who should have known everything relative to her people, in reality scarcely knew anything. Foremost amid the chiefs of foreign diplomacy was the ambassador from the court of Cassus Aquila. He was a man of advanced years and on his breast glittered the stars of all the principal orders of knighthood in Europe, the Cross and Bath of England, the Legion of Honor of France, the Golden Fleece of Spain, the Black Eagle of Prussia, the Sword of Sweden, the Crescent of Turkey, St. Nippo Messesses of Austria, and the Lion Rampant of Cassus Aquila. The ambassadors of France and Austria were also present upon this occasion. Count Sebastini, the representative of Louis Philippe, being clad in the splendid uniform of a general in the French army and wearing the grand cordon of the Legion of Honor, and Prince Esserhazy, the Austrian minister, and himself the processor of his states more extensive than many a German principality, wearing a court dress covered with lace and glittering with stars. Several members of the English cabinet were also present. There was one who's good tempered in handsome continents, gentlemanly demeanors, stout and sturdy form, and complacent smile would hardly have induced a stranger to believe that this was Viscont Milbourne, the Prime Minister of England. Next was a short personage with a refined and intelligent, though by no means an imposing air, a something sharp and cunning in the curl of the mouth and the flash of the eye, and a weak, disagreeable voice, frequently stammering and hesitating at a long sentence. This was Lord John Russell, the Secretary for the Home Department. Near Lord John Russell was a tall man of about fifty, very good-looking, with dark and well-curled hocks, glossy whiskers, and an elegant figure, but excessively foppish in his attire, and somewhat affected in manner. And this was Lord Palmerston, Secretary of Foreign Affairs. Conversing with this nobleman was a personage with pale and shallow cheeks, luxurant and naturally curling locks, dark and interesting in appearance, and in the prime of life, whose conversation denoted him to be a man of elegant taste, and whose manners were those of a finished gentleman, but who little suited the idea which a stranger would have formed of a great viceroy or a responsible minister. Nevertheless, this was the Marquia of Normandy, lately Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and the time in which we are speaking Secretary for the Colonies. The conversation turned upon the specimens of art in the gallery of sculpture which the noble company had just visited. In this manner an hour passed away, and at the expiration of that period, the Queen and her numerous guests repaired to the drawing-rooms on the first floor, where arrangements had been made for a grand musical entertainment. The entire progeny was viewed with ease, and the conversation plainly heard by the flibian intruder upon that scene of patrician splendor and glory, and well. The musical tones of the Queen's voice had fallen upon his ears. He had listened to the words of great lords and high-born ladies. At that moment, how little, how contemptible did he feel himself to be, never had he entertained so humble an opinion of his own worth and value in societies he did at that period. He, a common pot-boy in a public house, had for an hour been the unseen companion of a Queen and her mightiest Pallidians and loveliest Danes. And had he been discovered in his retreat he would have been turned ignominiously forth like the man in the parable who went to the marriage-feast without a wedding garment. For two more mortal hours did Hulford remain beneath the sofa, crowned by his recumbent and uneasy position, and already more than half inclined to regret the adventure upon which he had so precipitately entered. At length the palace grew quiet, and servants entered the room in which Hulford was concealed to extinguish the lights. The moment that this duty was performed and the domestics had withdrawn, Hulford emerged from beneath the sofa and seated himself upon it. He was proud to think that now he occupied the place where the royalty had so lately been. The voice of the Queen still seemed to ring in his ears, and he felt an unknown and unaccountable species of happiness in recalling to mind and pondering upon all that had fallen from her lips. At that moment how he envied those peers and high-born Dames who were privileged to approach the royal presence and bask beneath the smile of the Sovereign. How he wished that his lot had been cast in a different sphere. But no. It was useless to regret what could not be remedied, and although he was now in a palace and seated upon the very cushion which a few hours previously had been pressed by royalty, he was not one Adam less, Henry Hulford the Potboy. The reverie of this extraordinary youth was long. Visions, the most wild and fantastical sustained a powerful excitement in his imagination at length the clock struck too. Hulford awoke from his strange meditations and collected his scattered ideas. He now felt the cravings of hunger and determined to explore the palace in search of food. He had already seen enough of its geography to be enabled to guess the precise position of the servants' offices, and thither he now directed his steps. He reached the grand marble hall which was lighted by lamps. There was no one there. He crossed it and proceeded along those passages which he had already threaded a few hours before. After wandering about for some time and to his infinite surprise and joy without encountering a soul, he reached