The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jack Sheppard, Vol. III (of III), by W. Harrison Ainsworth This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Jack Sheppard, Vol. III (of III) A Romance Author: W. Harrison Ainsworth Illustrator: George Cruikshank Release Date: December 26, 2013 [EBook #44523] Last Updated: February 28, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK SHEPPARD, VOL. III (OF III) *** Produced by David Widger
“Upon my word, friend,” said I, “you have almost made me long to try what a robber I should make.” “There is a great art in it, if you did,” quoth he. “Ah! but,” said I, “there's a great deal in being hanged.” Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache.
From patches, justly placed, they borrow'd graces, And with vermilion lacquer'd o'er their faces.Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Mrs. Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel. For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair. “Excuse me,” he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. “This tongue looks remarkably nice,” he added, slicing off an immense wedge, “excuse me—ho! ho!” “You make yourself at home, I perceive,” observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust. “I generally do,” replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack. “Your health, Kneebone.” “Allow me to offer you a glass of usquebaugh, my dear,” said Kneebone, turning from him, and regarding Edgeworth Bess with a stare so impertinent, that even that not over-delicate young lady summoned up a blush. “With pleasure, Sir,” replied Edgeworth Bess. “Dear me!” she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, “what a beautiful ring that is.” “Do you think so?” replied Kneebone, taking it off, and placing it on her finger, which he took the opportunity of kissing at the same time; “wear it for my sake.” “Oh, dear!” simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. “You don't eat,” continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand. “The Captain has seldom much appetite,” replied Blueskin, who, having disposed of the fowl, was commencing a vigorous attack upon the sirloin. “I eat for both.” “So it seems,” observed the woollen-draper, “and for every one else, too.” “I say, Kneebone,” rejoined Blueskin, as he washed down an immense mouthful with another bumper, “do you recollect how nearly Mr. Wild and I were nabbing you in this very room, some nine years ago?” “I do,” replied Kneebone; “and now,” he added, aside, “the case is altered. I'm nearly nabbing you.” “A good deal has occurred since then, eh, Captain!” said Blueskin, nudging Jack. “Much that I would willingly forget. Nothing that I desire to remember,” replied Sheppard, sternly. “On that night,—in this room,—in your presence, Blueskin,—in yours Mr. Kneebone, Mrs. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber.” “She has paid dearly for it,” muttered Blueskin. “She has,” rejoined Sheppard. “But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became—what I am.” “On that night, you first met me, love,” said Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to take his hand, which he coldly withdrew. “And me,” added Mrs. Maggot tenderly. “Would I had never seen either of you!” cried Jack, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step. “Well, I'm sure Winifred could never have loved you as well as I do,” said Mrs. Maggot. “You!” cried Jack, scornfully. “Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me.” “Except me, dear,” insinuated Edgeworth Bess. “I've been always true to you.” “Peace!” retorted Jack, with increased bitterness. “I'm your dupe no longer.” “What the devil's in the wind now, Captain?” cried Blueskin, in astonishment. “I'll tell you,” replied Jack, with forced calmness. “Within the last few minutes, all my guilty life has passed before me. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended.” “Come, come, don't take on thus, Captain,” cried Blueskin, rising and walking towards him. “If any one's to blame, it's me. I'm ready to bear it all.” “Can you make me honest?” cried Jack. “Can you make me other than a condemned felon? Can you make me not Jack Sheppard?” “No,” replied Blueskin; “and I wouldn't if I could.” “Curse you!” cried Jack, furiously,—“curse you!—curse you!” “Swear away, Captain,” rejoined Blueskin, coolly. “It'll ease your mind.” “Do you mock me?” cried Jack, levelling a pistol at him. “Not I,” replied Blueskin. “Take my life, if you're so disposed. You're welcome to it. And let's see if either of these women, who prate of their love for you, will do as much.” “This is folly,” cried Jack, controlling himself by a powerful effort. “The worst of folly,” replied Blueskin, returning to the table, and taking up a glass; “and, to put an end to it, I shall drink the health of Jack Sheppard, the housebreaker, and success to him in all his enterprises. And now, let's see who'll refuse the pledge.” “I will,” replied Sheppard, dashing the glass from his hand. “Sit down, fool!” “Jack,” said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, “are these regrets for your past life sincere?” “Suppose them so,” rejoined Jack, “what then?” “Nothing—nothing,” stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. “I'm glad to hear it, that's all,” he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. “It won't do to betray the officer,” he muttered. “O lud! what an exquisite box!” cried Edgeworth Bess. “Is it gold?” “Pure gold,” replied Kneebone. “It was given me by poor dear Mrs. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.” “Pray, let me have a pinch!” said Edgeworth Bess, with a captivating glance. “I am so excessively fond of snuff.” The woollen-draper replied by gallantly handing her the box, which was instantly snatched from her by Blueskin, who, after helping himself to as much of its contents as he could conveniently squeeze between his thumb and finger, put it very coolly in his pocket. The action did not pass unnoticed by Sheppard. “Restore it,” he cried, in an authoritative voice. “O'ons! Captain,” cried Blueskin, as he grumblingly obeyed the command; “if you've left off business yourself, you needn't interfere with other people.” “I should like a little of that plum-tart,” said Mrs. Maggot; “but I don't see a spoon.” “I'll ring for one,” replied Kneebone, rising accordingly; “but I fear my servants are gone to bed.” Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced chaunting a snatch of a ballad:—
Once on a time, as I've heard tell.
