Old London Bridge, A Romance of the Sixteenth Century
Rodwell, G Herbert
1860
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XV.
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"I WISH the devil had you, or you had longer legs; tramp on, I say ! tramp, tramp !" This gentle exhortation was addressed to a poor child of some ten or twelve years of age, who was lagging behind a woman shabbily attired. This woman was rather past the middle age, but still retained the remains of much beauty, of the masculine kind; the girl appeared dejected, and from her limping gait, one might easily imagine her to be sadly fatigued, or that her naked feet were grievously pained by the sharp sand and stones of the ground over which she was travelling. | |
" Mother," said the girl, " I can't, indeed I can't walk faster, unless you let me have my shoes; my feet are bleeding now, and the stones are so sharp I can scarcely stand." | |
" Just now," replied the woman, "you said your shoes hurt you; you're always full of one fancy or the other: there, take'em," she said brutishly throwing them down right upon the feet of the girl, who cried out with pain as they struck against her ancles, " take 'em, and tramp on quickly, or I'll-- " | |
"I will, I will !" replied the girl, rubbing the tears from her eyes with the back or one hand, as she hurriedly pulled on the shoes with the other, " I will try to do everything you wish, if you will but be kinder to me." | |
" Kinder indeed ! a pretty deal I have to be kinder to you for," exclaimed the woman; " why, you've caused me more trouble, than all the six husbands I have had put together. One's generally trouble enough for a woman; but all mine, excepting the last, were what husbands ought to be, early croakers, and died off like gentlemen; no waiting to be told to go. I buried three in one year;" then speaking to herself, she said, "Bel's a tough 'un, but I shall see him out yet; it won't be long before he calls here, at the half-way-house to the other world." As she said this, she turned her head significantly towards a large venerable looking pile -it was the Hospital of St. Giles's in the Fields, where the condemned always took their last drink, on their way to execution at Tybourne. | |
It is strange to observe, how the march of refinement in London, has followed in the wake of the gallows. The elms, or gallows of Smithfield, was surrounded by all the pomp and grandeur of chivalry and regal state. As the gallows journeyed westward, and settled at St. Giles's, the court and high nobility travelled westward too; the last fixed home the gallows found was at Tybourne, and here, has now sprung up an extensive city, as we may say, literally formed of palaces. The gallows may at this instant be regarded as a homeless wanderer; true, it now and then peeps out at Newgate, but as if ashamed of its very self, it quickly vanishes again, and as its visits are now " few, and far between," let us | |
152 | . . hope, ere long, to be able to view it only through the long glass of memory, and talk of it as one of the barbarous things that were. |
Having passeed the Hospital, or Religious house of St. Giles, the travellers soon found themselves in the way to Uxbridge, now called Oxford Street. Along the whole mile and a quarter, the length of this part of the road, there was not a house to be seen, with perhaps the exception of a hedge ale-house, for the accommodation of thieves, as much as for wayfarers. The road was but ill defined, for in many parts it was entirely open to the fields, so that in bad weather, when the part called the road became impassable, the horsemen and waggons turned into the fields and made a road for themselves. | |
The woman and the girl pursued their way until they arrived at a spot, fatal to many of their friends, the far-famed Tybourne Tree. Here stood, amongst others, one enormous tree, and near it the three-sided gallows. The woman looking up at it, said-' I could fill those three sides with jewels, that would hang there and be real ornaments to it; and perhaps I may yet, who knows ?" It was an odd locality for such people to fix their camp in, but at some distance up the road, might be perceived through the trees, an old worn out caravan or two, that had seen better days, for on many parts small portions of gold still sparkled in the sun, and had evidently been most attractive-looking articles at fairs, many years before. | |
" I'm glad we're at home," said the woman, as they approached a very old man, who was sitting upon the steps of one of the vans enjoying the rays of the setting sun, who, starting at her voice, looked up, evidently astonished at seeing her. | |
"What in the name of all the saints has brought you here to-day?' he said; to which the woman replied- | |
" Rather enquire in the name or all the devils, for there's no good in our visit, I can tell you ! it's all along with that girl there." | |
The girl looked at the woman imploringly, as if, although unconscious of having done anything wrong, she feared a severe chastisement. | |
" Don't stand looking like a fool," said the woman to the girl, " I'm too tired to beat you now: take off your shoes, there's no need of wearing expensive articles when there's nothing to be got by it, and then to your shed, and mind you go to sleep, for sleepers can do well enough without eating. The girl left them, and doing as she was told, crept into the little gipsy sort of tent, where she began to cry and bewail her wretched fate. | |
