Jack Sheppard | Page 3

TOM SHEPPARD, _the
Notorious Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of
February, 1703._" This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut,
representing the unhappy malefactor at the place of execution. On one
side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been

pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose,
keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the
queen. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint
George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James
the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not
altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.
Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed
certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words,
"_Paul Groves, cobler;_" and under the name, traced in charcoal,
appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "_Hung himsel
in this rum for luv off licker;_" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the
unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. A farthing candle, stuck in a
bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the
provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with
eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle
of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine.
"You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood, glancing
round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.
"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it
is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets."
"Of course--of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than
that. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and
presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. And now,
come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together.
When things are at the worst, they'll mend. Take my word for it, your
troubles are over."
"I hope they are, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a
doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, "for
I've had my full share of misery. But I don't look for peace on this side
the grave."
"Nonsense!" cried Wood; "while there's life there's hope. Never be
down-hearted. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the

infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its
sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like
this to comfort you. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father.
Like carpenter, like chips."
"That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow,
shuddering. "Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a
comfort to me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but
lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him
now. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to
his father,--when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect
how free from guilt he once was,--at such times, Mr. Wood, despair
will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer than my
own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I have
prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be a
man, and be exposed to his father's temptations--rather than he should
live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. And, when I
have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner
every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard."
"Marriage and hanging go by destiny," observed Wood, after a pause;
"but I trust your child is reserved for a better fate than either, Mrs.
Sheppard."
The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much significance
of manner, that a bystander might have inferred that Mr. Wood was not
particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections.
"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a
desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last
night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in
his bed."
"Save us!" exclaimed Wood. "And who is this Van Gal--Gal--what's
his outlandish name?"
"Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. "He's the famous Dutch conjuror
who foretold King William's accident and death, last February but one,

a month before either event happened, and gave out that another prince
over the water would soon enjoy his own again; for which he was
committed to Newgate, and whipped at the cart's tail. He