In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell;
A carpenter he was by trade,
And money, I believe, he made.
With his foodle doo!
This carpenter he had a wife,
The plague and torment of his life,
Who, though she did her husband scold,
Loved well a woollen-draper bold.
With her foodle doo!
“I've a toast to propose,” cried Sheppard, filling a bumper. “You won't
refuse it, Mr. Kneebone?”
“He'd better not,” muttered Blueskin.
“What is it?” demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table,
and took up a glass.
“The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood,” replied Jack.
Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted,
while Blueskin resumed his song.
Now Owen Wood had one fair child,
Unlike her mother, meek and mild;
Her love the draper strove to gain,
But she repaid him with disdain.
With his foodle doo!
“Peace!” cried Jack.
But Blueskin was not to be silenced. He continued his ditty, in spite of
the angry glances of his leader.
In vain he fondly urged his suit,
And, all in vain, the question put;
She answered,—“Mr. William Kneebone,
Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.”
With your foodle doo!
“Thames Darrell has my heart alone,
A noble youth, e'en you must own;
And, if from him my love could stir,
Jack Sheppard I should much prefer!”
With his foodle doo!
“Do you refuse my toast?” cried Jack, impatiently.
“I do,” replied Kneebone.
“Drink this, then,” roared Blueskin. And pouring the contents of a small
powder-flask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture.
At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel.
“What did you ring for, Sir?” she asked, eyeing the group with
astonishment.
“Your master wants a few table-spoons, child,” said Mrs. Maggot.
“Leave the room,” interposed Kneebone, angrily.
“No, I shan't,” replied Rachel, saucily. “I came to see Jack Sheppard, and
I won't go till you point him out to me. You told me he was going back to
Newgate after supper, so I mayn't have another opportunity.”
“Oh! he told you that, did he?” said Blueskin, marching up to her, and
chucking her under the chin. “I'll show you Captain Sheppard, my dear.
There he stands. I'm his lieutenant,—Lieutenant Blueskin. We're two
good-looking fellows, ain't we?”
“Very good-looking,” replied Rachel. “But, where's the strange gentleman I
saw under the table?”
“Under the table!” echoed Blueskin, winking at Jack. “When did you see
him, my love?”
“A short time ago,” replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously.
“The plot's out!” cried Jack. And, without another word, he seized the
table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles,
jugs, and glasses far and wide. The crash was tremendous. The lights
rolled over, and were extinguished. And, if Rachel had not carried a
candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness. Amid the
confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's
head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the
jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him,
dragged him to the ground. In the struggle the pistol went off, but
without damage to either party. The conflict was of short duration; for
Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. He was speedily
disarmed; and the rope and gag being found upon him, were exultingly
turned against him by his conqueror, who, after pinioning his arms tightly
behind his back, forced open his mouth with the iron, and effectually
prevented the utterance of any further outcries. While the strife was
raging, Edgeworth Bess walked up to Rachel, and advised her, if she valued
her life, not to scream or stir from the spot; a caution which the
housekeeper, whose curiosity far outweighed her fears, received in very
good part.
