Our narrative is about to close: but ere we lay aside the pen, a few observations are requisite in order to render the history of each prominent character as complete as possible. Several have already been disposed of: but there yet remain many in whose fate the reader may feel more or less interested; and we accordingly proceed to sum up in a few words all the particulars which are wanting to the faithful accomplishment of our task.

Mr. Green in due time figured at the Old Bailey, where Clarence Villiers appeared to prosecute him for forgery; but the prisoner pleaded guilty in order to obtain the merciful consideration of the court, and was sentenced to transportation for seven years, instead of for the term of his natural life. Preparatory, however, to his expatriation, he was lodged in one of the convict-hulks at Woolwich; and there he encountered his friend Jack Rily the Doctor, who, instead of consoling the wretched attorney, only laughed at him for the tears which he shed and the useless repinings to which he gave vent. Mr. Green is at this present moment occupied in the healthy but disagreeable task of repairing the high roads in Van Diemen’s Land, in company with some of the greatest scoundrels that ever disgraced the human species; and he even looks back with bitter regret to those times when he was the oppressed, crushed, and despised instrument of James Heathcote. Nor was it a source of solace to Mr. Green when one fine morning, about ten months ago, he recognised the Doctor in a new-comer who was thus added to the gang of convicts: for Mr. Rily, having endeavoured to stir up his brethren in the Woolwich hulk to rebellion, was discovered in the attempt and forthwith packed off to the island which Nature had in the origin made a terrestrial paradise, but which the English Government has converted into “a den of thieves.”

James Heathcote, being utterly ruined by the transfer of all his property for the benefit of the numerous clients whom he had robbed,—for this affair was completely carried out by Green’s head clerk,—was compelled to abandon his fine house and take a humble office where he strove hard to reconstruct his once extensive business. But the exposure which his character had received in the Court of Queen’s Bench, proved a fatal blow to his prospects and an insurmountable obstacle in his path; and at the end of six months, being unable to pay his rent, he was turned out of the little nook to which he had retired, and plunged into the deepest poverty. At this juncture his brother Sir Gilbert returned to England; and James wrote him a penitential letter, imploring his succour. The baronet refused to see him, but generously undertook to allow him two guineas a-week in order to keep him from starving; and on this pittance—for such it is in comparison with the wealth he once possessed—the broken-down, baffled, and dispirited man still subsists in some suburb of the metropolis.

The Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks has experienced many ups and downs since we last saw him at the lunatic asylum in Bethnal Green. It appears that one evening Dr. Swinton gave a grand supper to the relatives and friends of his pensioners, who were present on the occasion as usual; and that previously to the repast being served up, the Doctor had been holding forth in a highly eulogistic style upon the excellent qualities, Christian virtues, and profound piety of his chaplain. Now the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks was out at the time, the Doctor both declaring and believing that “the good man had gone to pay his usual evening visits to the poor in the neighbourhood;” and the guests were all very anxious for the return of the worthy individual who possessed such numerous claims upon their esteem, veneration, and respect. But the truth was—and the truth must be told—that the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks, instead of visiting the poor or even dreaming of such a thing, was smoking his pipe and drinking his gin-and-water at the Cat and the Fiddle in Globe Town; and as he happened to take an extra pipe and two extra glasses on this particular occasion, the fumes thereof became more potent than the odour of sanctity. The consequence was that on his return to the lunatic asylum, his walk was so unsteady and irregular that his progress up the gravel walk to the front door resembled that of a ship tacking about in the Channel; and when he entered the supper-room, just as the company were sitting down to the well-spread table, his nose was so red, his cheeks were so flushed, and his eyes so vacant and watery, that the Doctor inquired in a tone of bland anxiety if he were unwell? “No, sir—I am quite well—and I am all right!” was the somewhat savage answer.—“Then will you have the kindness to ask a blessing, Mr. Sheepshanks?” said the Doctor.—“No, sir,” responded the pious gentleman: “I will see you and the blessing at the devil first. You’re drunk, sir—and I’m ashamed of you.”—It would be impossible to describe the dismay—we might almost term it horrified amazement—which this peremptory refusal to say grace, and the scandalous attack upon Dr. Swinton’s sobriety, produced amongst the guests. The physician himself started up in a furious rage, forgetful of all his propriety; and applying his right foot to the proper quarter, he kicked the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks ignominiously forth from the lunatic asylum. On the following morning this pious gentleman, who was endowed with so many Christian virtues, awoke in a station-house to a sense of his altered position; but when introduced to the notice of a magistrate for being “drunk and disorderly, and kicking up a row at Dr. Swinton’s door,” he boldly proclaimed himself a martyr, and held forth at great length, and in a peculiar nasal drone, on the vanities of this world. The magistrate was, however, compelled to cut him short, by inflicting a fine: but as Mr. Sheepshanks had exhausted all his pecuniary resources at the Cat and the Fiddle on the preceding evening, he was doomed to extend his experience of worldly vanities beneath the roof of the House of Correction. There he found that the treadmill was one of the most uncomfortable vanities he had ever yet encountered; and the redness of his nose was considerably subdued by the prison skilly. On his emancipation at the end of a week, he took up his abode at the house of a poor widow with whom he was acquainted, and whom he induced to convert her front-parlour into a receptacle for prayer-meetings. This succeeded very well for a few months, the congregation being delighted with Mr. Sheepshanks’ discourse, and a tolerable amount of pence being collected every evening in furtherance of the pious gentleman’s holy purpose of supplying the benighted Esquimaux with flannel-jackets and religious tracts: but the widow proving at length to be in the family-way, and Mr. Sheepshanks not choosing to wait to have the paternity of the expected offspring fixed upon his reverend shoulders, his sudden evaporation from the neighbourhood led to the break-up of the prayer-meetings and the total ruin of the unfortunate woman. What became of Mr. Sheepshanks for the next six months, we cannot say: but one fine Sunday morning he turned up at the Obelisk in St. George’s Fields, where he addressed a crowd in his usual strain. His discourse was however suddenly cut short by the presence of the poor widow, who, wrapped in rags and with a baby in her arms, was begging in that neighbourhood; and when the reverend gentleman’s delinquencies were proclaimed by the miserable woman, he was hooted, pelted, and maltreated all up the Westminster-road, until he managed to escape from his assailants by diving into one of the narrow streets leading out of that great thoroughfare. After this affair, the pious man again disappeared for a season; and when we last heard of him, he had given up preaching as a trade which he had thoroughly worn out, and had betaken himself to the highly respectable and cheering avocation of beating the drum and playing the month-organ—alias pandean pipes—for a colleague who exhibited a Punch and Judy show.

We must now direct attention to Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis. Upon the strength of the handsome pecuniary present made to them by Lord William Trevelyan, the former forthwith dubbed himself Major; and for the first six weeks after this self-bestowed elevation, he was under the disagreeable necessity of thrashing his bosom friend soundly at least once a day for being oblivious of the new rank and calling him Captain. At length he succeeded in completely beating into the head of Frank Curtis that he was really a Major; and when they were seated together of an evening over their whisky-and-water, at some public-house, the gallant Irishman never failed to recount to his companion all the military services he had rendered the State, and all the splendours of his paternal mansion of Blunderbuss Park, Connemara. These statements, though ostensibly addressed to Mr. Frank Curtis, were really intended for the behoof of the frequenters of the parlours where they were enunciated; and the quiet tradesmen into whose ears the flaming narratives were thus dinned, ended by being particularly proud of the acquaintance of Major Gorman O’Blunderbuss. At length, what with succulent dinners at eating-houses and oceans of “potheen” every evening, the sum so liberally given by Lord William Trevelyan came to a termination; and the two friends were one day holding a council of war—or rather sitting in “committee of ways and means”—when a paragraph in the newspaper informed them that Lady Blunt and her son had been upset in a boat during an aquatic excursion at Richmond, and drowned “in spite of all the efforts made by the footman to save them.” Up jumped both the Major and Frank Curtis in ectasies of joy, dissolving themselves as a committee then and there by kicking over the table; and away they sped to the mansion in Jermyn Street. The Intelligence was true: Lady Blunt and her son were no more;—and the stout footman was disconsolate. There was no will; and Frank Curtis accordingly found himself, as if by magic, the heir-at-law to all those possessions from which his uncle had sought to exclude him years ago. The day on which the remains of the deceased lady and her son were consigned to the tomb, was the happiest that Major O’Blunderbuss and his friend had ever passed in their lives: for the gallant officer resolved to make a regular Irish wake of it, and the good “potheen” circulated so rapidly that the assembled mourners alarmed the whole street with their noise and laughter. And a most refreshing spectacle was it when Major O’Blunderbuss, with a view to enhance the hilarity of the scene, kicked the stout footman completely out of the house and tossed his clothes and wages ignominiously from the window. In the course of a few days the two friends paid a visit to Mr. Strongitharms, the celebrated engraver in St. James’s Street, for the purpose of having their cards printed with their armorial bearings on the top; and when Frank blandly directed the shopman who took the order to write down in his book the names of Mr. Curtis and Major O’Bluntherbuss, the latter exclaimed in a tone of mingled indignation and disgust, “Be Jasus! Frank, and your mimory grows worse and worse ivery day: for, be the holy poker-r! and isn’t it Colonel O’Bluntherbuss that I am, the new rank being conferred upon me by her Gracious Majesty for my services in the East Indies?”—The shopman wrote down Colonel O’Blunderbuss accordingly; and as a colonel is the gallant gentleman known at the present day. Reader, if you happen to be passing along Jermyn Street any time in the evening after five o’clock, you will hear such shouts of laughter and peals of merriment issuing from one of the houses, that there can be no mistake as to the identity of that dwelling. We need not tell you the number of the mansion, because you cannot fail to discover where Colonel O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis reside by means of the uproarious sounds that emanate from the front-parlour, in spite of the closed shutters and heavy draperies. And to tell you the truth, the neighbours look upon that house as a complete nuisance; and rents are falling rapidly in the immediate neighbourhood—for quiet old bachelor-gentlemen, families, and even young blades about town, are frightened away from the lodgings that are let in the three or four nearest tenements on either side of the one where the two friends have settled themselves. But these worthies care nothing for the opinion of their neighbours and are deaf to all remonstrances: they lead a jolly life after their own hearts and in their own peculiar fashion—and to witness them in their happy domesticity, a stranger unacquainted with their history could not tell that the house and the fortune both belonged to Frank Curtis, for the Colonel is as much master of both dwelling and purse as his devoted friend.

