The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 245: what you’re looking at

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—————=— ee ee ee — si the greater portion of the night away from home: and thus her honour was likewise safe. In the course of the day two official documents were delivered at Acacia Cottage. One contained the patent elevating Mr. Horace Sackville to the rank of a Baron of the realm, by the style and title of Lord Sackville: the second appointed him to the post of Lord Steward in the household of his Royal Highnese the Prince Regent. The entire fashionable world was struck with astonishment at these announcements, when they appeared in the Gazelle: and there was no diffi- culty in attributing them to the fact that the newly-created nobleman possessed as his wife the most beantifal woman in England. But scandal dared not raise its voice too loud—much less openly point a scornfal finger at Lord and Lady Sackville,—inasmuch as the matrimonial gloss was shed upon whatever amount of frailty there might be in the matter. The consequence was that for several days running Acacia Cottage was crowded with visitors who called to congratulate the noble pair, and the Knightsbridge road was thronged with the carriages of what is called the elife of the aristocracy hastening thither to pay their court to the new Lord Steward and the Prince's new mis- tress. At the end of the week Horace and Venetia re- moved to the apartments which had been provided for them in Carlton House,—the faithful Jessica, Piumpstead, and the serious-looking footman atil] yemaining in their service. CHAPTER LXV. THE GIBBET. Between nine and ten o’clook on Sunday evening several groups of pereons began to colleot in the Old Bailey, but chiefly in the wide open space op- posite Newgate. During the past week the Recorder had made his report to the Prince Regent relative to the state of the prison; and in that report one in- dividual was named as being under sentence of death. In the case of this person it appeared as if the law was to be allowed to take its course: fora warrant had been issued for his execution-and henos the assembling of the groupe of idlers on the eve of the fatal Monday! The person thus alluded to was Paul Dysart. Chill and misty was this Sunday evening—dark, sombre, and awe-inspiring was the aspect of New- gate through the despening gloom. Shivering, rag- ged, half-starved wretches gathered near the debtor’s door, whispering, as they pointed to it, “ That's the place the man who's to be hung will come out of to- morrow morning!" Others posted themselves on the very spot close by where the scaflold would be placed, saying in subdued voices, “It is just here that the drop will fall beneath his feet!” Farther on, other groups were collected near the entrance of the press-yard, observing amongst themselves, “ The gibbet will be wheeled out of this place!” In fact, there was not a scene, a spot, nor a detail connected with the awful tragedy of a public execution, that escaped comment or explanation on the part of the Sdlers who were already gathering to the theatre of the ing spectacle. Seon after ten o’clock on this same Sunday evening a private carriage droye up to the Saracen’s Head on Snow Hill; and six gentlemen alighted. “'You can come for us to-morrow morning at nine o'clock,” said one of the party, addressing himself to the livery-servant in attendance upon the car- risge. “Yes my lord,” was the reply. “What makes you say nine, Cargon f” demanded another of the party. “It will be all over at five minutes past eight.” “But we shall stop to see the body cut down after hanging an hour--eh ?” exclaimed the Earl. “Ah! that’s different,” observed the other. “I forgot this portion of the ceremony,” he added cooily as he whiffed his cigar. “To be sure! we won't miss any act in the Newgate drama.” His companions laughed: and as the carriage drove away, they all entered the coffee room of the Saracen’s Head, cracking jokes and indulging in a variety of witty sayings and repartecs as they tra- versed the inn-yard. The party consisted of the Earl of Curzon, who is already well known to our readers,—the Honoura- ble George Macnamara and Lieutenant Apsley, both of whom have been previously mentioned,— Lord P! Tithtide, a young nobleman who had just come of age and just got into the House of Commons for a pocket-borough in the gift of his father, the Duke of Addlebranes,—the Marquis of Brandyford, a peer of the realm, and who infinitely preferred the excitement of wrenching off knockers to taking part in the prosy debates of the Upper House,—and Count d’Orsayville a foreign adven- turer who had worked hie way into the very best cociety, so that he set the fashion for all the male members of the higher class, and was an immense favourite amongst all the ladies of the same sphere. The Count sported a beautiful moustache, was really very handsome, possessed the most fascinat- ing manners, and wore a semi-military cloak the cat of which was the esivy of all his male ac- quaintances. On entering the coffee-room, this delectable party flang themselves each upon a chair—one yawning, another sprawling out his legs, a third putting Ais legs upon an adjacent table, a fourth laughing heartily at nothing, a fifth uttering an cath by way of amusement (for he had really naught to swear at), and the Earl of Curson (who made the sixth) ring- ing the beil so furiously that the wire snapped in twain. “ Now, waiter,” said this last-mentioned person- age, when the tavern-functionary made his appear- ance, “ we want a private sitting-room for the night.” “ Yea, my lord,” responded the waiter, to whom the Karl of Curzon was knewn. “And no end of whithkey punth,” cried Lord Plantagenet Tithtide, who had the misfortune to lisp somewhat—a circumstance which did not die- qualify bim from becoming a Member of Parlia- ment, because he was a lord. “ And a box of the best cigars, wai-tar!” roared out the Marquis of Brandvford. “ Now mind they‘re good, you unhung scoundrel, you—or, by Jove! I'll punch your head into a jelly for you !” * And a demn'd good fire bethidth,” added Lord Plantagenet. “But don’t neglecth the whithkey punth, you pwethiouth wathcal !” “Vot you call de viskey pohnch vare good—vare good,” observed the Count d’Orsayville. aE ea ee GOnMGoOO CO