" But what's gone wrong ?" said the old man; " I had not looked for you until to-morrow night at soonest." | |
" Plenty has gone wrong, but don't bother now," replied the woman; "get something to eat, for we've had a long walk, and a hot one." | |
The old man ascended into the room of the caravan, and soon returned with a couple of wooden trenchers, on which was some cold poultry, for, as they took it wherever they found it, it did not signify to them it being a dear commodity this, added to a large flask of wine, made a tolerably tasty repast, and to it they both sat down upon the grass, and enjoyed it exceedingly. Being on an elevated part of the ground, their view extended a long way up the road towards London; the woman | |
153 | casting a glance in that direction, rose from her seat, and placing her hand over her eyes to shelter them from the glare of the sun, exclaimed, " There is more wrong yet, for yonder I see one coming, who never to my knowledge, left his platter while there was anything to be scraped off it." |
She was right, for presently afterwards that oddest of all odd figures, Downy, was seen approaching, riding upon his jackass. It being terribly warm, he was fanning himself with his hat, an odd shaped thing, something like the three cornered cocked hat of the last century; a feather stuck out horizontally from each point, and the sides were richly ornamented with gold studs; his head was quite bald, for he had removed his celebrated blue wig, which now dangled down, the pink tail being tied to one of the large gilt buttons of his coat. He soon related the cause of his flight, for which he got heartily laughed at, and the woman exclaimed, " Why, Downy, you are a greater coward than you are a rogue, and that's saying something. Why, man, it was not for you the search was made, but better birds; but they moulted their plumage, and the hawks were all at fault." | |
Diddle 'em Downy did not exactly understand the meaning of her words, but felt that he had not only disgraced his name by being done, but had by his precipitate retreat lost a good day's engagement. It was too late now to grumble, and he was ashamed to go back, so letting his lovely steed loose, he sat down and partook plentifully of the refreshments offered. They conversed for a time most affably upon the chances of success at the coming Uxbridge fair; and the woman, having plied Diddle 'em Downy plentifully with strong drinks, tried all her power of fascination and persuasion, to tempt him to break his engagement with their rival, with whom he was to perform at Uxbridge; but Downy for reasons best known to himself, and really to his own absolute astonishment, proved honest, and positively refused every o r the woman tendered, who, upon finding she could not make it worth her while, thought it useless to throw away her breath, so was henceforth silent. | |
Diddle'em having got all he wanted, shut his eyes, and became as silent as herself; thus the three sat for some time, each absorbed by their own peculiar thoughts. | |
The sun had now descended below the horizon-the western sky was begining to doff its splendid livery of red and gold, and assume a far more modest, but scarcely less lovely gear of grayish blue, studded with stars of silver. At every step the glorious sun proceeded in his god-like march to drive night round the world, and shower his daily blessings on far distant climes; the timid moon came bolder forth, and then like a weak, but presumptuous queen, usurped for a brief space the throne of night. The last sounds of the feathered choir's evening hymn had died away; the little choristers had sought their leafy homes, and all around was still. At last the old man and his daughter, seeing that Downy had fallen fast asleep, and not caring for him further, arose and left him where he lay, and retired into the van. | |
It was sometime before Downy awoke; when he did, he turned himself over on his hands and knees, and then began to get up, somewhat | |
154 | after the fashion of a cat, that is, he first bent his back into the segment of an arch. When he did get upon his legs, he shook himself once or twice, to call up the energies of his gigantic mind, then perceiving that his friends had deserted him, he determined to take advantage of the cool of the night, and the bright light of the harvest moon, to pursue his journey towards the next fair, which was to be at Uxbridge. |
Amongst that class of persons there was no need of much ceremony, so without disturbing any one to bid them adieu, he caught his donkey, fastened the saddle upon its back, and then wrapping up his wig very carefully-for that wig he regarded as his greatest treasure-he tied a dirty kerchief over his head, and mounting his dapple steed, started at a moderate pace towards Uxbridge. | |
He had not been gone long before the woman, coming from the van, said, as she descended the steps-" Father, keep a look out till I return; I grow more anxious every minute. I'll walk and meet him-the Clipper's not the punctual chap he used to be; he's either got drunk, or there's more mischief in the wind." Having said this she sauntered along towards London, muttering all the way she went. | |
