ACCESSIBILITY, Hypocritical Cant

The Bells Of St. Sepulchre


Silence. In the streets that surround Newgate, in the Old Bailey that stern, unyielding matriarch that, emptied at last, squats stolidly alongside the prison, having supervision of its inmates. Silence, falling warmly upon the householders of Sloane Square, wrapped snugly in eiderdowns in well-heated bed chambers.

Not so for the men of Newgate prison, tossing and turning fitfully in their beds as the bells of St. Sepulchre toll sombrely overhead. The iron clanging of these bells in no way resembles the delicate wedding chimes of St Paul’s Cathedral, for the bells at St Sepulchre’s have only one main purpose and that is to act as harbinger’s of impending death. There is to be another execution a’fore the gates of Newgate and several more will pass unremarked at Wandsworth Gaol for the ruling classes have not yet finished doing as they would have wished with the silk mill workers of London. Does Father London weep for his infants that are no more? He may weep in vain, the hearts of the rich are unmoved.

The Nunneries have been shut for months all the well-fed employees lying restfully a-bed; the music halls have aggressively stood their ground, there will be no unbridled frolics, no licentious entertainments, no debauched drinking sessions whilst the working classes of the capital are forced to bleed, and starve, and tramp about in mourning weeds! And all for asking that their wages and their working conditions be improved!

Silence, cold and unyielding, mired in death and disease in the midst of a prison whose tenants sleep uneasily. And yet there is one who does not sleep, and yet another, and another and another. Slipping across the walls of the prison, opening prison gate after prison gate. Quietly oh so quietly! They steal from cell to cell opening doors, letting prisoners out, who in turn steal across other walls, and slither across other courtyards, till at last nearly all who are sane, and who wish to live are awakened and ready. “For better pay and conditions!” the cry rings out and soon becomes a roar,”For us, our children and our children’s children!” cries another.

The prison governor is asleep, the Union Rep reclining in his cot takes time to stuff his pipe, and slowly lights it. He savours the first puff, langourously draws in the next, pauses on the third, for he now hears the increasing clamour and see’s the torrent of freed inmates pouring into the courtyard from left and right. Now the prison governor is awakened and creeps from his bedchamber to that of the Union Rep who is sat fully dressed pipe in hand.

“Well, they are all gathered” says he calmly, taking a seat on the only chair the room furnishes. A prison Governor seated calmly in discussion with a prisoner who has just incited an uprising in his prison? How can this be? Like the black death or the pox, a malaise has spread throughout the chattering classes of London, quite unlike the deathly torpor those diseases bring. For this malaise is typified by a staunch and intractable determination to see justice of a kind never before seen, done. The judges and the barristers are perplexed by this intractability. Present the evidence as the barristers and the judges might, they can persuade no more juries to vote in favour of hanging the remaining five hundred silk mill workers Newgate prison holds. No more than they can persuade them to vote unanimously in favour of the transportation of anymore prisoners, to the harsh penal colonies of Australia.

The Broadsheets suggest that the governments reaction to the demands of the silk mill workers has been excessively harsh. And then of course there is the disappearance of Lord Grid-Iron, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and those unbridled revelations of his licentious behaviour and financial immorality. Is it true he had a hand in arming the insurrectionists who attempted to blow up the Theatre Royal? Heaven forbid!

“Prosperity! For our children! And out childrens children!” the cries ring out, gather force and bring the Union Rep and the prison Governor to their feet. “Well old friend” says the prison governor firmly shaking the Union Rep’s hand,

“T’is time!”  but the Union Rep shakes his head. In spite of the flaming pyres being held aloft and carried to and fro by prisoners, whose running feet patter thunderously across the prison yard, in spite of the roars of determination, the time is not yet. He pauses, lights his pipe, cocks an ear and listens intently and then, he hears it, t’is like the first slight wave to hit a shore and t’is greeted instantly by silence. It builds it rises and it overtakes that of the men and women within the stone walls of Newgate, but that is because of the immensity of their silence. T’is the shrill war cry of the Chimney Sweeps! The prison Governor looks at his friend in stark disbelief, “but the last of them’s only got out of Great Ormond Street Hospital yesterday morn!” the Union Rep puffs slowly on his pipe, a triumphant look stealing over his face,”T’is Time to mount the battlements!” he declares.

