The nurse was a tall, middle-aged, powerfully-built woman, with brawny arms, and a countenance that indicated a slight affection for an occasional drop of “something short.” In fact, it was observed by the Brethren on whom she waited, that she never looked sulky when requested to repair to the public-house to order any thing in the shape of beer or spirits; but if entrusted with an errand of another kind—such as the purchase of half a quire of writing-paper or a stick of sealing-wax—it was a very great chance if she would be seen any more until the next day. Her manners were of the free-and-easy school; and she was accustomed to address the Poor Brothers in a half-pitying, half-patronising style, as if they were patients in a hospital or in the infirmary of a debtors’ gaol. If wearied, she would unhesitatingly seat herself without being asked, and glide imperceptibly into a familiar kind of discourse, while wiping the perspiration from her rubicund face with her blue checked cotton apron; and if it were in the cold weather, she would wait upon her masters with a black bonnet, like an inverted japan coal scuttle, on her head—the propriety of leaving the tegumentary article in the passage outside, never for a moment striking the ingenuous and simple-minded creature.

If this excellent woman had any special failing,—besides such little faults as drunkenness, inattention, slovenliness, cool impudence, and deep hypocrisy,—it was a propensity to gossip and a love of scandal. If she were only carrying a pail down the stairs, and met another nurse with a pail coming up the stairs, they must both set down their pails on the landing, and stop to have a quarter of an hour’s chat on the affairs of their respective masters. Then one would whisper how Poor Brother Smith was the meanest skin-flint on the face of the earth; and the other would declare that it was impossible for him to be worse than Poor Brother Webb, who was always complaining and yet never gave her even so much as a drop of gin;—and in this manner the two women would unburthen their minds, to the sad waste of their time and the neglect of those whom they were well paid to render comfortable. But Mrs. Pitkin—for that was the name of the nurse who waited on Mr. Scales and the other gentlemen living in the chambers opening from the same staircase,—Mrs. Pitkin, we say, was a more inveterate gossip than any other charwoman in the place; and, as a matter of course, when she had no trifling truths to retail or make much of, she deliberately and coolly invented a pack of lies, purporting to be the most recent sayings and doings of her masters. The consequence was, that a great deal of mischief resulted at times from these playful exercises of Mrs. Pitkin’s imaginative qualities; and more than one poor Brother was looked upon as an habitual drunkard, or as a sad old fellow amongst the women, without any other ground for the entertainment of such an opinion than the mysterious whispers of Mrs. Pitkin.

Well, it was this same Mrs. Pitkin who made her appearance, as already described, to lay Mr. Scales’s cloth and get the dinner ready.

“What o’clock is it, nurse?” asked Mr. Scales suspiciously.

“Only a little after two,” she replied: but scarcely were the words uttered, when the Charter House bell proclaimed the hour of three. “Well, I’m sure!” she cried, affecting the profoundest astonishment; “I never could have believed it were so late. Deary me! deary me! But it’s all through that disagreeable Mr. Yapp, who would have his cupboard washed out this morning—though I told him it wasn’t near six months since he had it done last.”

“Well—where have you put the potatoes to boil?” demanded Mr. Scales.

“The taturs, sir? Lor, sir—did you order taturs?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, now pretending to seem more astounded than ever. “Well, I’m sure I thought as how you said you’d have your chops without any weggitables at all!”

“Chops!” repeated Mr. Scales, now waxing positively wroth: “I ordered steaks——”

“Steeks!” cried the woman, holding up her hands as if in amazement. “Why—how could I ever have misunderstood you so? But it’s no matter—I can just as well get steeks as chops; and one don’t take much longer cooking than another.”

“Then, am I to understand that you have as yet got neither chops nor steaks?” asked Mr. Scales, subduing his anger as much as possible.

“Lor, sir! how could I go to the butcher’s when there’s three of my masters is inwalids and dines in their own rooms to-day? But I’ll be off at once—and you shall have dinner in a jiffey, I can promise you!”