As her form vanished in the imperfect light of the moon, the girl crept from her tent, and having anxiously watched the woman's departure, approached the van, and ascending to the door, knocked gently, and whispered, "Grandfather, mother's gone." The door opened, and the old man appearing, said half kindly, half pettishly, " Child, child, you'll get me into sad trouble one of these days.' | |
" Oh, Grandfather," replied the girl, " you are the only being on earth now, who is kind to me; and I am so hungry, mother has not given me a morsel to-day." | |
" Your mother says," replied the old man, " that if she overfeeds you she shall make you fat, and spoil your beauty." | |
" I often pray to heaven that I could myself spoil what you call my beauty, for then I think mother would turn me adrift, and-and-but I have my own thoughts what I would do then." The old man not having attended to the latter part of the girl's words, he having turned into the caravan, made no remark upon what she had said, but bringing out some little dainty bits he had really kept aside purposely for her, unknown to any one, he said, smiling and kissing her with real kindness, " There, child, you see I had not forgotten you; come up and sit on the top step, and then we shall see more easily when your mother is returning." | |
The girl did not require to be told twice, so running up the steps and sitting down beside the old man, for a moment forgot all her troubles and seemed quite happy. | |
The old man watched the child with great attention, and sighing, said to himself, " Poor thing, were I not so old, so feeble, so dependent, you should not want a friend to save you; but were I to-- they would murder me-no, no." | |
The girl having very speedily finished her meal, looked up in the old man's face with anxiety, and said, " Why are you so serious, grandfather? you are seldom thus when we are alone." | |
The old man, arousing himself from his thoughtful mood, replied, " Oh, | |
155 | child, I fear there's plenty of cause for our all being serious-doyou know what has happened ?" |
" All I know," said the girl, " is, that to-day just as I was being shown dressed in all my finery, as Venus, there was a frightful screaming in our booth, and such a confusion created, that the curtain was closed, and every one was running about in alarm. Presently, mother came hurrying up to me; she was biting her lips and looking as white as ashes, and taking hold of my clothes began to pull them off; she told Sarah, the tight rope girl, to put them on; and then she herself changed dresses with Slopsy Sal; and Ray, the Clipper, too, was at the same time slipping off his beautiful green and gold dress, in which he thinks he looks so fine, and as mother dragged me out the backway, I saw him putting the green and gold on ugly Tom. We hurried away on our road here, and that's all I know about it, grandfather-but there must be something wrong." | |
" There has been very little right, child, since the night you were brought to us. You have forgotten that time, I suppose ?" | |
" No, no, no !" said the girl, beginning to cry bitterly, ' I shall never, never, forget it. And oh, mother did beat me so, the other day; she beat me till she thought she had killed me, only because as we were coming from Rochester, I peeped from the window of the van, to try and see the house in which, when I was a very little child, I was so happy. Oh, grandfather, how cruel it was of that fine lady on the Bridge to turn me away, when she found her own child. She always told me I was her own, and I loved her as my life, and she used to say she loved me; and then there was the gentleman I called my father, I loved him too; and then there was Edward-oh, I shall die, grandfather, I shall die if I think of it." | |
The poor girl cast her head in despair upon the bosom of the old man, and wept as though her young heart were bursting. The old man wept too, and was working himself up to have courage to tell the child all he knew, when he sawhis daughter returning. A word was enough to stop the child's tears, as if by a spell, and make her fly to her retreat beneath the shed, or rather the old covering of a tilt cart, that formed her tent, the old man at the same time retiring with equal precipitation into the van. | |
The woman came on in no very good humour; she mumbled, and grumbled, and growled, and then approached the girl's tent, into which she peeped; but the child was so far schooled in dissimulation, that the sleep she feigned quite satisfied the woman that she was safe and at rest. Presently she heard a sort of ploughman's whistle in the distance, and soon afterwards a countryman came jogging along the road; of him she asked if, as he had come that way, he had seen a man answering the description she gave him. | |
"What shou'd I want to see a mon for ?" said the countryman; "I seed no mon, not holy !" and again beginning to whistle a rustic air, he moved on. He had scarcely gone a dozen paces, ere he turned round, and bursting into a loud laugh, called out, " What, Nan, girl-not know your Clipper ?-then I must be well disguised, i'faith." | |
"Is it really you, Ray ?" said the woman; " but I'd swear it was by that laugh. I think you would joke if you were going to be hanged, as old Sir | |
156 | . Thomas More did when he had his head cut off-but why this disguise ?" |
" Why ? I should think you could guess. It wasn't likely I should wish to be recognised by young Osborne as one of his dear friends of the marsh, was it ?" | |
