DOUGLAS JERROLD'S

SHILLING MAGAZINE.

THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.*

BY THE EDITOR.

CHAPTER VII.

As it is our hope, in the course of this small history, to chronicle many great achievements of our hero of the gutter, St. Giles,we shall not follow him year by year through his humble yet industrious course, in which, to his own satisfaction and strengthening conceit, he became profoundly knowing; subtly learned in every way of petty peculation; whether he plundered the orangebaskets of Covent Garden market, or whether, with finest skill, he twitched the tempting handkerchief from the pocket of the lounger. Nor was this, his lowly career, undignified by suffering. No: for ere he was twelve years old, he had tasted the hospitality of Bridewell; where, in truth, he had been inducted into the knowledge of far deeper mysteries than he had ever hoped to learn. In Bridewell, his young and ardent soul had expanded with the thoughts of future fame, won by highway pistol-or burglar's jemmy. And there, too, would he listen to fairy tales of coining: would dream of easy, lasting wealth, acquired by copper guineas. As for the lash bestowed upon him, the pain of that did but burn into his mind his high resolves. He would the more fiercely revenge the suffering upon everybody called honest. He would steal with all his heart and all his soul; he was born and bred to steal; he came into the world to do it, and he would notably fulfil his mission. Such was the strengthened belief of young St.

Giles, when, at fourteen and for the second time, he came back to the world across the threshold of Bridewell. Such was his creed: the only creed his world had taught him. Nevertheless, our hero did not vaunt this belief, save among those of his own Newgate persuasion; on the contrary, he assumed the character of a tradesman, that under his commercial aspect he might the more securely plunder the innocents who dealt with him. True it is, he had not the security of a shop; he could not, like his patron the dealer in marine stores, despoil across a counter; but he carried a basket; and whilst, to the unsuspecting eye, he seemed only the Arcadian vendor of chickweed, groundsel, and turf for singing-birds-for the caged minstrels of the poor-he was, in every thought, a robber.

It was a fine morning early in spring, and Plumtree-street resounded with the sharp tradesman cry of young St. Giles. Pausing at a door-step, and looking up to the second-floor windows, he pitched his commercial note with a peculiar significance, as though giving notice of his whereabout to an expected customer. "Chickweed for singing-birds," cried St. Giles, in a shrill, prolonged voice, as though he would send the glad tidings up to the garret casement, where hopped and fluttered some solitary linnet -some lonely goldfinch—that feeling the breath of spring, albeit through prison bars, sang a song of hope and cheerfulness. "Chickweed for singing-birds," cried St. Giles, with increasing volume and impatience. Then again he looked up at the window, and then muttered "The old un can't be dead, can she?" As he thus speculated, the window was raised, and a woman looked down into the street. "Is it you, my poor boy?" she cried; "stop a minute:" and instantly disappeared. "Thought the old un couldn't be dead," said St. Giles, self-communing; and then he began to hum a tune and shuffle a dancing-step upon the pavement. The door was opened by a girl, who, with no very cordial looks, muttered," Mrs. Simmer-well, she's a droll cretur, she is!—Mrs. Simmer says you 're to come up. You can leave your basket here, can't you

יי?

in my

"In course, my beauty," said St. Giles, "'cause, you see, there's only these two bunches left; and them I can carry hand without breaking my back." With this, St. Giles, rapidly placing his basket against the wall, gave a saucy wink to the servant, and bounded like a kid up stairs. In a moment he was with his patroness, Mrs. Simmer.

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My poor child, I thought you was lost," said the dame in the kindest voice. "What makes you so late?"

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Why, do you know mum, I can't tell what's come to the chickweed it does n't grow no how, now. If I was n't at five in the morning in Hampstead fields, a hunting in every edge, and hav'n't got above three penn'orth. Chickweed, mum, as Tom Blast says, seems a perishin' from the face of the earth, and only to spite poor people as lives by it. I don't know how much I could n't ha' sold this mornin'; but I says to myself-no, there's Mrs. Simmer's blessed little linnet, and her darlin' goldfinch as draws his own water, they sha'n't go without, whoever does." "Poor dear child! good little boy," said Mrs. Simmer, looking with softened looks upon the wily little trader.