In the interim, Jack advanced to the woollen-draper, and regarding him
sternly, thus addressed him:
“You have violated the laws of hospitality, Mr. Kneebone, I came hither as
your guest. You have betrayed me.”
“What faith is to be kept with a felon?” replied the woollen-draper,
disdainfully.
“He who breaks faith with his benefactor may well justify himself thus,”
answered Jack. “I have not trusted you. Others who have done, have found
you false.”
“I don't understand you,” replied Kneebone, in some confusion.
“You soon shall,” rejoined Sheppard. “Where are the packets committed to
your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?”
“The packets!” exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm.
“It is useless to deny it,” replied Jack. “You were watched to-night by
Blueskin. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father
Spencer. Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to
deliver,—one to another priest, Sir Rowland's chaplain, at
Manchester, the other to Mr. Wood. Produce them!”
“Never!” replied Kneebone.
“Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!” replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and
pointing it deliberately at his head. “I give you one minute for
reflection. After that time nothing shall save you.”
There was a brief, breathless pause. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety.
“It is past,” said Jack, placing his finger on the trigger.
“Hold!” cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; “they are nothing to
me.”
“But they are everything to me,” cried Jack, stooping to pick them up.
“These packets will establish Thames Darrell's birth, win him his
inheritance, and procure him the hand of Winifred Wood.”
“Don't be too sure of that,” rejoined Kneebone, snatching up the staff,
and aiming a blow at his head, which was fortunately warded off by Mrs.
Maggot, who promptly interposed her cudgel.
“Defend yourself!” cried Jack, drawing his sword.
“Leave his punishment to me, Jack,” said Mrs. Maggot. “I've the Bridewell
account to settle.”
“Be it so,” replied Jack, putting up his blade. “I've a good deal to do.
Show him no quarter, Poll. He deserves none.”
“And shall find none,” replied the Amazon. “Now, Mr. Kneebone,” she added,
drawing up her magnificent figure to its full height, and making the heavy
cudgel whistle through the air, “look to yourself.”
“Stand off, Poll,” rejoined the woollen-draper; “I don't want to hurt you.
It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman.”
“I'll forgive you all the harm you do me,” rejoined the Amazon. “What! you
still hesitate! Will that rouse you, coward?” And she gave him a smart rap
on the head.
“Coward!” cried Kneebone. “Neither man nor woman shall apply that term to
me. If you forget your sex, jade, I must forget mine.”
With this, he attacked her vigorously in his turn.
It was a curious sight to see how this extraordinary woman, who, it has
been said, was not less remarkable for the extreme delicacy of her
features, and the faultless symmetry of her figure, than for her wonderful
strength and agility, conducted herself in the present encounter; with
what dexterity she parried every blow aimed against her by her adversary,
whose head and face, already marked by various ruddy streams, showed how
successfully her own hits had been made;—how she drew him hither and
thither, now leading him on, now driving him suddenly back; harassing and
exhausting him in every possible way, and making it apparent that she
could at any moment put an end to the fight, and only delayed the
finishing stroke to make his punishment the more severe.
Jack, meanwhile, with Blueskin's assistance, had set the table once more
upon its legs, and placing writing materials, which he took from a shelf,
upon it, made Shotbolt, who was still gagged, but whose arms were for the
moment unbound, sit down before them.
“Write as I dictate,” he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a
pistol to his ear.
Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural
sound.
“Write as follows,” continued Jack. “'I have succeeded in capturing Jack
Sheppard. The reward is mine. Get all ready for his reception. In a few
minutes after the delivery of this note he will be in Newgate.' Sign it,”
he added, as, after some further threats, the letter was indited according
to his dictation, “and direct it to Mr. Austin. That's well. And, now, to
find a messenger.”
“Mr. Kneebone's man is in the shop,” said Rachel; “he'll take it.”
“Can I trust him?” mused Jack. “Yes; he'll suspect nothing. Give him this
letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of
time. Blueskin will go with you,—for fear of a mistake.”
“You might trust me,” said Rachel, in an offended tone; “but never mind.”
And she left the room with Blueskin, who very politely offered her his
arm.
Meanwhile, the combat between Kneebone and Mrs. Maggot had been brought to
a termination. When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon
watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it.
“That's for Mrs. Wood,” she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp.
“I'm at your mercy, Poll,” rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
“That's for Winifred,” vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily
upon his shoulder.
“Damnation!” cried Kneebone.