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 God rest ye merry gentlemen

Christmas Eve is a mere three sleeps away and Thomas Holton’s meat cleaver has never been busier. For last year goose was all the rage but this year it is turkey, and Holton’s farm breeds these in prodigious quantities. Polished and sharpened to within an inch of it’s life, the sliver thin edge of Holton farm’s meat cleaver sparkles joyously, and in readiness, for that ceremonious occasion which is yet to come. “Mrs ‘Olton! I says Mrs ‘Olton! Is you ready ma’am?” Mr Holton cries out for today is a big occasion, the offering up of the Holton Farm prize turkey, to be slaughtered and bled out; plucked fastidiously and proffered at great expense to the royal kitchens and no lesser. Mrs Holton shuffles forward, clad in her Sunday best (a silken black worsted gown), with a leather apron fastened tightly around her waist, “Mr ‘Olton I says Mr ‘Olton sir! There’s no need to take on so! The turkey shall in due course be plucked, and singed, and scrubbed, and then sent on it’s way to ‘er Majesty’s kitchens! Only don’t take on so sir! T’will make you ill! T’will never do sir!”

“T’will never do? T’will never do? Why t’is the Queen, ma’am, we serve! And if we serves er well and serves it up well we may be rich ma’am! Acknowidged as a farm of ‘igh repute and with the monies we makes we may does as we wish!” cleaver in hand Mr Holton marches briskly out of his parlour through the kitchen and into the backyard, immense wealth is to be his! He espies it hung around the neck of Holton Farm’s prize turkey!T’is but a short walk to the barn but oh! Horror of horrors! Upon entering that dark and foul smelling place Mr Holton and Mrs Holton observe a most disturbing thing! The turkey has fled! For in the farthest corner of that damp slaughter quarter lies an empty nest. Mr and Mrs Holton marshall the servants; the servants search both far and wide, but the much prized bird is in no place they can find. Oh tragedy! Oh ignominy! But, dear reader, let us become airborne with the turkey, as in prophetic anticipation of its imminent demise it takes flight and wings it’s way over field, and dale, and hill, till it comes to rest, at last, on the roof top of a certain house, overlooking a little scene, being played out on the corner of Ponsonby Street in the heart of London.

“Bonjour Monsieur, l’argent ‘sil vous plait!” a begrimed old lady holds out a shaking hand, Hardy Ethelbert-Smythe glancing down at the hand, grasps it gently in his gloved one and examines it in minute detail. Although decidely filthy, it is a soft hand, unused to hard work, in fact unused to work of any kind, Mr Ethelbert-Smythe sighs, “Parlez Anglais?” she nods, “My Anglaise” she whispers clasping her flimsy, ragged, shawl to her painfully thin chest, “It iz not very good” Mr Smythe nods, he smiles brightly. A French speaking gentlewoman fallen into disrepute no doubt, he knows exactly the palliative that would cure her of her ills. “Connais vous le workhouse? Vous tournez a gauche et allez tout droit, eh voila! Le workhouse!” stooping forward and tipping his hat towards the horrified woman he wishs her a hearty “Good day!” he places his hat back on his head and strides off.

“Madre de Dieu! As ‘e no shame?” whispers the shocked petitioner for alms (who incidentally hadn’t eaten a thing in two weeks), “A curse on ‘im!” mutters the elderly gent across the road from her who has had the great misfortune of being privy to this cheerfully conducted verbal exchange, “Such as ‘im wouldn’t give you the scrapings orffa ‘is quill pen! The work ‘ouse?! I’m waitin on the day of judgement as it says in them revelatiunns orff of King James! For then such as ‘e will be toasted broww’ner than an overdone turkey twizzler!!”

Unaware of the ire he has provoked Mr Ethelbert-Smythe continues merrily on his way to the Spitalfield’s Workhouse, wherein lies the greater part of his business for the day for he is senior guardian there. First, however, he must stop at the the pie shop on Petticoat Lane, there he orders a a game pie such as Messrs Hobson & Flynd are held in renown for, to be delivered to his house in Sloane Square, freshly baked on Christmas Eve. Then to the butchers, Tarquin and Pettership, to order the Christmas goose and finally to Master Redwood’s toyshop whereat he purchases a cherrywood rocking horse for his son, Thomas Ethelbert-Smythe and a Georgian doll’s house for Edwina Ethelbert-Smythe (his daughter).

Hypocritical Cant

It’s Not What’s Under The Tree That Matters