Thus speaking, the woman walked lazily out of the room; and when the door was closed behind her, Mr. Scales, turning to the captain, said; “Now you perceive how we Poor Brothers are waited upon by these nurses. You heard me give her specific orders to have a steak and potatoes ready for us at two. She comes in at three, and has totally forgotten all about the dinner—for that is the English of it. And yet I dare not complain against her: I dare not even speak harshly to the woman’s face. But should you not imagine that, after her neglectful conduct, she would make all possible haste to get the meal ready? No such thing! Look there,” continued Mr. Scales, motioning Captain O’Blunderbuss to the window: “she has fallen in with another nurse, and they are stopping to have a gossip. Now they are going out together; and before we shall see Mrs. Pitkin again, she will have paid a tolerably long visit with her companion to the bar of the Fox and Anchor.”

“Be Jasus! and shall I be afther her, my dear frind?” demanded Captain O’Blunderbuss, rushing towards the door.

“It is useless,” said Mr. Scales, holding him back: “we must have patience. But do you see that old man, standing apart from the rest——”

“And laning on a stick?” cried the captain.

“The same,” returned the good-natured and communicative Brother. “Observe how pensive—how melancholy he seems! That is Brother Johnson—late Alderman and once Lord Mayor of London.”

“Be Jasus! and I ricollict!” exclaimed the captain: “’tis the hero of the Romford Bank affair.”

“Precisely so,” responded Mr. Scales. “And now do you perceive that short, stout, elderly gentleman, leaning on the arm of a friend from outside——”

“He walks as if he was blind,” interrupted the captain.

“And blind he unfortunately is,” said Mr. Scales: “but not irremediably so. There is every prospect that, with care and good medical advice, he will recover his sight. He is a man who has made some noise in the world—but with high honour to himself: in a word, he is Valcrieff, the celebrated dramatic author.”

“And a most rispictable-looking gintleman he is,” observed the captain. “I’ve laughed many times at his farces, and little thought I should iver have the pleasure of seeing the writer-r himself, even at a disthance.”

“There is one inmate of this establishment,” said Mr. Scales, quitting the window and returning to his seat—an example followed by the gallant officer,—“there is one inmate whose early history is very peculiar; and the most extraordinary circumstance connected with the matter is that he believes the events of his younger days to be entirely unknown and unsuspected within these walls. I should not point him out to you, even were he amongst the loungers in the court at this moment: neither shall I mention his name—or rather the name by which he is here known. But I may state that thirty years ago I knew him by the name of Macpherson. We met in Paris, shortly after the peace—and he was living, with a beautiful French woman as his mistress, in very handsome apartments. Her name was Augustine; and she certainly was the most lovely creature I ever saw in my life. Macpherson adored her; and while he believed that she worshipped him in return, her infidelity was notorious amongst all his friends. He had succeeded to a small fortune, by the death of an uncle; and, on visiting Paris, had fallen in with this young lady, whose charms immediately enthralled him. She was a banker’s cast-off mistress, and was glad to ensnare a handsome English gentleman in her meshes. Her extravagance was unbounded; and in less than a year Macpherson’s resources were completely exhausted. It would appear that Augustine at that period introduced to him a Frenchman whose real name was Legrand, but whom she passed off as her brother. This Legrand was elegant in manners and agreeable in conversation, as well as handsome in person; but he was unprincipled, dissipated, and of broken fortunes. From all I subsequently learnt, and from the knowledge I had of Macpherson’s character, I feel convinced that Legrand made my English friend his dupe and victim; and that Macpherson was entirely innocent of any intentional complicity. Certain however it is that one morning I was thunder-struck by the tidings that Macpherson had been arrested on a charge of forgery. I hastened to him in prison; and he declared most solemnly that he was guiltless. It was true that he had negotiated the instrument which was discovered to be fictitious: but he assured me that Legrand had induced him to do so. The examination before the Judge of Instruction led to the arrest of Legrand; and it was confidently hoped by Macpherson and his friends that the real truth would transpire at the trial. But when the case came on, Augustine—the faithless, treacherous, ungrateful Augustine—gave such evidence as entirely to exonerate Legrand and fix all the guilt upon Macpherson. She committed perjury; but her tale was believed,—for it was consistent, though false—delivered with plausibility, though based on the most damnable deceit. In fact, the vile woman sacrificed the Englishman whom she had ruined and never loved, to the French paramour whom she had passed off as her brother; and Macpherson, being pronounced guilty, was condemned to be exposed and branded upon a scaffold on the Place de GrÊve, and to be afterwards imprisoned for a period of five years at the galleys at Brest. Myself and another English gentleman drew up a memorial to the King, setting forth a variety of circumstances in favour of Macpherson, and imploring the royal mercy on behalf of our unhappy fellow-countryman. Louis the Eighteenth referred the petition to the Judges who had condemned Macpherson, and as they stated that they had taken every thing into consideration when they pronounced his punishment, the Minister of Justice and Grace could not hold out to the petitioners any hopes of a commutation of the sentence. We had endeavoured to obtain the remission of that portion of the sentence which condemned Macpherson to be publicly exposed and marked with a red hot iron—but, alas! this indignity could not be spared the unhappy sufferer. Well, the fatal morning arrived, when this dread public ceremony was to take place. Macpherson rose early, and devoted unusual care to his toilet. His countenance was ghastly pale—his eyes were fixed,—his lips compressed. He did all he could to appear calm, and endeavoured to meet his punishment with firmness. But to be condemned for an offence of which he was innocent;—to see the fairest years of his youth destined to be passed in a horrible state of servitude;—to know that he was about to be branded with an infamous mark, which he would carry with him to the grave,—all this must have been beyond human endurance. Had he been really guilty, his sufferings would not have been so acute;—had he deserved his punishment, he would have bowed to those destinies which he would have thus prepared for himself. But he was innocent—innocent; and the world did not know it:—only a few faithful friends consoled him by the assurance that they believed in his innocence. On the fatal morning which was to consummate his disgrace, I visited him early; but when I found him so apparently resigned and calm, I did not offer those consolations which I would otherwise have tendered, and which were all I had now to offer.