“That's for myself,” rejoined Mrs. Maggot, dealing him a blow, which
stretched him senseless on the floor.
“Bravo, Poll!” cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now
tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. “You've given him a broken
head, I perceive.”
“He'll scarcely need a plaister,” replied Mrs. Maggot, laughing. “Here,
Bess, give me the cord, and I'll tie him to this chest of drawers. I don't
think he'll come to himself too soon. But it's best to be on the safe
side.”
“Decidedly so,” replied Edgeworth Bess; “and I'll take this opportunity,
while Jack's back is turned,—for he's grown so strangely particular,—of
easing him of his snuff-box. Perhaps,” she added, in a whisper, as she
appropriated the before-named article, “he has a pocket-book.”
“Hush!” replied Mrs. Maggot; “Jack will hear you. We'll come back for that
by and by, and the dressing-gown.”
At this moment, Rachel and Blueskin returned. Their momentary absence
seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding
appeared to subsist between them.
“Have you sent off the note?” inquired Jack.
“We have, Captain,” replied Blueskin. “I say we, because Miss
Rachel and I have struck up a match. Shall I bring off anything?” he
added, looking eagerly round.
“No,” replied Jack, peremptorily.
Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it
over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped
his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. He, next, seized the
unlucky jailer, and forced him along, while Blueskin expedited his
movements by administering a few kicks behind.
When they got to the door, Jack opened it, and, mimicking the voice of the
jailer, shouted, “Now, my lads, all's ready?”
“Here we are,” cried the chairmen, hurrying out of the court with their
swinging vehicle, “where is he?”
“Here,” replied Sheppard, dragging out Shotbolt by the collar, while
Blueskin pushed him behind, and Mrs. Maggot held up a lantern, which she
found in the shop. “In with him!”
Places, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly gazette mentioned Gay.The prodigious success of the “Beggars' Opera,” which was produced about four years after the date of this history, rewarded him for all his previous disappointments, though it did not fully justify the well-known epigram, alluding to himself and the manager, and “make Gay rich, and Rich gay.” At the time of his present introduction, his play of “The Captives,” had just been produced at Drury Lane, and he was meditating his “Fables,” which were published two years afterwards. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. His age was not far from fifty. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Why he paid so much attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the “Atlas of the sword,” as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and “skull covering,” and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and close-shaven pate. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathern-looking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. The above description of
—the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains—may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that “there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;” but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Seconded by his strength and temper, his skill rendered him invincible and he is reputed never to have lost a battle. His imperturbable demeanour in the fight has been well portrayed by Captain Godfrey, who here condescends to lay aside his stilts. “His right leg bold and firm, and his left, which could hardly ever be disturbed, gave him a surprising advantage, and struck his adversary with despair and panic. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure.” Figg's prowess in a combat with Button has been celebrated by Dr. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the “Rake's Progress,” and in “Southwark Fair.” On the appearance of his visitors, Sheppard arose,—his gyves clanking heavily as he made the movement,—and folding his arms, so far as his manacles would permit him, upon his breast, steadily returned the glances fixed upon him. “This is the noted house-breaker and prison-breaker, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner. “Odd's life!” cried Gay, in astonishment; “is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. This is a mere boy. Are you sure you haven't mistaken the ward, Mr. Pitt?” “There is no mistake, Sir,” rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, “I am Jack Sheppard.” “Well, I never was more surprised in my life,” said the poet,—“never!” “He's just the man Iexpected to see,” observed Hogarth, who, having arranged everything to Thornhill's satisfaction, had turned to look at the prisoner, and was now with his chin upon his wrist, and his elbow supported by the other hand, bending his keen gray eyes upon him, “just the man! Look at that light, lithe figure,—all muscle and activity, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it. In my search after strange characters, Mr. Gay, I've been in many odd quarters of our city—have visited haunts frequented only by thieves—the Old Mint, the New Mint, the worst part of St. Giles's, and other places—but I've nowhere seen any one who came up so completely to my notion of a first-rate housebreaker as the individual before us. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected.” As he spoke, a smile crossed Sheppard's countenance. “He understands me, you perceive,” said Hogarth. “Well, I won't dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. Hogarth,” replied Gay. “But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn't extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented—so young, too, for such an old offender. