London is a wondrous city for the success with which the most flagrant quackery is accomplished. Things not only improbable, but absolutely impossible, are puffed off with matchless impudence; and, what is more extraordinary still, they obtain an infinite number of believers. Thus we have snuffs which will cure blindness when the most skilful oculists are at fault,—oils and pomatums that will make the hair grow in spite of nature's denial,—cosmetics that will render every skin, though tawny as a gipsey's, white as a Circassian's,—pills so happily compounded as to be an universal panacea, annihilating diseases of even the most opposite characters, and effecting for thirteen-pence halfpenny what all the College of Physicians could not accomplish for millions,—lozenges by which a voice cracked like a tin-trumpet, may become melodious as a silver bell,—ointments that will cure in a week ulcers and sores which have baffled all the experience of famous hospital-surgeons for a quarter of a century,—decoctions prepared on purpose to prolong life, although the elixir vitÆ of the alchemists has long been regarded as an absurd fable,—boluses competent to restore to all their pristine vigour constitutions shattered by years and years of dissipation and dissolute habits,—pulmonic wafers efficient to wrestle against the very last stage of consumption, and restore lungs entirely eaten away,—tonics so wonderful that they will even give new coats to the stomach, though the old ones have been destroyed by ardent spirits,—and heaven only knows how many more blessings of the same kind!

Seriously speaking, it is deplorable to perceive how tremendously the millions are gulled by all these details of an impudent and most dishonest quackery. The coiner who passes off a base shilling, representing it to be a good one, is punished as a felon and stigmatised as a villain. But the quack who sells articles which he announces to be capable of performing physical impossibilities, is not tangible by the law, nor does he become branded in the opinion of the world. Such are the conventional differences existing in civilised society!

Of all the demoralising species of quackery practised now-a-days, certain medical works are decidedly the worst. We allude to those beastly things which are constantly announced in the advertisement-department of newspapers, but which, with a scintillation of good taste on the side of the printers, are invariably huddled together in the most obscure nook. It is evident that newspaper-proprietors are ashamed of the filthy advertisements, although they cannot very well refuse to insert them. But we warn all our readers against suffering themselves to put the least confidence in the representations set forth in the announcements alluded to. The works thus puffed off are contemptible as regards medical information, demoralising in their very nature, and delusive in all their promises.

An amusing species of quackery exists with repect to many public-houses. Passing along a thoroughfare, or visiting some fresh neighbourhood springing up in the outskirts of the metropolis, you will probably see a new building, destined for the "public" line, and with the words—"Noted Stout House"—painted on a board, or cut in the masonry. The cool impudence of proclaiming an establishment to be famous for a particular article, before it is even finished, is too ludicrous to provoke serious vituperation. The merit of the place is agreed upon beforehand between the architect and the proprietor. Never mind how worthless the beer to be retailed there may eventually prove, it is a Noted Stout House all the same! But so accustomed are the inhabitants of London to behold such things, that the springing up of such a structure causes no sensation in its neighbourhood: good, easy people that we are now-a-days—we take every thing for granted and as a matter of course!

The Noted Stout House in Helmet Row, St. Luke's—called by its patrons, for abbreviation's sake, the Stout House—was one of those flash boozing-kens which are to be found in low neighbourhoods. And noted it indeed was—not on account of its beer, unless the fame thereof consisted in its execrable nature—but by reason of the characters frequenting it. The parlour was large, low, and dark; and in the evening it was invariably filled with a miscellaneous company of both sexes. Prostitutes and thieves—old procuresses and housebreakers—dissolute married women, and notorious coiners,—these were the principal supporters of the Stout House.

Had Machiavelli once passed an evening there, he would not have declared as a rule that "language was given to man for the purpose of disguising his thoughts;" inasmuch as no attempt at any such disguise at all was made in that place. Every one spoke his mind in the most free and open manner possible,—calling things by their right names—and expressing the filthiest ideas in the plainest phraseology. If foul words were capable of impregnating the air, the atmosphere of the Stout House parlour would have engendered a pestilence.

At about half-past nine in the evening, John Jeffreys sauntered into the establishment, took a seat at the table, and gave his orders to the waiter for the beverage which he fancied at the moment.