“It was about eleven o’clock, in the forenoon,” continued Mr. Scales, “when Macpherson was summoned to the lobby of the prison. Two gendarmes were waiting there to conduct him to the Place de GrÊve, where he was to remain exposed for two hours, and then be marked. He resigned himself to their custody, and, accompanied by myself, proceeded towards the great square where the hideous ceremony was to be performed. Immense crowds were collected in all the avenues leading to the Place, which was itself thronged to excess. Two lines of soldiers kept a pathway clear for the march of the prisoner up to the foot of the scaffold. He did not cast his eyes downwards:—nor did he glance to the right or to the left; but he kept them fixed upon the scaffold towards which he was advancing. He ascended the ladder with a firm step, accompanied only by the gendarmes; for I was compelled to remain below. The moment he appeared upon the platform, a tremendous shout arose from the thousands and thousands of spectators assembled to witness his punishment; but no indignity of a violent nature was offered to him. He cast a hurried and anxious glance around: the whole square seemed literally paved with human faces, which were continued up every street communicating with the GrÊve, as far as he could see. The quay behind him, the bridges, the windows and roofs of all the houses, and even the towers of NÔtre Dame and the parapet of the Hotel-de-Ville were crowded with human countenances. Macpherson remained exposed for two hours, seated upon a chair on the scaffold, while the populace, with hyena-yells and laughter, were contemplating him as if he were a wild beast which they delighted to see, but of which they were afraid. The idea, whether this penalty were deserved or not, never entered the head of one single individual in that vast multitude;—all that they cared about was the man and his punishment—and both were there! At the expiration of the two hours, the crowd suddenly opened, and the public executioner, attended by his two sons, appeared at the foot of the scaffold. One of the lads carried a small iron pot, at the bottom of which there was a grating: in this vessel was a bright fire of red hot cinders and charcoal. The other boy carried an iron implement in his hand. It was like a very small shovel, with a tolerably long handle. The three wretches ascended the ladder, and the shouts and the hootings of the mob recommenced with increased violence as the public functionary bowed jocosely to Macpherson. A horrible laugh issued from those who stood nearest, and who comprehended the fashion of the executioner’s salute. This individual then arranged his paraphernalia in a convenient manner. He placed the brazier close to the convict’s chair, and put the shovel-looking implement into the fire. He next proceeded to inform Macpherson that he must take off his coat and other vestments from his left shoulder. The prisoner obeyed mechanically. He doffed his coat and his waistcoat on the left side; and the executioner instantly cut a large square piece out of his shirt, just above the left shoulder-blade, immediately above the curve of the shoulder. The most breathless suspense now prevailed; and not a cry—not a murmur was heard throughout the dense masses of people wedged together around. ‘Take courage, my boy,’ said the executioner, half ironically and half in pity; ‘it will only be the affair of a few moments.’ I heard him make these remarks—for I was close by the scaffold. He then proceeded to strap the convict tightly down in his chair, confined his arms and legs, and twisted the cords in such a manner around his body and the back of the seat that he was rendered as motionless and powerless as if he were a statue. Ten minutes elapsed, and the thick part of the iron was by that time red hot. This was the crowning moment of the whole day’s amusement—an amusement provided by the law that forbade bull-baits and punishes cruelty to animals! The executioner stooped down, seized the iron, and applied it to Macpherson’s flesh—to that bare part which the square cut out of the shirt had left exposed. The iron hissed on the young man’s shoulder; and a fearful yell escaped his lips. The iron remained upon the flesh for two or three instants: the sufferer writhed in agony; but only that one loud, long, and piercing cry escaped his lips. The implement was withdrawn;—one of the executioner’s sons placed a cup-full of water to the convict’s lips, and thus saved