nurses,” she answered.
“Do they treat you ill?” asked her son.
“Hush!” she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. “Hush! — come hither, and I’ll tell you.”
Jack approached her.
“Sit beside me,” continued Mrs. Sheppard. “And, now I’ll tell you what they do. Stop! we must shut the door, or they’ll catch us. See!” she added, tearing the rag from her head — “I had beautiful black hair once. But they cut it all off.”
“I shall go mad myself if I listen to her longer,” said Jack, attempting to rise. “I must go.”
“Don’t stir, or they’ll chain you to the wall,” said his mother detaining him. “Now, tell me why they brought you here?”
“I came to see you, dear mother!” answered Jack.
“Mother!” she echoed — “mother! why do you call me by that name?”
“Because you are my mother.”
“What!” she exclaimed, staring eagerly in his face. “Are you my son? Are you Jack?”
“I am,” replied Jack. “Heaven be praised she knows me at last.”
“Oh, Jack!” cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses.
“Mother — dear mother!” said Jack, bursting into tears.
“You will never leave me,” sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast.
“Never — never!”
The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold.
“Ah!” exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet.
“Just in time,” said the thief-taker. “You are my prisoner, Jack.”
“You shall take my life first,” rejoined Sheppard.
And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
“They shall not harm you, my love!” she exclaimed.
The movement was fatal to her son. Taking advantage of his embarrassed position, Jonathan and his assistant rushed upon him, and disarmed him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sheppard,” cried the thief-taker, as he slipped a pair of handcuffs over Jack’s wrists, “for the help you have given us in capturing your son. Without you, we might have had some trouble.”
Aware apparently in some degree, of the mistake she had committed, the poor maniac sprang towards him with frantic violence, and planted her long nails in his cheek.
“Keep off, you accursed jade!” roared Jonathan, “— off, I say, or —” And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand.
The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw.
“Devil!” cried Jack; “that blow shall cost you your life.”
“It’ll not need to be repeated, at all events,” rejoined Jonathan, looking with a smile of malignant satisfaction at the body. “And, now — to Newgate.”
CHAPTER 9.
OLD NEWGATE.
At the beginning of the twelfth century — whether in the reign of Henry the First, or Stephen is uncertain — a fifth gate was added to the four principal entrances of the city of London; then, it is almost needless to say, surrounded by ramparts, moats, and other defences. This gate, called Newgate, “as being latelier builded than the rest,” continued, for upwards of three hundred years, to be used as a place of imprisonment for felons and trespassers; at the end of which time, having grown old, ruinous, and “horribly loathsome,” it was rebuilt and enlarged by the executors of the renowned Sir Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London: whence it afterwards obtained amongst a certain class of students, whose examinations were conducted with some strictness at the Old Bailey, and their highest degrees taken at Hyde-park-corner, the appellation of Whittington’s College, or, more briefly, the Whit. It may here be mentioned that this gate, destined to bequeath its name — a name, which has since acquired a terrible significance — to every successive structure erected upon its site, was granted, in 1400, by charter by Henry the Sixth to the citizens of London, in return for their royal services, and thenceforth became the common jail to that city and the county of Middlesex. Nothing material occurred to Newgate, until the memorable year 1666, when it was utterly destroyed by the Great Fire. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal.
Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. The body of the edifice stood on the south side of Newgate Street, and projected at the western extremity far into the area opposite Saint Sepulchre’s Church. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court. The south or principal front, looking, down the Old Bailey, and not upon it, as is the case of the present structure, with its massive walls of roughened freestone — in some places darkened by the smoke, in others blanched, by exposure to the weather — its heavy projecting cornice, its unglazed doubly-grated windows, its gloomy porch decorated with fetters, and defended by an enormous iron door, had a stern and striking effect. Over the Lodge, upon a dial was inscribed the appropriate motto, “Venio sicut fur.” The Gate, which crossed Newgate Street, had a wide arch for carriages, and a postern, on the north side, for foot-passengers. Its architecture was richly ornamental, and resembled the style of a triumphal entrance to a capital, rather than a dungeon having battlements and hexagonal towers, and being adorned on the western side with a triple range of pilasters of the Tuscan order, amid the intercolumniations of which were niches embellished with statues. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. On the right of the postern against the wall was affixed a small grating, sustaining the debtor’s box; and any pleasure which the passer-by might derive from contemplating the splendid structure above described was damped at beholding the pale faces and squalid figures of the captives across the bars of its strongly-grated windows. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony.
Old Newgate was divided into three separate prisons — the Master’s Side, the Common Side, and the Press Yard. The first of these, situated a the south of the building, with the exception of one ward over the gateway, was allotted to the better class of debtors, whose funds enabled them to