Whenever a new-comer appears in a public room of this kind, the company invariably leave off talking for a minute or so, to enjoy a good stare at him; and they measure him from head to foot—turn him inside out, as it were—and form their rapid and silent conjectures regarding him, just as a broker "takes stock" in his mind, with a hasty survey around, on putting an execution for taxes or rates into a defaulter's house.

We cannot exactly say what opinion the company present on this occasion at the Stout House formed of John Jeffreys; but we are able to assure our readers that, much as he had seen of London, and well as he was acquainted with its vile dens and low places of resort, he thought to himself, as he glanced about him, that he had never before set eyes on such a dissipated-looking set of women or such a repulsive assemblage of men.

"Well, and so Mother Oliver's place is broke up at last," observed one of the females, addressing herself to another woman, and evidently taking up the thread of a conversation which the entrance of Jeffreys had for a few moments interrupted.

"Yes—and the poor old creature has been sent to quod by the beaks at Hicks's Hall, till she finds sureties for her good behaviour in future," was the reply.

"What—is that the Mother Oliver you mean, as kept the brothel in Little Sutton Street, t'other side of the Goswell Road there?" demanded a man, desisting from his occupation of smoking, for a few moments, while he asked the question.

"To be sure it is," returned the female, who had previously spoken; "and a bad thing it is for me, I can tell you. I was servant there—and a good living it were. But I'll tell you how it all come about. It was a matter of six or seven weeks ago that a young feller came to the house, quite on his own accord, as you may suppose; and he stayed there three whole days, for he was quite struck, as one may say, with a fair-haired gal which had been lodging with us for some time. Well, he orders every thing of the best, promising to pay all in a lump; and so Mother Oliver gives him tick, like a fool as she was. But at last she wanted to see the colour of his money; and then he bullied, and swore, and kicked up a row, and went away without paying a mag. Well, the debt was given up as a bad job, and we thought no more about it, till we heard a few days afterwards that the house was to be indicted. So off Mother Oliver goes to the Clerk of the Peace: but, lo and behold ye! the young gentleman was a clerk in his office; and not content with reglarly robbing the poor old o'oman, he must try and ruin her into the bargain. Mother Oliver got to see the Clerk of the Peace, and began to tell him all about the trick his young man had played her; but he said he knowed every thing already, that she had enticed the young feller into her house, and that was the reason she was to be indicted. So the thing come on yesterday before the Middlesex magistrates at Hicks's Hall, and Mother Oliver was sent to gaol."

"There's been a reglar rooting out of them kind of cribs all over the parish," observed one of the company; "and it's the same in a many other parishes."

"Yes: but I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed the woman who had related the above particulars; "it's only against the poor sort of houses that these prosecutions is ever got up. Lord bless you! before I went to Mother Oliver's, I was servant in a flash brothel at the West-End—a reglar slap-up place—beautifully furnished, and frequented by all the first folks. It was kept—and still is kept—by a Frenchwoman. I was there as under-housemaid for a matter of seven year; and should have been there till now, only I was too fond of taking a drop the first thing in the morning, to keep the dust out in summer and the cold out in winter."

"Ah—I des say you was always a lushing jade, Sally," observed an individual in his shirt-sleeves, and who seemed to know the woman well.

"Well, old feller—and what then?" cried she, for a moment manifesting a strong inclination to draw her finger-nails down the cheeks of her acquaintance: but, calming her anger, she said, "It don't matter what comes from your lips—so I shan't be perwoked by you. Howsomever, as I was telling you, I was servant in the flash house at the West-End for upward of seven years; and such scenes as I saw! The old Frenchwoman used to entice the most respectable gals there by means of advertisements for governesses, ladies-maids, and so on; and they was kept prisoners till they either agreed to what she proposed, or was forced into it by the noblemen and gentlemen frequenting the place. And all this occurred, I can assure you, in one of the fashion-ablest streets in London. But there was never no notice taken by the parish-authorities; and as for the Society—what's its name again?—that prosecutes bad houses, it didn't seem to know there was such a brothel in existence. And I'll tell you how that was, too. The Frenchwoman gave such general satisfaction to her customers, and was always treating them to such novelties in the shape of gals, that she was protected by all the gay noblemen and gentlemen at the West-End. Lord bless you! some of her best customers was the Middlesex magistrates themselves; and two or three of the noblemen and gentlemen that I spoke of, was members of the Committee of that very Society which prosecutes brothels. So it wasn't likely that the house would ever be interfered with. I recollect the old Frenchwoman used to laugh and joke with the great Lords and the Members of the Commons that patronised her, about the way they talked in the Parliament Houses, and the bother they made about the better observance of the Sabbath, and so on. It used to be rare fun to hear the old lady, in her broken English, repeating to them some of their fine speeches, which she'd read in the newspapers; and how the gals used to laugh with them, to be sure!"

