MISERICORDIA. BY THE LONDON HERMIT. O FOR a heart of stone, that I might view To see and be contented with the sight- The good made powerless, the wicked strong. Gold, whelming with its gross and crushing weight, Things far more precious in the other scale, Abasement cast upon the truly great, While pamper'd littleness the world will hail. Neglected genius pining in the gloom, Good lives restricted to a squalid room, Bad ones, whose lines in plenty's channels run. Wrongs done in many dark and secret ways, To see Religion lower'd to a trade, Or lost in squabbles like an angry sea; Statecraft directing all its subtle aid To raise the worthless and enslave the free; Kings, whose imperial gaze is fix'd so high, Wealth squander'd upon undeserving things, Power, upholding for its private ends. That ignorance which leads to broken laws; That poverty to crime which surely tends, Crime power spares not, though itself the cause; To see all this, and more than all, to feel That my weak efforts scarce one wound can heal, ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. BY THE LONDON HERMIT. THE PHYSIOLOGY OF "PENNY AWFULS." "On horror's head horrors accumulate, Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed!” "Fond wretch! and what can'st thou relate But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin? WHAT is a "Penny Awful?" The term, like that of "Ethereal Cuss," which I have attempted to expound on a previous occasion, is etymologically devoid of any reason or congruity. The word "awful" used in its legitimate, instead of its prevalent slang sense, is applied generally to things great in magnitude and of a sublime and impressive character, with which the copper coinage of the realm can have no sort of connection. Neither is there any warrant for using "awful" as a noun substantive. The term, therefore, not only defies grammar, but is a violent bringing together of the immense and the minute, the solemn and the trivial, which can only be paralleled by the name of a hostelry," The Flea and Earthquake,' mentioned in one of our comic comtemporaries' burlesques. Still the phrase is so aptly expressive of the thing signified, that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to improve it by any substitute. SHAKSPEARE. CRABBE. "The what?" I asked. "The O'Riginal Irishman good family-clever, but very wild -you ought to know him-quite a character." And "quite a character" he indeed proved to be. It happens that I have as yet been brought into contact with but few natives of the Sister Isle; but from all I have gathered concerning the national character, I should judge the O'Riginal to be by no means a fair or favourable specimen of the race. Indeed, as I subsequently discovered, he was not purely an Irishman, his mother having been French, while paternally he was descended from a long line of O'Riginals, or O'Reginalds, the descendants of a certain Sir Reginald, a Norman knight who went over with Strongbow. If Outwardly, the O'Riginal was short and dark, with a cast of face far more continental then insular, more Italian than Hibernian. you can imagine Napoleon the Great at the age of thirty, clad in the garb of the present date; and with a general air of having had a long experience of dissipation and low funds, you will form an idea of the O'Riginal's outward aspect. The smooth face, the square chin, the olive complexion, the aquiline nose, closely-cropped dark hair, and piercing deep-set eyes, all combined to produce this Bonapartean resemblance. He spoke very colloquial English, with the most singular blending of a French and Irish accent, and with occasional inversions of sentences, misplaced emphasis, abundant gesticulation, and wild play of the eyes, which altogether had a most astonishing effect, and one impossible to convey an idea of by written description. This remarkable being greeted Strayshot with a hearty slap on the shoulder, accompanied by a startling shout of recognition, "How do ?" he said. "Haven't seen you for an age; been very busy-up to the eyes!" and he significantly flourished some printed matter which he carried tightly rolled up in his left hand. "How is Gallows Jack?" asked Strayshot. is working up his Awfuls now, and no mistake. Did sixty of Jack last week; what do you think of that?" Strayshot appeared to think it was the fulfilment of a consummation devoutly to be wished, but I found myself utterly unable to judge of the merits of the case. Who was "Gallows Jack?" who also 66 was Smith?" and what were the "sixty" he had been " "doing?" above all, what in the name of goodness was the process of "Working up his Awfuls?" Before these problems could be problems could be solved, the O'Riginal, playfully poking Strayshot in the ribs with his roll of papers, exclaimed, "Come up to my crib-it's just round here," and he darted down a narrow court, and through the side entrance of a small baker's shop. Strayshot followed hurriedly, saying to me, "Come along, he won't mind." So I brought up the rear. We had to mount three flights of a dingy staircase, the construction and state of which showed the house to be a very old one, and sadly in want of repair, before the O'Riginal, throwing open a door, exclaimed, 'Here we are, in the Lion's Den, where I do all my murders; walk in!" At this tempting invitation we entered the room. It was an attic with a low roof, sloping on one side, and an old-fashioned lattice window, commanding an extensive view of slates and chimneys. A rude bench near the window served as a table, and was covered with writing materials; piles of books, papers, and manuscripts lay about all over the floor, the boards of which were otherwise uncovered, and on the white-washed walls were pasted glaring and repulsive prints, both plain and coloured, and all treating of subjects apparently out of the "Newgate Calendar." "Yes, this is my