him from fainting in the chair. The cords were then unbound,—the young man’s dress was adjusted,—and the gendarmes told him that they were ready to convey him back to prison. As he passed through the dense multitude that had witnessed his punishment, he now hung down his head—abashed and ashamed. Even had he not felt the smart of the burn upon his back, the knowledge that he was branded with the mark of infamy would have been sufficient thus to humble and subdue him. Women held up their children to gaze upon him as he passed along;—he heard an old father bid his son take warning from the example he had just witnessed; and as he emerged from the crowd, and entered a comparatively deserted street, on his way back to prison, he caught the following words which were uttered, with a laugh, by one spectator to another,—‘Oh! there’s the man who has just been marked!’—‘Marked! eh—and with a scar that he would carry to his grave!’ thought I, shuddering from head to foot. He returned to the prison of La Force; and the moment he entered the lobby, he fell into my arms; for I had walked by his side from the Place de GrÊve. The courage of the man now failed him altogether; and he burst into a violent passion of grief. The tears flowed in torrents from his eyes; his breast heaved convulsively. I endeavoured in vain to console him; and then I thought it best to allow his agony to have full vent, and he would feel relieved. The truth of this opinion was speedily confirmed; and, when Macpherson dried his tears, he exclaimed, ‘Now that the first bitterness of my career of misery is over, I feel nerved and resigned to encounter the ills which heaven has in store for me.’—‘My dear friend,’ I said, ‘you must yet hope for many happy years: the term of your incarceration will soon pass away, and you will then hasten to England, where friends will be prepared to receive you with open arms, and enable you to forget the sorrows that will then be over!’—‘Alas!’ he cried—and the words still ring in my ears,—‘how can I forget all this degradation and infamy? How can I ever again appear in the great world, every member of which will have read my trial, and many of whom have this day seen me writhing beneath the hot iron in the hands of the public executioner? Even supposing my innocence be eventually proved, and that all moral infamy be separated from my name, who will remove the scar from my shoulder? who will not remember that for five years I shall have herded with the refuse of mankind? who will believe that, even if guiltless I went to the galleys, uncontaminated I have been released from them? What father will entrust his daughter to the convict? what mother will consent to the union of her child with a man who has been publicly marked upon the scaffold? what brother would allow his sister, pure and chaste, to link herself to one whose outset in life has been so horribly characterised as mine? And lastly, lastly,’ added he, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, and clenching his fists and grinding his teeth as he spoke,—‘and lastly, who can remove the deep, deep scar from my heart, even should there be a physician skilful enough to efface the one upon my shoulder?’—I was then compelled to take leave of him; and, on the following day, he was removed to BicÊtre, and lodged with the other convicts who were about to travel the same road together. He now found that his situation was wretched indeed. Compelled to associate with men who had been guilty of the most horrible crimes, and who gloried in their infamy, his ears were offended with their obscene conversation and their fearful blasphemies; and he was ill-treated by his fellow prisoners, because he would not laugh at their jokes or join in their revolting discourse. If he threatened to complain, he was reviled and mocked. But I shall hasten to the end of my story—or at least to this part of it. The day for the departure of the Chain of Galley-Slaves arrived; and I took leave of my unfortunate friend. He was conducted to Brest, where he worked on the port for a short time; and then, on account of his good conduct, he was made a clerk in the office of the Governor. This was the last account I heard of him while he was at the Galleys; for just at that period the death of a distant relative called me to England, and the inheritance of some property was accompanied with the condition that I should change my name to that of the individual whose fortune thus devolved upon me.