"You don't mean to say that them Lords and Members, which is always a-going on about the Sabbath, used to frequent the brothel you speak of?" exclaimed a man.

"Don't I, though?" cried the woman, in a tone of indignation at the bare suspicion against her veracity implied by the question: "I do indeed, my man; and I should think you ought to know the world better than to be astonished at it. It was through having the patronage of all them great people, that the old Frenchwoman never got into trouble. But none of the fine brothels at the West-End are ever prosecuted: no one would think of such a thing! It's only the low ones in the poor neighbourhoods."

"Well, I always heard say that poverty is the greatest possible crime in this country," observed the man who had recently spoken; "and now I'm convinced on it."

"I never had any doubt about it," said another. "A rich man or a rich woman may do anythink; but the poor—deuce a bit! That's quite another thing. Why, look at all these Bishops, and great Lords, and Members of the Commons, which are constantly raving about Sunday travelling: don't they go about in their carriages? and ain't Hyde Park always more filled with splendid vehicles on a Sunday than on any other day? The very Bishops which would put down coaches on a Sabbath, goes in their carriages to the Cathedrals where they preach."

"By all I can hear or learn," observed another individual present, "there's a precious sight more religious gammon in the Parliament Houses than anywheres else."

"I should think there is too," exclaimed the woman who had told the tale relative to the brothel-keepers. "Some of them noblemen and gentlemen that I spoke of was the most terrible fellows after the young women that I ever see in all my life; and they was always a bothering the Frenchwoman to send over to France, or down into the country, to entice more gals to the house. The Frenchwoman used to send out agents to entrap innocent creatures wherever she could—farmers' and clergymen's daughters, and such like. I remember what a spree we had with one of the religious Members of the Commons one night. He had been bringing in a bill, or whatever you call it, to protect young females from seduction, and had drawed such a frightful picture of the whole business, that he made all the other Members shed tears. Well, as soon as he'd done, he came straight off to our place, and asked the old Frenchwoman if she had got any thing new in the house. That very day a sweet young gal—a poor marine officer's daughter, who wanted to be a governess—had been enticed to the brothel, and the Member that I'm speaking of gave the old Frenchwoman fifty guineas for the purchase of that poor creatur'."

The woman was entering into farther details, when Wilton and another of the retainers of Jeffreys' mysterious master entered the parlour of the Stout House, both disguised as servants out of place. The place was too much crowded to enable them to converse at their ease: they accordingly all three repaired to a private room, Jeffreys having left at the bar a suitable message to be delivered to Old Death who was well known at that establishment.

Wilton ordered up glasses of spirits-and-water; and when the waiter had retired, after supplying the liquor, Jeffreys proceeded to acquaint his colleagues with the promised tidings relative to Tidmarsh.

"I called at the Bunces' house in Earl Street, Seven Dials, this morning," he said, "and saw Old Death, who was quite delighted when I assured him that I had already found the two friends of whom I had spoken to him, and that that they would be here punctual this evening at half-past ten. I then told him that as the resurrection affair in St. Luke's churchyard would most likely come off to-morrow night, and as I should be engaged the best part of to-morrow on my own business, he had better let Tidmarsh go with me at once and show me the exact spot where Tom Rain was buried. The old man bit directly, and said, 'Well, Jeffreys, you're a faithful and good fellow, and can be trusted. Tidmarsh lives here now, and is up stairs at this moment.'—So Tidmarsh was sent for; and away him and me went together to St. Luke's. In the course of conversation I found out that Tidmarsh, Bunce, and Mrs. Bunce were to go out with Old Death on some business this evening; and that while Old Death came here to meet me, the other three were to wait for him at another flash house in Mitchell Street close by."

"This is admirable!" said Wilton. "We have now the whole gang completely in our power. Fortunately, I have several of our master's people in the neighbourhood; and I will go at once and give them the necessary instructions. Wait here, Jeffreys, with Harding," he added, indicating his colleague with a look; "until I return. My absence will not be long."