Just as he had uttered these words, a very slight portion of the woolen covering of the gipsy tent, under which the girl lay, was slowly raised, the part was in the shade, but still something might be dimly perceived-the shadow of a face. It was the girl endeavouring to catch the words they spoke. | |
" There are not many out of our clan," replied the woman, " you would like to be recognised by. But tell me how matters have sped since the morning-it was my anxiety about that which has kept me up here half the night." | |
" Well, then, Nan, sit down here, and I can rest my back against this trunk of a tree ; for I've that to tell you that will take a little time." Between the spot where they then stood and the girl's tent, lay the trunk of a large tree; they both sat down upon the ground, and resting against it, were now very close to the spot whence the child was watching; their backs being turned towards her, she listened in comparative safety. She had caught the name of Osborne, and her heart was throbbing with the thoughts of days now gone; every succeeding word they uttered, created in her breast an interest more and more intense. | |
"Well, you know," said Ray, "you were, as you always are, right to a tittle. You should have been a queen, Nan, for damn me, if any rascally ministers, or bamboozling ambassadors, would have thrown dust in your eyes." | |
" Pshaw !" said the woman, in a tone of contempt, " go on !" | |
"Not an hour, not half an hour elapsed, before, sure enough, all the Hewets were upon us, armed to the teeth with law and mighty authority, as they thought it. I am not one to trust to others' eyes, so had popped on this innocent disguise, that if they did come, as you said they would, I might look 'em boldly in the face, and see myself which way the cat might jump. Talking of jumping, you should have seen Downy jump off the stage, when he saw the officers-but of that anon. In came Master Hewet and Osborne, and their principal witness, as they thought her, that minx Flora Gray. I've marked her, for her share in the business, I can tell her. Oh, you would have split your sides, had you seen the falling of their chops, when bandy-legged Sarah, the rope girl, stood forth as Venus. Oh, it was a glorious hit of yours; but I must own I did not feel very much flattered, when Osborne actually, as he looked at ugly Tom, in my green and gold, seemed to have great doubts whether that ugly rascal was not myself. Flora was the only one not easily to be done; with half an eye she saw that Slopsy Sal was not my beautiful Nan; and the go wouldn't have ended as it did, had not all our troop, man, woman, and child, sworn her out of countenance: for better safety, I ordered the show to be struck at once-it will be here soon But, Nan, although what is past may be a joke, what's to come may not be one. I have seen him to-day, that I would I had never seen. I have seen your husband." | |
"Spikely !" exclaimed the woman, in a whisper so low that the child | |
157 | lost the sound, for she was really Beltham Spikely's wife; " did he see you ?" she said in a louder tone. |
" No, and I hope he never may; the brute's like the dog in the manger; he won't love you himself, and he won't let any one else do so for him. It's my belief that if he did not so thoroughly hate Hewet himself, and could fix the stealing of the child entirely on your shoulders, without confessing his own share as the planner of the scheme, he'd blow the whole affair to revenge himself on you. They tell me it was the child's real mother who screamed out so lustily, and had nearly ruined us all, but they believe her mad, so it may blow over, and we hear no more about it." | |
"We must have been mad ourselves, I think," said the woman, "to have gone so near the lion's den; but who would have guessed that after so long a time, and under such circumstances, the girl Anne Hewet could have been recognised-a mother's eyes alone could have had the sharpness to penetrate such a blinding mist as we had thrown around her: but we must show her no more; her beauty must be turned to a different account; my uncle, the smuggler from Antwerp, is in the river; he shall take her abroad; she'll be worth her weight in gold there, and we be safer by her absence." | |
The distant jingling of bells was now heard, which put a stop to the discourse. Spikely's wife and her admirer rose, and looking in the direction whence the sound proceeded, saw, creeping slowly towards them the carts and vans containing the remainder of the troop and all their worldly treasures. | |
The first van was drawn by two old horses, whose noses hung down so near to the ground, that they seemed as if looking for something they had lost the last time they had been that way; around their necks were hung a few cracked bells, no doubt to keep the poor old things awake. This was the van in which Anne Hewet had been so unmercifully beaten for endeavouring to look once more upon her former happy home. The man who walked at the side, with a large carter's whip over his shoulder, seemed almost as much asleep as the horses. This man was Ugly Tom, and ugly enough he certainly did look, now he had moulted the green and gold, and the beautiful plume of feathers. Behind him came a waggon containing all the poles, platforms and ropes, and enormous bundles of canvass, with which they constructed the principal building of their show. On the