"And to hear how all the birds did seem to call to me from their cages-I'm blessed if they did n't, mum, as I came along -but no, says I to 'em, it 's no use, my little cockies, no use to be gammonin' me-this here chickweed 's for Mrs. Simmer's Bob and Tit, and for nobody else whatsomever." And after this fashion was the simplicity of two-score and ten talked to and duped by precocious fourteen.

But dear Mrs. Simmer seemed to be one of those good, old people, who strangely enough carry their hearts in their heads. She had not been above a fortnight in London at the time of this interview with St. Giles, whom she had met in the street, and whose pathetic tale of destitution-delivered with the cunning of an actor-had carried away her sympathies. St. Giles, however, had another claim upon her. He was, she said, such a pretty boy. Dear soul! she could no more read a human face than she could read Sanscrit. She only saw the bright, glittering eyes of St. Giles, and not the fox that looked from them; she praised his eyes and face, as she might have praised a handsome hieroglyph, wholly unconscious of its subtle meaning. A great master has said, "there is something in true beauty that vulgar souls cannot admire." And sure we are, there is something in the truest rascality, that simple benevolent souls cannot detect. They have not an eye for the worst counterfeit countenance; have no ear for a false voice, let it ring ever so brassily. Now, dear Mrs, Simmer was one of these: hence, was she, at fifty, but a babe, an innócent, in the hands of young St. Giles.

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I've kept

Now, my poor child" she said "take some tea. it for you, with some toast;" and Mrs. Simmer took a smoking

jug and a plate piled with toast from either hob, and placed them on the table, before her guest. "Take as much as you can, my child, and then you shall tell me all your story as you promised. Poor lamb! Bless you, eat-it does my heart good to see you;" and Mrs. Simmer, folding her hands, looked with almost maternal tenderness upon St. Giles, who acknowledging the welcome with a knowing nod of the head, proceeded vigorously with his meal. Mrs. Simmer thought she never saw so handsome a creature; what St. Giles thought of Mrs. Simmer, we will not say. "And so you've no father nor mother, my dear boy?" after some time asked Mrs. Simmer.

"Not one on 'em," answered St. Giles, rapidly moving his buttered chin. "Not one on 'em."

"The Lord help you!" cried Mrs. Simmer: "and no uncle, no aunt, no"

"No nothing, mum," said St. Giles; and he gulped his tea. "All on 'em died, mum, when I was a babby."

"Poor dear child! Bless my heart!

brought up?"

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And how have you been

Brought up, mum"-and St. Giles grinned and scratched his head," you said brought up, mum? Don't know, mum.

"And where do you live, now, my poor boy?" and Mrs. Simmer melted with every question.

"Don't live nowhere, reg'lar, mum. Poor boys, like me, why we live-as Tom Blast says-like the rats, where we can. Then o'nights, mum, I sometimes sleeps in the market among the baskets. Sometimes, though, don't they come with a stick, and cut us out! I believe you!" and St. Giles seemed to speak with a lively recollection of such incidents. "Cuts the werry breath out o' you," he then significantly added.

"Cruel creatures! Gracious little lamb! And I'm afraid you meet with bad boys there, eh? Wicked boys, that may some day tempt you to do something wrong? Eh?" asked simple Mrs. Simmer.

"Believe you," said St. Giles, with well-acted gravity. "Lots on 'em wanted me to go picking pockets-"

"Heaven forbid!" cried Mrs. Simmer, and the tears came to her eyes.

"That's what I said, mum; no, says I, no, I shall stick to chickweed if I starves for it-I'm not a-going to be hanged to please nobody: no, mum.'