The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 290: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

un ( ee — a ee ae GEOR Sy EEE ESP) EP ae! @& eres - THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. rand a sort of sensation begins to take place. Those who possess watches, look at them with the air of persone who evidently know that epme particular treet is at band; and those who are not enough €0 own these indicators of time, anxiously tis posseseors thereof “ whether it is eleven ee Sereral of the guests leave their seats in | on, order to get nearer to the platform: Welsh-rabbits and devilled kidneys are suffered to get cold, while the supper-eaters catch the infection of the general excitement and look towards the platform with as much eagerness as if the curtain of a theatre were ebout to draw up and reveal the scenic attractions of the stage. The chairman now announces that “ Mr. Roes will appear in his favourite character of Sam Hall.” Then ensues a tremendous clapping of hands and thumping of knuckles upon the table, so that the glasses all seem as if suddenly attacked with St. Vitus’s dance, and even the huge metat jugs of hot water appear inclined to perform a fandango. In the midst of this hearty tumult the vocalist whose name elicited the applause, appears from behind a soreen, dreseed as a ragged, dirty, wretched-looking man, with a battered hat on his head, a pipe in his band, and his countenance made up to an expres- gion of a dark, dismal, but at the same time fierce despair, This is the personification of Sam Hall, the hero of the song.- He is supposed to be a man condemned to die; and the whole performance con- atitates a tremendous illustration of the horrors experienced by the mind of a doomed being. It is mo exaggeration to declare that this ie perhaps the most terrific revelation of what fancy might depict as within the walle of a condemned, cell, that it is possible to conceive. Ali the power of the artiste ia thrown into the impersonation of his ideal character; and the effect upon the larger por- tion of the company is immense. True it is that some fow inctividuals, of the snob and the gent clase, i of affected by the awful silemnity of the scene, behald only a ludicrous therein, and exhibit their vile taste by means of laughter. But with the generality of the spectators the feeling is one of the profoundest awe. Though the performer be chiefly noted as a first-rate comie sinrer, yet there is no comedy m ene sel a a =—- upon this occasion bad the bad taste te laugh | But then he was not merely devoid of the feeling, but likewise of the capacity to comprehend the deep tragic meaning of the scene. On issuing forth from the. Cider-Cellar, Lord Harold Staunton and Lord Saxondale walked slowly exchanging their remarks upon all that had taken place. The clock of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, was prociai the hour of midnight—much too early for these scions of the aristocracy to think of retiring to rest as yet. They paused in Covent Garden, and deliberated what they should do to amuse or divert themselves. “T tell you what, Edmund,” said Lord Harold, “an idea has suddenly struck me. I was reading in the newspaper this morning something about the low dens and lodging-houses in certain strects at no great distance. What say you?—shall we go and pay them a visit P’” “I don’t much fancy jt,” replied Saxondale: “ for I think we are pretty sure of getting into a scrape —perhaps robbed and woll thrashed. Not that I am « coward, you know, Harold: but-——” “You like to be safe:"—and thero was a tinge of @ encer in Staunton’s accents: then he immediately added, “ We should want a guide, and might there- fore take a policaman with us. There goes one at this moment.” telling them “that he knew them well and they had better mind what they were about.” This made Saxondale laugh heartily with continuous cachinations of his cracked voice. But Lord Harold speedily convinced the constable that their object was on this occasion pacific. The officer accordingly put back his truncheon ; and Staunton proceeded to explain the object he and his companion had in view. “* Well, my lords,” replied the policeman, “I am just this minute going off duty; and if you will tell me where you will be in about half-an-hour, I will hie personifieation of Bam Hall: it is all tragedy— | you.” deep, appalling, stupendous tragedy. The illimitable horror alternating with darkest despair that he theses inte be ftdwren, tivete the gaze and seises upom the mind as if with a spell. The man who is is philanthropic has previously cherished the revolting prejudice in favour of the fecting at all, retire from that ecene with a changed opinion. Buch is a description of the Cider-Cellar, and an eutline of the entertainments that may be mos with there. It was in this place that Lord Harold Staunton and Lord Saxondale whiled away a couple ef hours on the evening of which we are speaking. Btaunton,—whc though a thorough rake and an pr ge profligate, nevertheless had some —was much moved by the im- Sersonation of Sam Hall: but Saxondale, who had got a singie kindly feeling. was one of the few that Staunton intimated that they would walk about Covent Garden and smoke their cigara. The officer accordingly went his way; and true to his promise, he re-appeared in plain clothes at the expiration of the time specified. “ Now, my lords,” he said, “I will take you first of to a kinchin-ken.” “ And what the deuce is that?” inquired Saxon- penalty, must, if he have any | dale. “Ives a place where boys and gals live together. It’s kept by @ woman and her two daughters—a precious rum lot, I can tell you. The woman's a hempen widder——~” Again an explanation was demanded. ‘‘3¢ means, my lord, that her busband wae hung. He was a crackaman———that means a burgilar-—— by profession, and one of the most desperate wil- lains that ever lived. It’s a matter of ten year agy that he was tucked up; and his old o’oman took to keeping a kinchin-ken. Her name is Burley——Mo- ther Burley they call her. Her daughters ain’t the | NOOK