I was liberated from prison at the end of eight days. I begged hard to be allowed to remain there, but was not permitted. This interval, short as it was, had done much to recruit my strength and rally my faculties; it served besides to instil into me a calm and patient resolve to depend solely on myself; and effacing, so far as I might, all hopes of tracing out my family, I determined now to deem no labor too humble by which I might earn a livelihood.

I am now speaking of fifty years ago, and the world has made rapid strides since that. The growing necessities of our great population, and the wide field for enterprise offered by our colonies, have combined to produce a social revolution few could have predicted once. The well-born and the tenderly-nurtured have now gone forth in thousands to try their fortunes in far-away lands, to brave hardships and encounter toil that the hard sons of labor themselves are fain to shrink from; but at the time I speak of, this bold spirit had not burst into life,—the world was insolent in its prosperity, and never dreamed of a reverse.

By transcribing letters and papers for one of the officials while in jail, I had earned four shillings; and with this sum, my all in the world, I now found myself following the flood-tide of that host which moves daily along the Strand in London. I had breakfasted heartily before I left the prison, and resolving to hoard up my little treasure, determined to eat nothing more on that day. As I walked along I felt that the air, sharp and frosty as it was, excited and invigorated me. The bright blue sky overhead, the clear outline of every object, the brisk stir and movement of the population, all helped to cheer my spirits, and I experienced a sense of freedom, as that of one who, having thrown off a long-carried burden, is at last free to walk unencumbered. A few hours before I fancied I could have been well satisfied to wear out life within the walls of my prison, but now I felt that liberty compensated for any hardship. The town on that morning presented an aspect of more than ordinary stir and excitement. Men were at work in front of all the houses, on ladders and scaffoldings; huge frameworks, with gaudy paintings, were being hoisted from the roofs, and signs of wonderful preparation of one kind or other were everywhere visible. I stopped to inquire the meaning, and was told, not without a stare of surprise, that London was about to illuminate in joyful commemoration of the treaty of peace just signed with France. I thanked my informant, and moved on. Assuredly there were few in either country who had less reason to be interested in such tidings than myself. I possessed nothing, not even a nationality, that I could safely lay claim to. In the hope of approaching prosperity tomorrow, so forcibly expressed in many an inscription,—in all those devices of enthusiastic patriotism, I had no share. In fact, I was like one of another nation, suddenly dropped in the midst of a busy population, whose feelings, hopes, and aspirations were all new and strange to me.

As I came up to Charing Cross a dense crowd stopped the way, gazing with wondering eyes at a great triumphal arch which spanned the thoroughfare, and whose frail timbers gave but a sorry intimation of the splendor it should exhibit after nightfall. Immense draperies floated from this crazy framework, and vast transparencies displayed in tasteless allegory the blessings of a peace. The enthusiasm of admiration was high among the spectators; doubtless, the happy occasion itself suggested a cordiality of approval that the preparations themselves did not warrant; for at every step in the construction, a hearty cheer would burst forth from the crowd, in recognition of the success of the work. My attention, undisturbed by such emotions, was fixed upon one of the poles of the scaffolding, which, thrown considerably out of its perpendicular, swayed and bent at every step that approached it, and threatened, if not speedily looked to, to occasion some disaster. I pointed this out to one beside me, who as quickly communicated it to another, and in less than a minute after, a panic cry was raised that the scaffold was falling. The crowd fell back in terror, while the men upon the scaffolding, not knowing in what quarter the danger existed, stood in terrified groups, or madly rushed to the ladders to escape. The mad shouts and screams of those beneath added to the confusion, and rendered it impossible to convey warning to those in peril. At this instant a man was seen approaching the weak part of the scaffold, and though at every step he took, the ill-fated pole swerved further and further from the right line, he was utterly unconscious of his danger, and seemed only bent on gaining a rope, which, fastened by one end above, hung down to the porch beneath. Wild cries and yells were raised to warn him of his peril, but, not heeding, nor, perhaps, hearing them, he seized the cord and swung himself free of the scaffold.

In an instant the fabric gave way, and, bending over, came down with a terrible crash of falling beams and splintered timber. It fell so close to where I stood that it struck down an old man with whom I had been conversing the moment before. Strangely too, amidst that dense throng, this was the only serious injury inflicted; but he was struck dead,—at least, he only lingered for the few minutes it took to carry him to a neighboring public-house, where he expired.