top of this sat Slopsy Sal, with her lovely family of six children, the oldest not being more than five years of age, seemed to indicate that four of them, in all probability, formed two pair of twins. There was no necessity to have bells to keep the horses of this waggon awake, for the unceasing crying of the children answered the purpose admirably. This waggon was conducted by one of the most miserable looking creatures ever seen-he did nothing but groan and sigh, and moan, and we might almost say weep. Now, who could this melancholy man be ? Who ? why, Master Merriman, the clown ! When the poor fellow's spirits had sunk quite down into his boots, the only way he could shake them up again, was by a little " ground and lofty tumbling;" so whenever he found the tears coming into his eyes, he flung his heels up into the air, and walked alongside the waggon on his hands; this always had the effect of throwing | |
158 | . his blood into such a charming glow, that he could be quite funny for at least ten minutes afterwards. The last vehicle was the one more richly laden than any, for in it was deposited the whole splendid ward robe of the company, including the green and gold; but there were greater treasures in that four-wheeled cart than mere outward finery, for here reposed the beauties of the troop, the three graces, and Sarah, the bandy-legged tight rope dancer: there was one rather odd passenger in this cart, which, in a small degree, destroyed the elegance of the party, this passenger was a little donkey of about five weeks old; the fact was, this little donkey could not be trusted in the road, for it was always getting under the wheels, because it would not let its mother, a fine fat old jenny ass in the shafts, alone. |
By the side, to use a modern technicality, walked the " walking gentleman" of the company; he was a youth, who would doubtless have been very handsome, but having fallen flat on his face when a baby, he now appeared to have no nose at all; his profile could therefore, not be regarded as quite perfect. This youth was about sixteen years of age, and about two yards and a quarter in length; he was the son of a deceased giant, but so miserably thin, that he went by the name of " Walking-stick." In their little ballets he always played the lover, and he was now playing it in earnest to Sarah. Sarah had just become wonderfully sentimental, and was whispering to her heart the very words that Shakspere afterwards wrote, and took the credit for-she was just saying in her thoughts, that she " wished Heaven had made her such a man"-when, Master Merriman, who had been walking upon his hands further than usual, and was, thereby, thrown into unusually high spirits, destroyed all the romance, by calling out facetiously to her lover, " I say, Walking-stick, just lend me yourself to beat my horses with, for I have no whip." | |
Young Walking-stick would have turned his nose up at him, but for the accident we have before mentioned, so as he could not do that, instead of lending the clown himself, he was about to lend him a kick par derriere, but downy was too much accustomed to practical jokes to be taken off his guard, so tossing his hand up behind him, he caught the heel of the young giant, who immediately found himself flat on his back. | |
Sarah screamed of course, and the graces said it was a disgrace; then Sarah protested that "if her lover did love her, he should shew his love by coining into the cart, for if he took the little donkey on his lap, there mould be plenty of room ;" this being done, and the clown sinking into his usual melancholy, they trudged on quietly enough, until they came to where they found their mistress and her admirer awaiting them. | |
Instead of pitching their tents for the night where they then were, it was thought advisable, in consequence of information brought by Ugly Tom, that they should, as speedily as possible, move as far as they could from the vicinity of London. All was now bustle and preparation for the continuance of their midnight journey. Young Walking-stick's legs being the longest in the company, he was sent off in quest of the blind mare; Master Merriman was employed in harnessing the mule that was to drag the tilt cart; and while this was doing, the remainder of the troop alighted for a while, just to stretch their limbs and take a sup. | |
159 | The old blind mare being found, and attached to the sleeping van- all was ready, except the top being put to the cart. |
" Come, Venus, jump up," said Ugly Tom, giving the tent a kick with his foot to wake her, " get up, or you'll perhaps have your beauty spoilt, by getting one of the ribs of the tilt stuck in your eye." | |
" And serve her right too," said one of the graces, who always thought she herself ought to have been the Venus. " If you stuck 'em in both her eyes it would be no great matter, for they are not much to boast of- they're not bigger than peas." Now the young lady who spoke, no doubt preferred eyes a little larger, her own being some trifle smaller than decent sized lemons-rather of their tint, too, and certainly looking quite as sour. | |
" Up with it," said Ray the Clipper, to the men who were holding the tilt ready to lift it, the moment the girl was from underneath, " up with it, and if she will keep her eyes shut, damn me, but I'll open 'em with a cut or two of this whip!" As he said these words he snatched the carter's whip from Ugly Tom. The men lifted the tilt, when to their utter amazement they found the girl was gone! | |