Although Rosalie, the French lady’s-maid, has not performed a very conspicuous part on the stage of our narrative, we are nevertheless induced to trace her career up to the present time. Compelled to appear as a witness at the Coroner’s Inquest which was holden upon her late master and mistress, she attracted the notice of a young baronet who attended the proceedings through motives of curiosity: and as the overtures which he subsequently made her, were far from displeasing, she accepted them after a due amount of affected hesitation. The baronet was rich, and provided in a sumptuous manner for his mistress. He hired and furnished a house for her accommodation in a fashionable street at the West End—bought her a brougham and pair of handsome bays—took for her use a box at the Opera—and allowed her fifty guineas a month for her domestic expenses. In return for this generosity, she treated him with a capriciousness that would have been intolerable on the part of a sensible man, but which only confirmed the insensate spendthrift’s infatuation. Rosalie’s conduct was a matter of calculation, and not the unavoidable result of a wilful disposition. She knew that she had only to be kind and winning, in order to coax him into any extravagant expenditure which would minister to her enjoyments; and her smiles were thus literally purchased with gold and diamonds. Six months only did the baronet’s fortune stand this wanton devastation; and when he could no longer draw cheques for the sums which she required, she at once accepted the “protection” of an old nobleman who made her very handsome offers, and who was in his dotage. But now mark the wayward inconsistency of this woman’s conduct! The moment she ceased to be dependent upon the baronet, she conceived a violent affection for him—was never happy save when in his society—bestowed upon him two-thirds of the money which she received from the ancient peer—and even stinted herself to supply his extravagances. She never treated him with the slightest indication of caprice—but served him as if she were a purchased slave, and he a Pacha. He gave way to intemperance, and in his drunken freaks would beat and ill-use her. She endured it all without a murmur, so long as he would forgive her when he was sober! At length the old nobleman died one day of indigestion—and Rosalie passed into the keeping of a Bishop. The Right Reverend Father was one of the most staunch supporters of all measures for the better observance of the Sabbath. He hated Sunday trading as something a shade or two worse than wilful murder—and no one declaimed more eloquently than he against the steam-boats plying on the Lord’s Day. He even wished to prevent the railway-trains from running on the Sabbath; and his heart rejoiced when he read in the newspapers that apple-women, orange-girls, and shrimp-boys had been taken into custody for attempting to earn a penny to buy a meal on the “day of rest.” But every Sunday evening this respectable old prelate made it a rule to dine with his mistress—aye, and remain with her too until past twelve at night; and heaven only knows what lying excuses he made to his wife for these intervals of absence. He was, however, far more stingy towards Rosalie than the deceased nobleman; and she accordingly cut him in favour of his Archdeacon, who was as unmitigated an old sinner as himself. Meantime the baronet continued to be the young woman’s real favourite; and when he happened to find himself locked up in the Queen’s Bench Prison, she never failed to visit him every day. Her diamonds—her jewels—her rings—her very watch she pawned to raise the sum necessary to procure his release; although the more his temper grew soured by adversity, the more brutal became his conduct towards her. From the keeping of the Archdeacon, she passed into that of a wealthy tradesman who had a splendid establishment in Regent Street. He likewise had a wife and six children; but he neglected them for the sake of his mistress—and while he grudged the former even common necessaries, he lavished all his gains upon the latter. At length he learnt that Rosalie was constantly visited by the baronet; and he broke off the connexion. No admirer immediately appearing to supply his place, the Frenchwoman wrote a very pretty letter to the Bishop, complimenting him upon his last speech against Sunday-trading, and declaring how much pleasure she should experience if he would honour her with a visit. The invitation was irresistible—the prelate went—and the result was that Rosalie once more became his mistress. The renewal of their connexion has not since been interrupted; and the baronet is still the object of the young woman’s affection—still the recipient of two-thirds of all the money she can obtain—and still the only person in the world who would dare to raise his hand against her.