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.” “I am one-and-twenty,” observed Jack. “One-and-twenty, ah!” repeated Gay. “Well, I'm not far from the mark.” “He is certainly extremely youthful-looking and very slightly made,” said Thornhill, who had been attentively studying Sheppard's countenance. “But I agree with Hogarth, that he is precisely the person to do what he has done. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Can I be accommodated with a seat, Mr. Pitt?” “Certainly, Sir James, certainly,” replied the governor. “Get a chair, Austin.” While this order was obeyed, Figg, who had been standing near the door, made his way to the prisoner, and offered him his huge hand, which Jack warmly grasped. “Well, Jack,” said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cut-and-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; “how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Wouldn't take my advice. Told you how it would be. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. Laughed at me, then. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now.” “You're not come here to insult me, Mr. Figg?” said Jack, peevishly. “Insult you! not I;” returned Figg. “Heard of your escapes. Everybody talking of you. Wished to see you. Old pupil. Capital swordsman. Shortly to be executed. Come to take leave. Trifle useful?” he added, slipping a few gold pieces into Jack's hand. “You are very kind,” said Jack, returning the money; “but I don't require assistance.” “Too proud, eh?” rejoined the prize-fighter. “Won't be under an obligation.” “There you're wrong, Mr. Figg,” replied Jack, smiling; “for, before I'm taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from you.” “Have it, and welcome,” rejoined Figg. “Always plenty to spare. Never bought a shirt in my life, Mr. Gay,” he added, turning to the poet. “Sold a good many, though.” “How do you manage that, Mr. Figg?” asked Gay. “Thus,” replied the prize-fighter. “Proclaim a public fight. Challenge accepted. Fifty pupils. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. Fifty sent home. All superfine holland. Wear one on the stage on the following day. Cut to pieces—slashed—bloodied. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. Offer to return it to each in private. All make the same answer—'d—n you, keep it.'” “An ingenious device,” laughed Gay. Sir James Thornhill's preparations being completed, Mr. Pitt desired to know if he wanted anything further, and being answered in the negative, he excused himself on the plea that his attendance was required in the court at the Old Bailey, which was then sitting, and withdrew. “Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack,” said Sir James. “Gentlemen, a little further off, if you please.” Sheppard immediately complied with the painter's request; while Gay and Figg drew back on one side, and Hogarth on the other. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. “I'll make a sketch, too,” he said. “Jack Sheppard's face is well worth preserving.” After narrowly examining the countenance of the sitter, and motioning him with his pencil into a particular attitude, Sir James Thornhill commenced operations; and, while he rapidly transferred his lineaments to the canvass, engaged him in conversation, in the course of which he artfully contrived to draw him into a recital of his adventures. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. All the party were greatly interested by Sheppard's history—especially Figg, who laughed loud and long at the escape from the Condemned Hold. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. “We must change the subject,” remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; “this will never do.” “Quite right, Sir James,” said Austin. “We never suffer him to mention Mr. Wild's name. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.” “I don't wonder at it,” rejoined Gay. Here Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract Sheppard's attention. “And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked Hogarth. “That's scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,” replied Jack. “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not.” “Well said, Jack,” cried Figg. “Never give in.” “Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you'll do what no man ever did before.” A peculiar smile illuminated Jack's features. “There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly. “There's the exact expression I want. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it.” And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass. “I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “Gad! it's a devilish fine face when lit up.” “As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill's shoulder at the portrait. “As like as life.” “The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—“with all the escapes written in it.” “You flatter me,” smiled Sir James. “But, I own, I think it is like.” “What do you think of mysketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him the drawing. “It's like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard. “But it wants something here.” And he pointed significantly to the hand. “I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture. “Will that do?” he added, returning it. “It's better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly. “But you've given me what I don't possess.” “Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. “I don't see how I can improve it.” “May I look at it, Sir!” said Austin, stepping towards him. “No,” replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. “I'm never satisfied with a first attempt.” “Egad, Jack,” said Gay, “you should write your adventures. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive.” “You had better write them for me, Mr. Gay,” rejoined Jack. “If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them,” observed Hogarth. “An idea has just occurred to me,” said Gay, “which Jack's narrative has suggested. I'll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan. I'll not forget your two mistresses, Jack.” “Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope,” interposed Sheppard. “Certainly not,” replied Gay. “I'll gibbet the rascal. But I forget,” he added, glancing at Austin; “it's high treason to speak disrespectfully of Mr. Wild in his own domain.” “I hear nothing, Sir,” laughed Austin. “I was about to add,” continued Gay, “that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. And we'll see whether it won't put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the 'divine' Farinelli at its head.” “You'll do a national service, then,” said Hogarth. “The sums lavished upon those people are perfectly disgraceful, and I should be enchanted to see them hooted from the stage. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. I'll take two apprentices, and depict their career. One, by perseverance and industry shall obtain fortune, credit, and the highest honours; while the other by an opposite course, and dissolute habits, shall eventually arrive at Tyburn.” “Your's will be nearer the truth, and have a deeper moral, Mr. Hogarth,” remarked Jack, dejectedly. “But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—” “Jonathan Wild,” interposed Gay. “I knew it. By the by, Mr. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?” “Me!—no, Sir,” stammered Hogarth, colouring. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. “I suppose I was mistaken,” returned Gay. “You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate.” “A capital caricature that,” remarked Thornhill, laughing. “What does Mr. Kent say to it?” “He thinks so highly of it, that he says if he had a daughter he would give her to the artist,” answered Gay, a little maliciously. “Ah!” exclaimed Sir James. “'Sdeath!” cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “You've ruined my hopes.” “Advanced them rather,” replied Gay, in the same tone. “Miss Thornhill's a charming girl. Ithink a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. But, if I were in your place, I know what I'd do—” “What—what would you do?” asked Hogarth, eagerly. “Run away with her,” replied Gay. “Pish!” exclaimed Hogarth. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion. “Good-b'ye, Jack,” said Figg, putting on his hat. “Rather in the way. Send you the shirt. Here, turnkey. Couple of guineas to drink Captain Sheppard's speedy escape. Thank him, not me, man. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. If not, keep up your spirits. Die game.” “Never fear,” replied Jack. “If I get free, I'll have a bout with you at all weapons. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.” “Give you the best I have in either case,” replied Figg. “Good-b'ye!” And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. “I won't trouble you further, Jack,” he remarked. “I've done all I can to the portrait here. I must finish it at home.” “Permit me to see it, Sir James!” requested Jack. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “What would my poor mother say to it?” “I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack,” observed Hogarth. “What of her?” exclaimed Jack, starting up. “Is she dead?” “No—no,” answered Hogarth. “Don't alarm yourself. I saw it this morning in the Daily Journal—an advertisement, offering a reward—” “A reward!” echoed Jack. “For what?” “I had the paper with me. 'Sdeath! what can I have done with it? Oh! here it is,” cried Hogarth, picking it from the ground. “I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. There's the paragraph. 'Mrs. Sheppard left Mr. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday'—that's two days ago,—'hasn't been heard of since.'” “Let me see,” cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing the advertisement. “Ah!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. “She has fallen into the villain's hands.” “What villain?” cried Hogarth. “Jonathan Wild, I'll be sworn,” said Gay. “Right!—right!” cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. “She is in his power, and I am here, chained hand and foot, unable to assist her.” “I could make a fine sketch of him now,” whispered Hogarth to Gay. “I told you how it was, Sir James,” said Austin, addressing the knight, who was preparing for his departure, “he attributes every misfortune that befals him to Mr. Wild.” “And with some justice,” replied Thornhill, drily. “Allow me to assist you, Sir James,” said Hogarth. “Many thanks, Sir,” replied Thornhill, with freezing politeness; “but Id not require assistance.” “I tell you what, Jack,” said Gay, “I've several urgent engagements this morning; but I'll return to-morrow, and hear the rest of your story. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me.” “To-morrow will be too late,” said Sheppard, moodily. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him. “You have forgotten your knife, Mr. Hogarth,” he observed, significantly. “So I have,” replied Hogarth, glancing at Sheppard. “I can do without it,” muttered Jack. The door was then locked, and he was left alone. At three o'clock, on the same day, Austin brought up Jack's provisions, and, after carefully examining his fetters, and finding all secure, told him if he wanted anything further he must mention it, as he should not be able to return in the evening, his presence being required elsewhere. Jack replied in the negative, and it required all his mastery over himself to prevent the satisfaction which this announcement afforded him from being noticed by the jailer. With the usual precautions, Austin then departed. “And now,” cried Jack, leaping up, “for an achievement, compared with which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!”
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