slaughter"In splendid condition. Smith house," said the O'Riginal, seating himself upon a pile of books and papers, and motioning Strayshot to take a tall and rather rickety fourlegged stool. "O, I forgot," exclaimed Strayshot, turning to me; "permit me to introduce the London Hermit to the O'Riginal, of Castle Reginald, in the county of Carlow, Ireland, the successful author of ' Gallows Jack; or, the Knight of the Cord,' 'Claude Turpin; or, the Hero Highwayman,''Blood and Crime; or, the Hangman's Curse,' and other thrilling periodical romances, too numerous to mention." The O'Riginal, thus introduced, greeted me with the bow of a prince, and was so polite as to abdicate the pile of books in my favour, seating himself crosswise on an old curiously-carved high-backed chair, which was always consecrated exclusively to his own use. Every minute developed some fresh peculiarity in this remarkable being. He seemed able to talk like an adept upon any subject possible to be conceived or named. He had the volubility of a Cheap Jack, and the vivacity and high spirits of a child; although at times he would lapse into such deep and stony abstraction that there was no rousing him. When he did begin to speak he generally monopolized the conversation, which, however, he made as full of variety as if a dozen had been engaged in it. Flights of imagination, not only poetic, but actually reaching the sublime, were alternated with jests and anecdotes of sparkling humour; sometimes, it must be owned, sounding the depths of grossness and obscenity. Anon, by way, I suppose, of antidote, the O'Riginal, standing upon his one chair, and addressing us over the back, as from an extempore pulpit, preached one of the most touching and beautiful sermons I ever heard. He was in the constant habit of carrying about and showing to every one a huge roll of paper, containing a full historical and genealogical account of the family of O'Riginals, traced back as far as the illustrious founder, all printed, and illustrated with a view of Castle Reginald, a chart of the estates, and an enumeration of the tenants. Of this interesting document he was very proud, producing it as his credentials where any were supposed to be required, and always adding that he was the sole and rightful heir of the family wealth and honours, of which he would even now be in full enjoyment, but that the potent injustice of law had awarded them to a wealthy usurper, whom he was unable to dispossess. "I am the last of my race," he would then remark, with a mournful pathos in his tone, "But now the old house is no dwelling for me, The home of the stranger henceforth it must be, And never again shall I rove as a guest, In the time-honoured halls that my fathers possess'd." He omitted to inform me (as Strayshot afterwards did) that for years his own family had disowned him, and that he had played the part of an incorrigible prodigal son, until there was no one left to kill the fatted calf. By more than one indication I discovered that the O'Riginal, of Castle Reginald, was not perfectly sober, and that his eccentric excitation and wildness of manner proceeded in part from artificial causes. This I subsequently learnt was almost his normal condition, for he was one of those persons, alas! too numerous in the lower walks of the intellectual professions, who indulge too freely in material stimulants-inferior De Quinceys, whose "accursed chain" is of alcohol instead of opium. By this time, of course, I had unearthed the mysteries buried beneath all this professional slang. A" Penny Awful" is, it seemed, a sheet of eight or sixteen pages, containing a continuous romance of a highly sensational and adventurous character, garnished with striking and even horrifying illustrations, and retailed for the small sum of one penny per week. The publication is continued as long as a paying circulation can be secured, both by sustaining the interest of the story itself, and by the additional stimulus of gifts in the form of coloured plates or supplements. Some adepts call them "Penny Dreadfuls," but "Awfuls" seems to me by far the more expressive term, and this was what the O'Riginal invariably used. "Gallows Jack" was his latest and most successful performance. Smith was the publisher of that and sundry other "Awfuls;" "working them up up" meant energetically pushing the sale, and "doing sixty was an elliptic mode of signifying that the circulation had reached 60,000 weekly. Strayshot now privately intimated to me his intention of "drawing out" the O'Riginal for my especial behoof; so he presently turned to that erratic gentleman, and remarked, "It's always asto nishing to me however you can manage to keep on filling penny numbers with suitable matter week after week." Easy enough, dear boy, easy enough; look at the vast amount of material there is. I work up anything I can get hold of, new or old, true or false, high or low; I've all the volumes of the Newgate Calendar; I watch the current police cases; I have a guinea ticket for Mudie's; I dip into old plays, and forgotten novels and travels; ransack Scott, Bulwer, Braddon, Wilkie Collins, Ainsworth, especially Dumas, and Eugene Sue. Then look at the vast fund there is in untranslated French literature! Difficult to find stuff to fill 'Awfuls!' Why, there is a teeming mine, an El Dorado, a peren nial fountain-an embar-rass-ment of riches!" "But don't you get fogged, and mix up the incidents and events together, or lose the identity of your characters?" asked Strayshot. "Not a bit, my dear fellowpractice, you know, practice. My memory is ex-cel-lent, but to keep sure, I put all names down, and file my back numbers. Pile on your incident, vary it in each number, and pay attention to your connection, that's the whole secret." "What do you mean by your connection?" asked Strayshot, accenting the word after his friend's |