the servants' offices. A short search conducted him to a well-stored larder some of the dishes had evidently been put away in a hurry. For silver spoons and forks had been left in them. Hulford might have possessed himself a property of considerable value, but such an idea never for a moment entered his head. He, moreover, contended himself with as simplest foods he could find. Then remembering that four and twenty hours might elapse ere he should be enabled to return to the larder, he supplied himself with a sufficient amount of provender to last during that interval. Having adopted this precaution, he stole back again to the room where the friendly sofa had already afforded a secure hiding-place. He once more crept beneath the costly drapery extended himself upon his back and fell asleep. End of Chapter 58 Recording by Judy Geinen Chapter 59 of the Mysteries of London This is a Levervox recording. All Levervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Levervox.org. Recording by Judy Geinen The Mysteries of London by George Reynolds Chapter 59 Hulford awoke with a start. At that moment the timepiece upon the mantle struck five. It was still quite dark. The young man felt cold and nervous. He had dreamt that he was discovered and ejected from the palace amidst the jeers and taunts of the servants. He now suddenly recollected that the domestics would most probably soon arrive to cleanse and arrange the apartment. And detection in that case must be certain. It struck him that he had better endeavor to escape at once from the royal dwelling. Then he thought and fondly flattered himself that the same good fortune which had Heather too attended him in this adventure would still follow him. This idea has caused many a hesitating mind to decide upon pursuing a career of crime or folly or peril. So it was with Hulford, and he resolved to remain in the palace at least a short time longer. But he perceived the absolute necessity of seeking out a secure place of concealment and it struck him that the highest stories of the building were those best calculated for this purpose. Leaving the apartment in which he had availed himself of the friendly sofa and which, as before stated, was in the immediate vicinity of the sculpture gallery upon the ground floor, he passed through the library and returned to the great hall. Ascending a magnificent marble staircase he reached the picture gallery. Every here and there lamps were burning and thus he was enabled to inspect all the scenes of magnificence and splendor through which he passed. The picture gallery in Buckingham Palace is immediately over the sculpture gallery and forms a wide passage separating the green drawing room, the throne room, and other state apartments from the Roman, the yellow, and the little drawing rooms. The yellow drawing room is the largest and most splendid of the suite. The furniture is all richly carved and is overlaid with burnished gilding and covered with yellow satin. The wall is surrounded by polished pillars of cyanite marble and on each panel is painted a portrait of some royal personage. The dining room also leads out of the picture gallery. This gallery itself is decorated and adorned upon classic models. The frames of the pictures are very plain but neat and appropriated to the style of the architecture. There is nothing gorgeous in this gallery. Everything is in good taste and yet the moldings and fretwork of the ceiling are the most elaborate description. The pictures in the gallery are all originals by eminent masters and are the private property of the solvent. It may here be observed that the queen is passionately attached to the fine arts in which indeed she is a proficient. In every room of the palace there are some excellent paintings in each apartment occupied by the queen with the exception of the throne room there is a grand piano forte. With a lamp in his hand Henry Holford proceeded through those magnificent apartments which communicated with the picture gallery. He was astonished at the assemblage of wealth and splendor that met his eye on every side. From time to time he seated himself upon the softest ottomans and in the gilded chairs in every place where he deemed it probable that the queen might have rested. At length he reached the throne room. The imperial seat itself was covered over with a velvet cloth to protect it against the dust. Holford removed the cloth and the splendors of the throne were revealed to him. He hesitated for a moment. He felt as if he were committing a species of sacrilege. Then tromping over his feeling a feeling which had appeared like remorse he ascended the steps of the throne. He placed himself in the seat of England's monarch. Had the scepter been there he would have grasped it. Had the crown been within his reach he would have placed it upon his head. But time pressed and he was compelled to leave those apartments in which a strange and unaccountable fascination induced him to linger. He ascended a staircase leading to another story and now he proceeded with extreme caution. For he conceived that he must be in the immediate vicinity of the royal sleeping apartments. He hastened up to the highest story he could reach and entered several passages from which doors opened on either side. One of these doors was a jar. The light of a lamp in the passage enabled him to ascertain that the chamber into which it led was full of old furniture, trunks, boxes, bedding, and other lumber. This was precisely the place which suited the adventurous pot boy and he hastened to conceal himself amidst a pile of