"What," exclaimed Nan, "gone, impossible !- I saw her lying there not an hour ago, sound asleep. Anne ! Anne !" she called out, " hither instantly, or I'll flay you alive, if you come any of your tricks on me." | |
They all listened, but no sound fell upon their expectant ears. Now a general hunt began, for they thought she must be close at hand- but nowhere could they find her. Wider and wider became the circuit of their search. The moon's last rays had faded as the bright lamp of night sank majestically beneath the horizon. | |
Spikeley's wife became more and more alarmed, for as the darkness increased, their powers to discover the lost one diminished; every lantern they could muster was brought into use, and strange indeed was the effect these flickering lights produced, as they were seen far and near, dancing about, as it were, like goblin spirits of the heath. Every tree and bush was examined, but all to no purpose. One by one they all returned with the same announcement of ill-success; the last who came in was the old man; he trembled from head to foot, and pale was his visage as he told them a rambling story about his having, he was sure, seen a ghost -he said, "he had strayed on and on, until he found himself standing exactly in the centre of the three-sided gallows at Tybourne Tree-it was there, while he stood trembling at the thoughts of the unhallowed spot he stood in, that he had seen a figure flit by, and vanish into the road that led to Edgware." | |
" Fool !" exclaimed his daughter, " you should have told us that at once-ghost indeed, it was the girl herself. Ray, mount and after her ! if she escapes-but you know her value." | |
The Clipper and Ugly Tom took the two best horses of their stud, and mounting them, hurried away as fast as such steeds could carry them, diagonally across the country, so that by coming out some way up the Edgware-road, they might cut off her escape. No great kindness was avinced by either of the equestrians towards their poor beasts-no blow was hard enough-no oath was bad enough to be bestowed upon them. | |
160 | . After having split their hedge-sticks into shreds by beating the poor animals, and exhausting every oath their tongues could utter, they at last found themselves in the main way, or road; here they halted, when having taken a little breath, and allowed their panting steeds to do the like, they placed themselves on either side of the road, and then slowly and as quietly as they could, they crept along towards Tybourne, expecting every moment to meet the surprised and affrighted fugitive. Wherever they came to a bush or tree, they invariably passed behind it, in case the runaway might take alarm at the sound of their horses' feet, and hide herself till they had passed. |
Careful as they were not to leave a chance neglected, still they proved unsuccessful; at one time they believed they had found the treasure they sought; they fancied they saw a female form approaching them; they placed themselves in the deepest shade, then pouncing upon the comer, frightened her into fits, for she thought them thieves, upon which they discovered her to be a poor old woman hurrying to the nearest village for a doctor to attend her dying daughter. Not a few oaths fell from off their tongues as they bade her go on her way. When they had come down the road as far as Tybourne Tree they again halted, uncertain what to do, neither of them liking to face the tigress, Nan, now they had proved unsuccessful.-" I wish the fiends had swallowed the girl," said Ray, savagely, " before she had found her way among us: I was ever against it." | |
"Against what ?" enquired ugly Tom; "there's always been some mystery hanging about that girl, that makes one more than half suspect she's not Nan's child at all. Come Ray, speak out; isn't she the merchant's daughter? you can surely trust Tom Blink-the-gulls, or the devil's in it. Come, tell us who, and what she is ?" | |
"Ask Nan yourself," replied the Clipper, who, we may here mention, gained that honourable title in consequence of his wonderful dexterity at clipping the strings by which the pouches, or pendant pockets were hung at people's sides; the more common name was " cut-purse ;" from this distinguished stock has descended our modern pickpockets. "Ask Nan yourself, an' you dare !" | |
" Yes !" said the other, " and be answered by her teeth instead of her tongue. Not I, i'faith." | |
They stood beneath the tree for a few minutes, and looked around as far as the darkness of the night or rather morning would allow, and then, with reluctant steps, made their way to their companions. | |
Nan and the Clipper went some distance from the rest, and argued the best course to pursue. As the girl knew their intention to visit Uxbridge Fair, it was settled, that they should immediately alter their rout, and push on to St. Albans in the way to Dunstable, and so on by short journeys, exhibiting a day here, and a day there, fill up the time until the great fair at Bedford. The instant the plan was determined upon, the whole camp, as it might be called, broke up, and forming the line, began to retrace their way to Tybourne Tree, round which they passed, and turning sharply to the left, entered the Edgware Road, where we will now leave them to pursue their weary way. | |