“Six years had passed,” continued Mr. Scales,—“six years since the events which I have just related to you, when accident enabled me to obtain a complete assurance of that which I had all along fully believed,—namely, the innocence of Macpherson respecting the forgery. I was passing down Aldersgate Street late one evening, when a sudden shower began to fall; and I entered a gate-way for protection, having no umbrella with me, and there being no hackney-coach stand near. Almost immediately afterwards, a gentleman in a cloak took refuge in the same place; but as I was standing farther in the gate-way than he, and as it was pitch dark there, we did not observe each other’s countenance. Presently he stepped out into the street to see if the rain continued; and I noticed that he was accosted by a female, dressed in gaudy attire, and who murmured something to him in French, to which he did not however pay immediate attention. But an exclamation from her lips—an exclamation of surprise, which was instantly followed by the mention of his name—aroused him from his reverie. He gazed at the female who thus appeared to recognise him; and, by the light of the adjacent lamp, the well-known but somewhat altered countenance of Augustine was revealed to him and myself at the same time. Amazement rooted me to the spot, and compelled me to become a listener. ‘What, Augustine!’ cried Macpherson—for he it was: and all the while my presence was unsuspected.—‘Yes, Augustine—that is my name!’ said the young lady, somewhat flippantly, ‘But what are you doing in London?’ she asked immediately afterwards, and in an altered tone.—‘How can you ask me, Augustine, after my present pursuits or my future prospects, when you were the principal agent in consummating my ruin in Paris?’ demanded Macpherson. ‘Oh! you know not the serious injury—the irreparable injury which you have inflicted upon me. All my hopes, all my endeavours, have one after another been defeated and destroyed by the consequences of that fatal period. My life is a series of misfortunes, of strugglings against adversity, of ups and downs, of long intervals of misery, with short and distant gleams of happiness; and this career of sorrows and disappointments, was prepared and marked out by the infernal schemes of yourself and Legrand. Oh! inauspicious was the day on which I first became acquainted with you and the miscreant whom you represented to be your brother?’—‘And will you believe me when I assure you that I have never known a moment’s peace since the fatal moment when I bore false evidence against you in the French tribunal?’ exclaimed Augustine emphatically. ‘I was compelled to take that step, although repugnant to my feelings; for I had not then lost all principle,’ she added mournfully. ‘Legrand possessed such power over me; and I also knew that he was as capable of sacrificing me as well as yourself to his own interests, if I did not fall into his views. That false step on my part has reduced me to my present state of degradation; I became reckless and ceased to sustain even the appearance of respectability which I had observed while I was living with you. Legrand was killed in a quarrel at a gambling-house; and I then became the mistress of——.’—‘Oh! distract me not with a catalogue of your vices, Augustine,’ exclaimed Macpherson, interrupting her recital. ‘Can I sympathise with you, who have caused my ruin? can I commiserate with one whom, were I vindictive, I should crush beneath my heel? Oh! could you speak to me of the means of redeeming my character, which is lost—innocent though I am, as well you know,—could you give me back my peace of mind, my self-respect, my confidence in myself, the esteem and respect of men, and the enjoyment of an unsullied name,—could you efface the mark from my shoulder, Augustine, and wipe from my memory the dread impression of the exposure in the Place de GrÊve with the five long years’ sojourn at the galleys,—could you do all this, Augustine, I would throw myself at your feet, I would forgive you the wrongs I have endured, I would almost worship you!’—‘There is something which may yet be done,’ said Augustine, after a long pause, ‘which would partially remedy the evil, and which would at all events prove my contrition for the part that I enacted in the matter.’—‘And what is it that you propose?’ demanded Macpherson: ’to what do you allude?’—‘I would willingly make a confession which would establish your innocence, and so far retrieve your character in the eyes of the world,’ said Augustine.—‘But the world reviles me, and cries shame upon me, without waiting to ask itself if I am really guilty!’ returned Macpherson, bitterly.—‘The thinking portion of the community,’ began the frail woman earnestly, ‘will ever——’.