The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds

The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4) - George W. M. Reynolds


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but little reliance upon the smiles of fortune: nevertheless, let us not banish hope altogether from our bosoms! To-morrow we shall leave this dismal abode, and repair 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 hoped to give thee pleasure. You have known each other from infancy. Methinks I see thee now, a little child, climbing up that hill in 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 sate 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.

       NEW YEAR'S DAY.

       Table of Contents

      IT was the 1st of January, 1839.

      The weather was cold and inclement;—Nature in 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 verdure: the singing of birds had ceased.

      Gloomy and mournful was the face of nature; sombre and lowering the aspect of the proud city.

      So pale—so faint were the beams of the mid-day sun, that the summit of St. Paul's, which a few months back was wont to glitter as if it were crowned with a diadem of gold, was now veiled in a murky cloud; and the myriad pinnacles of the modern Babylon, which erst were each tipped as with a star, pointed upwards to a sky ominous and foreboding.

      Nevertheless, the ingenuity and wonderous 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, in doors, to induce them to forget that winter reigned without.

      Soft carpets, thick curtains—satin, and velvet, and silk—downy beds beneath gorgeous canopies—warm clothing, and cheerful fires, combined to defy the approach of winter, and to render the absence of genial 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 cushions, soft, luxurious, and warm.

      But that cold which was 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, inexorable as a judge, and keen as the north-western 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 malignity of that chill which, engendered in the arctic regions of eternal snow, and having swept over the frozen rivers and the mighty forests of America, had come to vent 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, wept bitter—bitter tears over their suffering and famished children, and cursed the day on which their little ones were born.

      For the winter was a very hard one; and bread—bread was very dear!

      Yes—bread, which thou, Almighty God! hast given to feed those whom thou didst create after thine own image—even bread was too dear for the starving poor to buy!

      How long, O Lord! wilt thou permit the few to wrest every thing from the many—to monopolize, accumulate, gripe, snatch, drag forth, cling to, the fruits of the earth, for their own behoof alone?

      How long shall there exist such spells in the privilege of birth? how long must all happiness and all misery be summed up in the words—

      WEALTH. | POVERTY.

      We said that it was New Year's Day, 1839.

      In the palaces of the great were rejoicings, and music, and festivity; and diamonds glittered—and feathers waved—and 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 dainties spread to tempt the appetite of the aristocracy.

      Ah! there was happiness indeed, in thus welcoming the new year; for those who there greeted its presence, were well assured that it would teem with the joys and blandishments 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 up fat oxen to commemorate the season; the provision-shops teemed with food of the most luxurious and of the 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 want of the merest necessaries 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 joviality 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-rending 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 gaol.

      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 olden 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 apiarist comes and takes all away, begrudging the industrious insects


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