The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 105: what you’re looking at

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92 THE MYSTERIES OF THE OOURT. who filled the hatefal post and bore the shocking appellation of Jack Ketch. In addition to these little “charities,” he shaved for a lower fee than any other barber in the vicinage; and therefore he was patronised by the poor men to whom sucli cheapness was an object, and by the ruffians who cither belonged to his gang or experienced a brutal delight in the conversation of so renowned a personage as the Public Hangman. Daniel Coffin occupied the whole dwelling to which his shop belonged. His establishment consisted of a woman who lived with him as his mistress and served as his housekeeper, and a couple of young men who acted as his assistants. The elder of these young men and the woman were brother and sister ; and their name was Mel- moth. The former was twenty-seven years of age —the latter about a couple of years younger. The other assistant was nineteen, and was known only as Jack the Foundling. He never had any other name to his knowledge; and from his infancy he had been brought up with the Melmoths. Abont seven or eight years previously te the date of our nar- rative, the Hangman had picked up the three in a place of resort for juvenile thieves, called the Kinchin-Ken, in Grub-street; and, taking a fancy to the girl, he had proposed to her to live with him, his wife having recently died. But Sally Melmoth had refused to-separate from her brother Dick, and from the Foundling, whom she loved also like a brother; and the Hangman therefore took the “lot,” as he denominated them, into his house. From that day forth they had lived with him; and the young men were so brutalized by the whole tenour of their existence, that they felt no indig- pation nor regret at seeing Sally, whom they both really loved, the mistress of the Hangman. Sarah—or Sally, as she was familiarly called— was short and slightly made. Her countenance was pale and even emaciated with the effects of early immorality and continued dissipation. She possessed that cast of countenance which, had she led a proper life, would have rendcred her good- looking. Her hair was dark brown and might have proved a rich adornment, had it been duly cared for: her teeth were good—but her lips had the vivid redness that denotes the habitual use of ardent spirits. Her figure was naturally well formed, though slender; and the bust, which was well developed, would have been pronounced posi- tivcly fine : but the same destructive causes which had marred her in other respects, had injured her appearance in this, and the plumpness of youth was merging rapidly into a prethature flaccidity. Her brother Richard—or Dick, as he was in- variably called—was short, thin, and pale like his sister. He had a face which if not precisely vil- lanous, was still indicative of a low cunning and evil artfulness, with which expression were mingled the traces of dissipation. Jack the Foundling was, as we have already stated, nineteen years of age; and although young and remarkabl y handsome, yet profligacy had stamped its indelible marks upon his countenance, rendering his features a lamentable index to the utter desecration which had taken place in the sanctuary of his mind. Me was tall and well formed, with a frame at once lithe and well-knit— supple and muscular; and there was koniething in- tellectual and lofty in the formation of his features. But this effect, which might have been so grandly developed, was entirely counteracted, and ap- proaching fast to complete obliteration, under the. influence of those evil passions and pursuits which gave the features their expression. Having thus glanced at the individuals belonging to the Hangman’s household, we will pause to say a few words relative to his shop, and then pursue the thread of our narrative. Picture to yourself, reader, a small room, with the blackened walls embellished by prints representing the execution of several noted highwaymen—a man- tle-piece covered with black-handled razors, Jather- brushes, soap-botes, and scissors—a few packages of soap, some hair-brushes, combs, and tooth-brushes, scattered about in the window, with a rude barber’s- block mounting sentry in the midst—a jack-towel hung toa doorcommunicating with an inner room —a basin and broken jug for the accomodation of customers—and two or three chairs for the use of the said customers,—picture all these details, gentle reader, and you have the Hangman’s shop present to your mind's eye. It was seven o'clock in the morning following the adventures so recently narrated: and the establish- ment of Mr. Daniel Coffin was opened to the public. Dick Melmoth toek down the broken, ricketty shut- tersa—Jack the Foundling hung put the barber’s pole—and Sally just dragced a brush over the floor of the shop, as a surt of make-believe for sweeping it. She then retired to the kitchen to prepare the breakfast, while the two young men put on dirty aprons and got in readiness the tin-cans of hot water and the shaving-apparatus. ®By the time these preliminaries were arranged, the Hangman made his appearance in the shop. He had not laid aside his clothes all night, nor snatched a moment's repose: indeed it was past six o'clock when he returned home from the Folly Bridges. But he had refreshed himself with what he called “a good wash: and although he de. clared he felt “uncommonly seedy,” it was all the same in respect to his looks, which were naturally so ghastly and repulsive that no influence of dissipation, emotion, or fatigue could render their aspect much worse. | “ Well, got all neat and tidy, I hope,” he observed in a tone of subdued growling, es be glanced round the shop: for he was evidently in no very amiable humour. “ Nobody been yet, I suppose?” “ Iv’s only just gone seven,’ answered the Found- ling. “JT don’t care a fig what it’s gone,” responded the Hangman, gruffiy: “I wanted to know whether anybody was come.” ° “ Nobody, then,” replied the lad, pertly. “None of your impudence, young fellow,” ex- claimed Coffin; “or I'll give you the strap acrose your back.” “Then don’t talk sulky to me, that’s all,” said the Foundling. “I'm civil to you: why can’t you be so to me?” *¢ Come, let’s have no quarreliing,” observed Dick Melmoth. “ We've too much of it sometimes.” “And whose fault is that?” demanded Coffin, savagely. “ Don't I keep you well—feed you well —and give you plenty of pocket-money? What more do you want ?"—and he eyed the young mer ferociously, one after the other. They seemed to understand his’ humour, and SS COMM CONNEC MOO