“It's old Harry; he always said he'd die at his crossing,” said the publican, as he recognized the features.

“He thought it was them new-fashioned curricles would do for him, though,” said another. “He said so to me last week, for he was getting too old to escape when he saw them coming.”

“Old! I should think he was. He was on that there crossing at the coronation,—a matter of fifty years ago.”

“Say forty, my good friend, and you'll be nigher the mark; but even forty sufficed to leave him well off for the rest of his days, if he had but had prudence to know it.”

As I stood thus listening, I leaned upon the broom which I had taken from the old man's hand when I lifted him up.

“I 'll give you a matter of ten pounds for it, master,” said a gruff-looking fellow, addressing me, while he touched the broom with his knuckle. “Five down on the nail, and the rest ten shillings a-week. Do you say done?” Before I could collect myself to understand what this offer might mean, a dozen others were crowding around me with a number of similar proposals.

“You don't know the rule amongst these fellows,” said the landlord, addressing me; “but it is this, that whoever touches the broom first after its owner is killed, succeeds to the crossing. It 's yours now, to work or dispose of, as you like best.”

“He 'll never work it,—he does n't know the town,” said one.

“He'd not know Charley Fox from Big Hullescoat the tailor.”

“He 'd splash Colonel Hanyer, and sweep clean for the Duke of Queensberry.”

“And forget to have change for Lord Bute,” cried another,—a sally so generally applauded that it showed a full appreciation of its truthfulness.

“I 'll try it, nevertheless, gentlemen,” said I, addressing the company respectfully; “and if the landlord will only give me credit for half-a-guinea's worth of liquor, we'll drink my accession to office at once.”

This was agreeably received by all, even the landlord, who ushered us into an inner room to enjoy ourselves.

If I had not transgressed too freely already on my reader's patience by details which have no immediate bearing on my own life, I should have been greatly tempted to revive some recollections of that evening,—one of the strangest I ever passed. Assuredly the guild of which I suddenly found myself a member was not one in which I could have either expected laws and regulations, or looked for anything like a rigid etiquette; yet such was precisely the case. The rules, if not many, were imperative, while the requirements to obtain success were considerable. It was not enough to know every remarkable character about town, but you should also have a knowledge of their tone and temper. Some should be dunned with importunity; others never asked for a farthing; a Scotch accent went far with General Dundas; a jest never failed with Mr. Sheridan. Besides this, an unfailing memory for every one who had crossed during the day was indispensable, and if this gift extended to chairs and coaches, all the better was it.

My brethren, I must do them the justice to say, were no niggards of information. To me, perhaps, they felt a sense of exultation in describing the dignity of the craft,—perhaps they hoped to deter me from a career so surrounded with difficulties. They little knew that they were only stimulating the curiosity of one to whom any object or any direction in life was a boon and a blessing. Hardship and neglect had so far altered my appearance that, even had I cared for it, any artificial disguisement was unnecessary. My beard and moustache covered the lower part of my face, and my hair, long and lank, hung heavily on my neck behind. But, were it otherwise, how few had ever known me! There were none to blush for me,—none to feel implicated in what they might have called the disgrace of my position. I reasoned thus,—I went even further, and persuaded myself there was something akin to heroism in thus braving the current of opinion, and stemming the strong tide of the world's prejudice. If this be my fitting station in life, thought I, there is no impropriety in my abiding by it; and if, perchance, I might have worthily filled a higher one, the disgrace is not with me, but with that world that treated me so harshly.

Though all these arguments satisfied me thoroughly as I thought over them, they did not give me the support I had hoped for. When the hour came for me to assume my calling, I am almost ashamed to say how I shrunk from it. I grieve to think how much more easy for me had it been to commit a crime than to go forth, broom in hand, and earn my livelihood! But I was determined to go on, and I did so. The first week or so was absolute misery; I scarcely dared to look any one in the face. If perchance I caught an eye fixed upon me, I imagined I was recognized. I dreaded to utter a word, lest my voice might betray me. I was repeatedly questioned about old Harry, and what had become of him; and I could see, that with all my attempts at disguise, my accent attracted attention, and men looked at me with curiosity, and even suspicion. Is it not strange that there should be more real awkwardness in maintaining a station that one deems below him than in the assumption of a rank as unquestionably above his own? Perhaps our self-love is the cause of it, and that, in our estimate of our own natures, we think nothing too great or too exalted for us.