mattresses which formed a secure warm and comfortable berth. Here he again fell asleep and when he awoke the sun was shining brightly. He partook of his provisions with a good appetite and then deliberated within himself what course he should pursue. He felt madly anxious to be nearer the person of the queen once more. He longed to hear her voice again. He resolved to risk everything to gratify these inclinations. He began to understand that the vast extent of the palace and many different ways of reaching the various floors and suites of apartments constituted the elements of his safety and greatly diminished the risk of encountering any of the inmates of the royal dwelling. He was insane enough, moreover, to believe that some good genius or a special favor of fortune protected him and these impressions were sufficiently powerful to induce him to attempt any fresh enterprise within the walls of the palace. While he was debating within himself how he should proceed in order to satisfy his enthusiastic curiosity, the door suddenly opened and two female servants of the royal household entered the lumber room. Holford's heart sank within him. His limbs seemed paralyzed. His breath failed him. The entertainment takes place in the yellow and roman drawing rooms this evening, said one. The princes expected at five o'clock observed the other. He and his father, the Duke of Sachs Colbert Gotha, are to land at Woolworth between two and three. So I heard the royal carriages have already left to meet Her Majesty's guests. Have you ever seen the prince? Once he was in England, I remember a short time previous to the ascension of Her Majesty. Is he good looking? Very. Of course you believe, as I do. And as everyone else does, that Prince Albert Sachs Colbert will soon be Prince of England. Hush, the walls have ears. The servants having discovered the article of furniture which was the object of their search left the room greatly to the relief of Henry Holford, whose presence they never for a moment suspected. Holford had thus accidentally learnt some information which served to guide his plans. The evening's entertainment was to take place in the yellow drawing room, an apartment which he could not fail to recognize by the color as one which he had visited before daybreak that morning. He had heard of Prince Albert, whom Rumor had already mentioned as the happy being who had attracted the Queen's favor. Every circumstance now lent its aid to induce the enthusiastic lad to resolve upon penetrating into the yellow drawing room by some means or another during the afternoon. It struck the intruder that if the Queen intended to receive company in the yellow drawing room in the evening, she would most probably welcome her illustrious guest from Germany in some other apartment. He knew from the conversation of the two female servants that the Grand Duke of Saxe, Colbert, Gotha, and Prince Albert were to arrive at five. He presumed that the inmates of the palace would assemble in those points where they could command a view of the Ducal Coltage and he came to the conclusion that the coast would be most clear for his purposes at five o'clock. Nor was he wrong in his conjectures, for scarcely had two minutes elapsed after the clock had proclaimed the hour of five when Henry Holford was safely as scouts beneath a sofa in the yellow drawing room. At eight o'clock the servants entered and lighted the lamps. The color of the paper and the satin of the furniture enhanced the splendor of the effulgence thus created in that magnificent salon. At half past nine the door opened again and Holford's heart beat quickly, for he now expected the appearance of the solvent and her guests. But no, not yet. Two ladies attached to the court entered the drawing room and seated themselves upon the sofa beneath which Holford had lay concealed. Well, what do you think of the young Prince, said one? Your Grace was seated next to him. Very handsome and so assuming, was the reply. Does your Grace really believe that Her Majesty is smitten? No doubt of it, how fortunate for the family of the Grand Duke of Saxe-Colberg. Yes, fortunate on that score of alliance and in a pecuniary point of view, not so much as your Grace thinks. There has been an absurd report in circulation that the Grand Duke's revenues are so small none of his family could venture to appear at the Court of Vienna and also that the means of education for the younger branches were always excessively restricted. And are not these reports correct, Countess? By no means. Your Grace probably is aware that the Earl and myself visited Germany the year before last, and we remained six weeks at Gotha. The Duke of Saxe-Colberg possesses a considerable civil list and a large private fortune. His brother Ferdinand espoused the wealthy Princess Cahari of Hungary and another brother Leopold married our lamented Princess Charlotte. It has been stated that the Prince Leopold himself was a simple major in the Austrian service with nothing but his pay when he was fortunate enough to obtain the favour of the Princess Charlotte. This is so far from being correct that he never was in the Austrian service at all, but was a general officer in the Russian army enjoying, in addition to his full pay, a princely allowance from his country. Your ladyship has greatly pleased me with these elucidations. Your Grace honours me with this mark of satisfaction. Prince Albert was educated at Bonn on the Rhine. His mental qualifications are said to be of a very high order. His disposition is admirable and he has obtained the affections of