For nearly a year after his attempted suicide, the Marquis of Delmour lived happily with his wife, the past being buried in oblivion. Lady Delmour devoted herself to her husband as far as her own blighted and crushed affections would permit; and she at least had the supreme felicity of witnessing the unalloyed happiness which was experienced by Lord William Trevelyan and the lovely Agnes, who were united about six months after the reconciliation of the young lady’s parents, the consent of the Lord Chancellor being obtained to sanction the marriage. But in the summer of 1847 the Marquis of Delmour was seized with a sudden and alarming illness; and in spite of the unwearied attentions of Sir John Lascelles and Lady Delmour, the old nobleman succumbed to the tyrant sway of Death. Upwards of a year has elapsed since that event; and we observe by a recent paragraph in the newspapers that the Marchioness has bestowed her hand upon Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

Lord William Trevelyan and Agnes are as happy as mortals can hope to be on earth. Their mode of life is somewhat secluded—for it is in each other’s society that their enjoyment of existence consists. Their charity is unbounded, but bestowed privately and unostentatiously; and although you will never hear the name of Lord William Trevelyan proclaimed from the platform of Exeter Hall, amidst a list of liberal subscribers to Missionary Societies and other legalised swindles and robberies of the same class, yet rest assured that many and many a poor family has reason to bless that good nobleman and his amiable wife.

Timothy Splint, alias Tim the Snammer, continues the occupant of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States: indeed, the property has spread out to an extent which renders the denomination of “estate” the more correct one. Joshua Pedlar and his wife have prospered equally well in Canada; and they are now in possession of a large mercantile establishment at Quebec. Mrs. Bunce is dead: but her husband still resides at Saint Peter’s Port in Guernsey, and earns a very comfortable livelihood. Jeffreys leads a steady, industrious life at Liverpool, where he has became a substantial merchant, and is deservedly respected. Had all these persons been consigned to the horrors of transportation to a penal colony, their redemption from sin would have become an impossibility: but when placed in a condition to earn an honourable independence, even murderers may be put to a better use than hanging them like dogs, or sending them into the midst of a vile community where their example would only produce a deeper demoralisation.

Poor Mr. Bubbleton Styles, having failed in getting up his Railway Company, was compelled to pass through the Insolvents’ Court; and during the eighteen months which have elapsed since that event, he has turned his attention to at least a dozen different occupations. On his discharge from the process of white-washing in Portugal Street, he became a wine-merchant: but finding that this market was completely glutted, he entered the coal and coke trade—with may be a little dealing in slates as a necessary adjunct thereto. This speculation not succeeding “for want of capital,” Mr. Styles turned drysalter—then town-traveller for an ale-brewer—then commission-agent for a house in the woollen line—and then something else. But none of these occupations answering his purpose, and hearing of the good luck which had befallen his friends O’Blunderbuss and Curtis, he put on his last clean shirt and paid them a visit. His reception was not at first very encouraging, inasmuch as the gallant Irishman commenced by knocking him down and bunging up his right eye, for the simple reason that Mr. Styles was unaware of that formidable gentleman’s elevation to the rank of Colonel, and had called him Captain: but when explanations took place, complete harmony was restored; and the worthy Bubbleton, having been made uncommonly drunk by his two friends, received a cheque for a hundred guineas to enable him to begin the world again. He has made the recommencement accordingly, and seems in a fair way to get a living by adhering to one particular occupation instead of having a hundred upon his hands at the same time.