Be this as it may, my struggles were very painful; and, far from conforming easily to the exigencies of my lot, each day's experience rendered them still harder to me. Two entire days passed over without my having received a farthing. I could not bring myself to ask for payment, and the crowd passed on, unheeding me. Some who seemed prepared with the accustomed mite replaced it in their pockets when they saw what seemed my indifference. One young fellow threw me a penny as he went, but I could not have stooped for it had my life been on the issue. What a wonderful thing is fortune!—or rather, how rarely can we plot for ourselves any combination of circumstances so successful as those that arise from what we deem accident! These that seemed evidences of failure were the first promises of prosperity. My comrades had given me the nickname of “Gentleman Jack.” The sobriquet attracted notice to me and to my habit of never making a demand; and long ere I came to learn the cause, I found myself deriving all the advantage of it. Few now went by without paying; many gave me silver, some even accompanying the gift with a passing salutation, or a word of recognition. Slight as these were, and insignificant, they were far more precious to me than any praises I have ever listened to in my days of prosperity!

I gradually came to know all the celebrities of the town, and be myself known by them. How like a dream does it seem to me, as I think over those days! When Alderman Whitbread would give me a shilling, and Wilkes borrow a crown of me; when Colonel O'Kelly would pay me with a wink, and Sir Philip Francis with a curse; when Baron Geramb, frizzed, moustached, and decorated, lounged lazily along on the arm of Admiral Payne, followed by a gorgeously-equipped chasseur,—a rare sight in those days! Nor is it altogether an old man's prejudice makes me think that the leaders of fashion in those times had more unmistakably the signs of being Grand Seigneurs than the men of our own day.

I have said that the tide of fortune had turned with me, and to an extent scarcely credible. Many days saw my gains above a guinea; once or twice they more than doubled that amount. I have frequently read in newspapers announcements of the fortunes accumulated by men in the very humblest stations,—statements which, with less experience than my own, I might have hesitated to believe; but now I know them to be credible. I know, too, that many of the donors who contemptuously threw their penny as they passed were far poorer than the recipient of their bounty.

If time did not reconcile me to my lot, yet a certain hardihood to brave destiny in any shape fortified me. I reasoned repeatedly with myself on this wise: Fate can scarcely have anything lower in store for me; from this there can be no descent in fortune. If, then, I can here maintain within me the feelings which moved me in happier days, and live unchanged in the midst of what might have been degradation, there is yet a hope that I may emerge to hold a worthy station among my fellow-men.

I will not affirm that this feeling was not heightened by an almost resentful sense of the world's treatment of me,—a feeling which, combat how I would, hourly gained more and more possession of me. To struggle against this growing misanthropy, I formed the resolve that I would devote all my earnings of each Sunday to charity. It was but too easy, in my walk of life, for me to know objects of want and suffering. The little close in which I lived—near Seven Dials—was filled with such; and amongst them I now dispensed the seventh of my gains,—in reality far more, since Sunday almost equalled two entire days in profit. Thus did I vacillate betwixt good and evil influences,—now yielding, now resisting,—but always gaining some little advantage over selfishness and narrow-mindedness, by the training of that best of teachers,—adversity. How my trials might have ended, had the course of my life gone on uninterruptedly, I cannot even guess. Whether the bad might have gained the ascendant, or the good triumphed, I know not. An incident, too slight to advert to, save in its influence upon my fate, suddenly gave another direction to my destiny; and though, as I have said, in itself a mere trifle, yet for its singularity, as well as in its consequences, requires a mention, and shall have—albeit a short one—a chapter of its own.

The incident I am about to relate has not—at least so far as I know—ever been made public. Up to three years ago I could have called a witness to its truth; but I am now the only survivor of those who once could have corroborated my tale. Still, I am not without hope that there are some living who, having heard the circumstances before, will generously exonerate me from any imputation of being the inventor.

This preface may excite in my reader the false expectation of something deeply interesting; and I at once and most explicitly own that I have none such in store for him. It is, I repeat for the third time, an incident only curious from those engaged in it, and only claiming a mention in such a history as mine.