—‘That is a mere idle phrase, Augustine,’ interrupted Macpherson. ‘There is no thinking portion, as a complete section, of any community. Ask any individual singly and alone, if he would scorn and shun a man who had endured an infamous punishment, but who was innocent of the crime attributed to him, and he would launch forth into an eulogium of the liberality of his own views, and indulge in a tirade against the narrow-mindedness of his neighbours. He would say, “Prove your innocence, and I will be your friend.” So would reply every one whom you thus questioned individually. But take all those persons together—assemble them in one room—invite them all to a banquet—and then introduce amongst them the man concerning whom they had singly expressed so much liberality of opinion; and collectively they would scorn—they would shun him,—they would hunt him from their company—they would expel him as if he were infected with a pestilence! Where, then, is the thinking portion of society? of what men is it composed? who can separate the section from the mass? Talk no more of proving my innocence, but let me now ask you a question relative to your own position.’—‘My position!’ repeated the young woman bitterly; ‘oh! I feel its degradation so thoroughly, that it appears to me as if every body must see and appreciate it also! My shame clings to me, like a mass of dingy cobwebs to a wall: I cannot shake it off; I cannot divest myself of the sense of its utter loathsomeness; for if I seek to brush it away with one hand, it clings to the other. I dare not go to church to seek the comforts of religion:—a prayer in my mouth would be pollution;—I dare not even implore heaven to change my condition, so thoroughly degraded am I in my own estimation! And there are some of us—and when I say of us, you will fully comprehend to what sad sisterhood I belong—who are young, beautiful, and even educated; and from their lips—their red and inviting lips—issue imprecations and blasphemies at all hours. But I am not so bad as that;—nor do I drink as they do! God only knows, however, to what abyss I may fall!’—With these words the wretched creature hurried away in one direction, while Macpherson slowly pursued his path in another. I did not think it right to follow him; for I fancied from the tenour of his bitter outpourings to Augustine, that he wished to be forgotten by the world, and pass as a stranger in the mighty city. Well, years and years elapsed; and misfortunes overtook me. I lost all my property save a very small annuity—a mere pittance insufficient to keep body and soul together;—and through the interest of a friend I obtained a berth in the Charter House. To my surprise I found, on my entrance, that Macpherson was already a Brother;—and thus, after a separation of five-and-twenty years—for it is five years ago that I came hither—our destinies cast us into the same asylum. But, though I recognised him, he knew not me. You must remember that I had changed my name, and my personal appearance had undergone an immense alteration; and therefore it was not singular that he should fail to perceive in me the friend who had consoled him in his misfortunes at Paris in 1816. I have never revealed myself to him within these walls—and never shall. It would doubtless embitter his sorrowful existence were he aware that his secret was known to a living soul in the establishment which his necessities have compelled him to make his home, and from which he will remove to no other abode—save the tomb. Here, then, we dwell—he brooding over the undying sorrow that fills his heart,—I not daring to call him friend and console him.”

At this moment the clock struck four, an hour had elapsed since Mrs. Pitkin had departed with a promise to return “in a jiffey;”—and she now reappeared, her countenance much flushed, and her breath exhaling the strongest perfume of the juniper berry.

She however had her excuse: the matron had sent for her on particular business!

“If so, it must have been at the Fox and Anchor,” muttered Mr. Scales: but perceiving that she had brought up a cooked steak in a covered dish, he suffered himself to be appeased by the prospect of dinner;—and it was agreed both by himself and the captain to dispense with potatoes, Mrs. Pitkin having again quite forgotten that they were ordered.

The repast was now served up; and it must be taken as a proof of contrition for previous neglect on the part of the worthy woman, that when she sallied forth for the beer and spirits she only remained a short half-hour away—it being usually calculated in the Charter House that a commission which one might perform for himself in five minutes, occupies a nurse exactly fifty-five to accomplish.

At last Mr. Scales and the captain were enabled to make themselves comfortable; and when the dinner-things were cleared away, hot-water was speedily procured by the aid of a batchelor’s kettle. The poteen was first-rate;—the two gentlemen were in excellent spirits; and the hilarity of the evening was soon increased by the arrival of Mr. Frank Curtis, who had duly received his friend’s letter at Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in the City.