Wilton left the room, Jeffreys and Harding remaining alone together.

In a quarter of an hour the Black's trusty dependant returned.

"All my arrangements are now complete," he said, resuming his seat; "and the entire gang must inevitably fall into our hands."

Jeffreys then acquainted Wilton and Harding with the exact nature of the proposal which would be made to them by Old Death; and scarcely were these preliminaries accomplished when the ancient miscreant made his appearance.

"This is business-like indeed—very business-like, my good fellow," said Old Death, taking a chair, and addressing himself to Jeffreys while he spoke. "And these, I suppose," he continued, fixing a scrutinizing glance upon the others, "are the friends you spoke of."

"Just so," replied Jeffreys. "This is Bill Jones," he added, laying his hands on Wilton's shoulder; "and there's no mistake about him. T'other is named Ned Thompson, and knows a thing or two, I rather suspect."

"All right—all right!" chuckled Old Death, rubbing his hands joyfully together. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones—and your's too, Mr. Thompson."

"And we're not sorry to form yours, Mr. Bones," said Wilton, affecting a manner and tone suitable to the part he was playing. "Our pal Jeffreys here has told us quite enough to make us anxious to know more of you."

"And so you shall, my dear friends," exclaimed Old Death. "I can always find business for faithful agents—and I can pay them well likewise."

"Jeffreys has told us that," observed Wilton.

"And I've also explained to them what you want done to-morrow night, Mr. Bones," said Jeffreys.

"Good!" ejaculated Old Death. "Well—is it to be done?"

"There's no manner of difficulty that I can see," said Harding; "and as for any risk—why if the reward's at all decent——"

"The reward shall be liberal—very liberal," interrupted Old Death hastily. "What—what should you say to a ten-pound note a-piece?"

"Deuce take it!" cried Wilton, thinking it would look better to haggle at the bargain: "remember, there's the chance of transportation—and my friend and I are not so desperate hard up——"

"No—no—I understand," observed Old Death, fearful that his meanness had disgusted his new acquaintances and that he should lose their services unless he immediately manifested a more liberal disposition: "I meant ten pounds each on account, and ten pounds more for each when the job is done. Besides," he added, "there's other business to follow on: this is only the first scene in the play that I'm going to get up, and in which you must be prominent characters."

And the aged miscreant chuckled at his attempt at humour.

"What you have now said," observed Wilton, "quite alters the case. Twenty pounds each, and the chance of more work, is a proposal that we can accept. What say you, Thompson?"

"I say what you say, Jones," replied Harding.

"Now then we understand each other, my friends," continued Old Death; "and I will at once give you the earnest-money."

Thus speaking, he drew forth a greasy purse, and presented the two men each with ten sovereigns, which they appeared to snatch up with much avidity.

"I have now nothing more to say to you," resumed Benjamin Bones, his fierce eyes sparkling beneath his overhanging brows with the hope of speedy vengeance on the Earl of Ellingham. "You must place yourselves at the disposal of your friend Jeffreys here, who will inform you how to act and show you precisely in what way my wishes are to be executed. I must now leave you: but to-morrow evening," he added, in a tone of savage meaning, "I shall see you in Earl Street with the coffin!"

"You may rely upon us, Mr. Bones," replied Wilton.

"But won't you stay and take a glass with us?" demanded Jeffreys.

"Not to night—not to night," was the answer. "I took something short at the bar as I passed by; but to-morrow night, my friends—to-morrow night," he exclaimed emphatically, "you shall find a good supper ready for you in Earl Street when you come, and a drop of the right sort."

"So much the better," said Jeffreys: "I like a good supper. But what's your hurry at present, Mr. Bones?"

"To tell you the truth, my dear boy," answered the old man, "I have got three friends waiting for me at a ken in Mitchell Street; and I promised not to keep them longer than I could help. So you must excuse me on this occasion; and, therefore, good bye."

Old Death shook hands with the three men, and took his departure—chuckling to himself at the idea of having secured the services of Jeffreys' friends at so cheap a rate, inasmuch as he would cheerfully have given them, griping and avaricious as he was, three or four times the sum stipulated in order to secure their services in the scheme of carrying out his atrocious plans of vengeance.