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‘
Ah
,
do
,
’
said
Lowten
,
‘
nobody
has
heard
it
but
me
,
and
I
have
nearly
forgotten
it
.
’
The
old
man
looked
round
the
table
,
and
leered
more
horribly
than
ever
,
as
if
in
triumph
,
at
the
attention
which
was
depicted
in
every
face
.
Then
rubbing
his
chin
with
his
hand
,
and
looking
up
to
the
ceiling
as
if
to
recall
the
circumstances
to
his
memory
,
he
began
as
follows
:
—
THE
OLD
MAN
’
S
TALE
ABOUT
THE
QUEER
CLIENT
‘
It
matters
little
,
’
said
the
old
man
,
‘
where
,
or
how
,
I
picked
up
this
brief
history
.
If
I
were
to
relate
it
in
the
order
in
which
it
reached
me
,
I
should
commence
in
the
middle
,
and
when
I
had
arrived
at
the
conclusion
,
go
back
for
a
beginning
.
It
is
enough
for
me
to
say
that
some
of
its
circumstances
passed
before
my
own
eyes
;
for
the
remainder
I
know
them
to
have
happened
,
and
there
are
some
persons
yet
living
,
who
will
remember
them
but
too
well
.
‘
In
the
Borough
High
Street
,
near
St
.
George
’
s
Church
,
and
on
the
same
side
of
the
way
,
stands
,
as
most
people
know
,
the
smallest
of
our
debtors
’
prisons
,
the
Marshalsea
.
Although
in
later
times
it
has
been
a
very
different
place
from
the
sink
of
filth
and
dirt
it
once
was
,
even
its
improved
condition
holds
out
but
little
temptation
to
the
extravagant
,
or
consolation
to
the
improvident
.
The
condemned
felon
has
as
good
a
yard
for
air
and
exercise
in
Newgate
,
as
the
insolvent
debtor
in
the
Marshalsea
Prison
.
[
Better
.
But
this
is
past
,
in
a
better
age
,
and
the
prison
exists
no
longer
.
]
‘
It
may
be
my
fancy
,
or
it
may
be
that
I
cannot
separate
the
place
from
the
old
recollections
associated
with
it
,
but
this
part
of
London
I
cannot
bear
.
The
street
is
broad
,
the
shops
are
spacious
,
the
noise
of
passing
vehicles
,
the
footsteps
of
a
perpetual
stream
of
people
—
all
the
busy
sounds
of
traffic
,
resound
in
it
from
morn
to
midnight
;
but
the
streets
around
are
mean
and
close
;
poverty
and
debauchery
lie
festering
in
the
crowded
alleys
;
want
and
misfortune
are
pent
up
in
the
narrow
prison
;
an
air
of
gloom
and
dreariness
seems
,
in
my
eyes
at
least
,
to
hang
about
the
scene
,
and
to
impart
to
it
a
squalid
and
sickly
hue
.
‘
Many
eyes
,
that
have
long
since
been
closed
in
the
grave
,
have
looked
round
upon
that
scene
lightly
enough
,
when
entering
the
gate
of
the
old
Marshalsea
Prison
for
the
first
time
;
for
despair
seldom
comes
with
the
first
severe
shock
of
misfortune
.
A
man
has
confidence
in
untried
friends
,
he
remembers
the
many
offers
of
service
so
freely
made
by
his
boon
companions
when
he
wanted
them
not
;
he
has
hope
—
the
hope
of
happy
inexperience
—
and
however
he
may
bend
beneath
the
first
shock
,
it
springs
up
in
his
bosom
,
and
flourishes
there
for
a
brief
space
,
until
it
droops
beneath
the
blight
of
disappointment
and
neglect
.
How
soon
have
those
same
eyes
,
deeply
sunken
in
the
head
,
glared
from
faces
wasted
with
famine
,
and
sallow
from
confinement
,
in
days
when
it
was
no
figure
of
speech
to
say
that
debtors
rotted
in
prison
,
with
no
hope
of
release
,
and
no
prospect
of
liberty
!
The
atrocity
in
its
full
extent
no
longer
exists
,
but
there
is
enough
of
it
left
to
give
rise
to
occurrences
that
make
the
heart
bleed
.
‘
Twenty
years
ago
,
that
pavement
was
worn
with
the
footsteps
of
a
mother
and
child
,
who
,
day
by
day
,
so
surely
as
the
morning
came
,
presented
themselves
at
the
prison
gate
;
often
after
a
night
of
restless
misery
and
anxious
thoughts
,
were
they
there
,
a
full
hour
too
soon
,
and
then
the
young
mother
turning
meekly
away
,
would
lead
the
child
to
the
old
bridge
,
and
raising
him
in
her
arms
to
show
him
the
glistening
water
,
tinted
with
the
light
of
the
morning
’
s
sun
,
and
stirring
with
all
the
bustling
preparations
for
business
and
pleasure
that
the
river
presented
at
that
early
hour
,
endeavour
to
interest
his
thoughts
in
the
objects
before
him
.
But
she
would
quickly
set
him
down
,
and
hiding
her
face
in
her
shawl
,
give
vent
to
the
tears
that
blinded
her
;
for
no
expression
of
interest
or
amusement
lighted
up
his
thin
and
sickly
face
.
His
recollections
were
few
enough
,
but
they
were
all
of
one
kind
—
all
connected
with
the
poverty
and
misery
of
his
parents
.
Hour
after
hour
had
he
sat
on
his
mother
’
s
knee
,
and
with
childish
sympathy
watched
the
tears
that
stole
down
her
face
,
and
then
crept
quietly
away
into
some
dark
corner
,
and
sobbed
himself
to
sleep
.
The
hard
realities
of
the
world
,
with
many
of
its
worst
privations
—
hunger
and
thirst
,
and
cold
and
want
—
had
all
come
home
to
him
,
from
the
first
dawnings
of
reason
;
and
though
the
form
of
childhood
was
there
,
its
light
heart
,
its
merry
laugh
,
and
sparkling
eyes
were
wanting
.
‘
The
father
and
mother
looked
on
upon
this
,
and
upon
each
other
,
with
thoughts
of
agony
they
dared
not
breathe
in
words
.
The
healthy
,
strong
-
made
man
,
who
could
have
borne
almost
any
fatigue
of
active
exertion
,
was
wasting
beneath
the
close
confinement
and
unhealthy
atmosphere
of
a
crowded
prison
.
The
slight
and
delicate
woman
was
sinking
beneath
the
combined
effects
of
bodily
and
mental
illness
.
The
child
’
s
young
heart
was
breaking
.