Clarence Villiers and Adelais continue to reside at Brompton. They are well off in a pecuniary point of view; and though the ardent love of their youth has mellowed down into a deep attachment, still are they as happy in each other’s society as they were in those days when the marriage-state was as yet new with them. And often and often, when seated together of an evening, do they speak with never-failing gratitude and regret of poor Tom Rain!

Our readers will doubtless recollect the manuscript which Lord William Trevelyan discovered at the lunatic-asylum in Bethnal Green, and which recorded the experiences of a victim to that detestable system of quackery which the law allows. We may as well observe that in the course of a short tour which the young nobleman and his wife took to the south of France, a few months back, Trevelyan encountered Mr. Macdonald, the author of that lamentable history. This gentleman had completely recovered his mental equilibrium, and was living in a strict but happy seclusion with his Editha and their son. Trevelyan communicated to him the circumstances under which he had found the manuscript, and the motives which had induced him to convey it away from its place of concealment in the mad-house. Macdonald expressed his fervent gratitude for the young nobleman’s generosity; and the papers were consigned to the flames. We will not mention the name of the town where Mr. Macdonald is residing: for, were we guilty of such imprudence, the extortioner would be assuredly sent after him.

We have now to speak of the inmates of Ellingham House. Reader, the family circle there is as happy as the mournful reminiscence of Mr. Hatfield’s sudden death will permit. Charles has become the husband of the beautiful and accomplished Lady Frances; and the youthful pair continue to dwell at the Earl’s mansion. Lady Georgiana is likewise a permanent resident beneath the same roof; and her son amply repays her by his affectionate devotion for any temporary uneasiness or grief which he might have caused her at the lamentable period of his connexion with Perdita. Sir John Lascelles is a frequent visitor at the mansion in Pall Mall; and we need scarcely add that he is always a welcome guest.

The Republic of Castelcicala flourishes under the free institutions which General Markham gave it. It is the Model-State in Europe; and appears to be the solution of a problem whether it is possible for honest rulers, a conscientious legislature, and a democratic system to extirpate poverty from a country, and make an entire people contented, free, and prosperous. There the Rights of Labour are recognised in all the plenitude of industry’s claims: there no man who is willing to work, can possibly starve. Mendicity is unknown throughout the Republic; and when the Castelcicalans read paragraphs translated from the English papers into their own prints, and detailing how men, women, and children die of starvation—aye, and very frequently too—in the British Islands, they say to each other, “It is a hideous mockery to pretend that true freedom has any existence there!”

But, thank God! the tide of liberal sentiments is rolling rapidly over Europe—sweeping away the remnants of feudal barbarism—levelling all oppressive institutions—compelling tyrants to bend to the will of the masses—and giving such an impulse to enlightened notions as the world never saw before. And may that tide still flow on with unabating force—not wearing off the asperities of barbaric systems by degrees, but whirling all abuses away at once and in a moment;—not proceeding without certainty or uniformity, like a stream that is sometimes free and sometimes checked—but rushing on in a channel that is broad and deep;—not here diverted from its course by some obstacle—nor there dammed up until the weight of its waters break down the impediment,—but rolling on with a mighty and irresistible volume, and expanding into a glorious and illimitable flood!

THE END.

[ADVERTISEMENT.]

The Proprietor of the “Mysteries of London,” having, at present, an opportunity of carrying out his original design—viz. that of presenting the public with faithful and unexaggerated sketches of every class of society forming the “world of London,” has determined upon submitting to his readers a New Series of the “Mysteries of London,” and which will be from the pen of a writer of the most eminent reputation,

THOMAS MILLER, Esq.,

AUTHOR OF “ROYSTON GOWER;” “FAIR ROSAMOND;” “LADY JANE GREY;” “GODFREY MALVERN;” “PICTURES OF COUNTRY LIFE;” “RURAL SKETCHES;” “BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY;” “A DAY IN THE WOODS;” “THE POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS;” “THE BOY’S YEAR BOOK;” POEMS, ETC. ETC.

This New Series will be entitled “Mysteries of London; or, Lights and Shadows of London Life.”

THE FIRST NUMBER WILL APPEAR ON WEDNESDAY, 20th SEPTEMBER.

London: Walter Sully, Printer, “Bonner House,” Seacoal Lane.