all who know him in Germany. It is to be hoped that her most gracious Majesty will enjoy a long, prosperous and happy reign so the Duchess in a tone of unfaithful sincerity, long and prosperous it may be return the Countess with a strange somnity of voice and manner, but happy for her, happy for the Solvon whom we all so much love. No, that is impossible. Alas! I know to what you allude observed the Duchess her tone also changing. Merciful heavens, is there then no perfect happiness in this world? Where shall perfect happiness be found? exclaimed the Countess in a voice of deep melancholy with a profound sigh. Never did any Solvon ascend the throne under more favorable circumstances than Victoria. Enshrined in a nation's heart, beloved by millions of human beings wearing the proudest diadem in the universe and swaying the sultra of Dominion, extensive as that of Rome in her most glorious days. Oh, why should not Victoria be completely happy? Alas! She can command the affections of her people by her conduct. The valor of her subjects, the prowess of her generals, the dauntless courage of her admirals can preserve her empire from all encroachment, all peril. Wealth can surround her with every luxury and all the potentiates of the earth may seek her friendship. But no power, no Dominion, no wealth, no luxury, no love can exterminate the seeds. Oh, Countess, for God's sakes, talk not in this manner ejaculated the Duchess. You make me melancholy, so melancholy that I shall be dispirited the entire evening. Pardon me, my dear friend, but I know not how our discourse gradually turned upon so sad a subject. And yet the transition must have been natural, added the Countess in mournful and plainful voice. For most assuredly, I should not have voluntarily sought to converse upon so sad a theme. Sad cried the Duchess. It is sufficient to make one's heart bleed. To think that a young creature whom millions and millions of beings idolize and a young creature whose name is upon every lip, whose virtues and qualifications are the theme of every pen, whose slightest wish amounts to a command. Oh, to think that this envied and admirable being should be haunted day and night, alone or when surrounded by all that is most noble or most lovely in England's aristocracy, haunted by that dread fear that appalling alarm, that dismo apprehension, oh, it is intolerable. Alas, said the Countess! What poor, what miserable creatures we are! The hand of the deity mingles gall with the cup of nectar which is drunk by his elect. There is no situation in life without his vexations. Yes, vexations of all kinds echoed the Duchess for those annoyances which are mere trifles to the lower classes are grievous afflictions to us, but at that moment the timepiece upon the mantle proclaimed the half hour after ten, and the two ladies arose from the sofa, observing to each other that it was time to hasten to attend upon the person of the royal mistress they then withdrew. It may be supposed that Holford had not lost one word of the above conversation. He had greedily drunk in every word, but the concluding portion of it had filled him with the most anxious curiosity and with wonder. To what did those dark, mysterious hints bear reference? And how could the happiness of the sovereign be incomplete? Those two noble ladies had detailed all the elements of felicity which formed the basis of the queen's position and surely sufficient had been enumerated to prove the perfection of her happiness. And yet illusion was made to one source of perpetual fear, one cause of un-mixed alarm, one object of ever-present dread by which the queen was haunted on all occasions. What could this be? Conjecture was vain, imagination could suggest nothing calculated to explain this strange mystery. Shortly after eleven o'clock the doors were thrown open and the royal train made its appearance. On the queen's right hand walked Prince Albert, the sovereign leaning gently upon his arm. He was dressed in a court garb and wore a foreign order upon his breast. Of slight form and slender make his figure was wanting in manliness, but his deportment was graceful. His eyes beamed kindness and there was something peculiarly sweet and pleasant in his smile. His continence was expressive of the intellect, his conversation was amusing. He was evidently a very pleasant companion and when Victoria and Albert walked down the saloon together there appeared a certain fitness in their union which was calculated to strike the most common beholder. The queen and Prince seated themselves upon the sofa beneath which the pot boy was concealed and their conversation was plainly overheard by him. The noble and buterous guests, the lords and ladies of the court withdrew to a distance and the royal lovers for such already were Victoria and Albert enjoyed the pleasures of tete-tete. We shall not record any portion of their discourse animated, interesting, and tender though it were, suffice to say that for a short time they seemed to forget their high rank and to throw aside the trembles of court etiquette in order to give vent to those natural feelings which the sovereign has in common with the peasant. This tete-tete lasted for nearly an hour music and dancing then ensued and the entertainment continued until two o'clock in the morning. The company retired and the lights were extinguished in the state apartments and profound silence once more rained throughout the palace. Holford paid another visit to the larder and then retraced his steps unobserved to the lumber room where he slept until a late hour in the morning.