3.01: The ballet-girl shanks her would-be murderer! — The ghost of the 'hanging judge.' — Astrology is just for fun ... or is it? - The Penny Dreadful Hour: A Feast of Early-Victorian Street Literature and Stories

Episode Transcript
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(00:10):
The tip top evening to all you Gnostics out and outers and
nights of the brush and moon. I'm your host Finn JD John,
welcoming you to the Penny Dreadful Chafing Crib.
It's a Sunday night and that means it's time once again for
the Penny Dreadful Hour podcast.So slip off your Flyers and put

(00:33):
up your dew beaters, top off your tumblers with something hot
and strong and prick up your lugs because another rare hour
long noggin of early Victorian prattery is upon us like Dick
Turpin on a. Traveling fancy toff.
The Penny Dreadful Hour is the show that carries you back to
the sooty, foggy streets of early Victorian London.

(00:53):
When the latest. Batch of the story papers hit
the streets. Not the fancy ones full of
sketches by Boz and comments about Parliament, but the cheap
scrappy ones that caused a pennyand the ones that the beaks and
the town tabbies call penny bloods or penny dreadfuls.
Tonight is a special one in the Young History of the Penny
Dreadful Hour podcast. This is episode 1 of Season 3.

(01:15):
It's with this episode that we have finally gotten the format
down and I am finally ready to start spreading the word about
the show and we're recommending that new listeners TuneIn
starting with this episode. So I need to explain a few
things here for the benefit of new listeners.
The Penny Dreadful Hour Podcast comes three times a week with a
one hour show on Sunday nights and 1/2 hour show on Tuesday and

(01:38):
Thursday nights. Each episode is anchored by 1
chapter reading from one of the seven Penny Dreadful stories
that we are following. The Mysteries of London from
1844, Varney the Vampire from 1845, Sweeney Todd from 1846,
The Black Band from 1861, Highwayman Dick Turpin also from
1861, Springhill Jack from 1866,and Rose Mortimer or the Ballet

(02:03):
Girls Revenge from 1867. The Sunday Show also includes A
Victorian age ghost story of a short story type.
And this of course today is the main Sunday show which I keep
clean enough for everyone to appreciate.
And if you're up for some old English ghost stories and occult
Nuggets, this is where you'll find them.

(02:24):
If you're interested in the spicy bits, as I mean as spicy
as we get around here, Body Songlyrics is about as porny as we
go, but you'll find those in ourTuesday shows.
And for all you Victorian age Murderino's that want to see
some true crime from the 1860s, well, you'll find all the
murder, war crimes and deeds of blood in the Thursday night

(02:45):
shows. So here's what we've got in a
store for tonight. We'll start things off with a
ghostly palate cleanser, An article from the terrific
Register. Truly dreadful and shocking
publication full of murders and ghost stories from the 1820s.
It was, by the way, a regular weekly favorite of Charles

(03:06):
Dickens when he was a young. Lad.
On Sundays, we look for the spooky stuff from the Register,
leaving the gruesome death talesfor Thursdays.
Next comes Chapter 6 of Rose Mortimer or the Ballet Girls.
Revenge by an anonymous comedy writer from the Theater Royale
on Drury Lane, which first started publication in 1867.

(03:28):
After that, we'll explore a little lowbrow poetry from one
of the flash camp songs about highway robbers and pickpockets
and other fun stuff, courtesy ofone of the supper club song
books of the 1830s and 1840s. Then, following a short break,
we'll have our weekly Victorian Ghost Story.
It's a spectacular little tale titled An Account of Some
Strange Disturbances in Onger Street by J Sheridan Lafanu,

(03:52):
first published in 1851. It's long, so we're going to
have to split it into three parts, the first this week, the
2nd next week, and the third theweek after that.
And we'll finish out today's program with a little something
allegedly funny or witty in the form of an article from an early
Victorian popular comedy magazine like Punch or Fun.
Sounds like a good time. Trust me, it will be.

(04:15):
Let's kick it off as promised with an article from the
Terrific Register. This nugget was first published
in the early 1820s. Here we go.
Fatal fulfillment of a nativity of his son cast by Dryden.
Dryden, with all his understanding, was weak enough

(04:37):
to be attached to judicial astrology, and always used to
calculate the nativity of his children.
When his lady was in labor with his son.
Charles, he, being told that it was decent to withdraw, laid his
watch on the table, and begging one of the ladies then present,
in a very grave manner, to take notice of the exact minute of
the child's birth, which she observed, and acquainted him

(04:58):
therewith. About a week after, when his
lady was pretty well recovered, Mr. Dryden took occasion to tell
her that he had been calculatingthe child's nativity, and
observed with grief that he was born in an evil hour.
For Jupiter, Venus, and the Sun were all under the earth, and
the Lord of the Ascendant afflicted with a hateful square
of Mars and Saturn. If he lived to the 8th year,

(05:21):
continued he he will go near to die a violent death on his
birthday. But if he should then escape, of
which I see but little hope, he will, in his 23rd year, be under
the same evil direction. And if he should then also
escape, the 33rd or 34th year is, I fear.
Here he was interrupted by the immoderate grief of his lady,
could no longer hear so much calamity prophesied to befall

(05:44):
her son. The time at last came, and
August was the inauspicious month in which the young Dryden
was to enter into the 8th year of his age.
Dryden being at leisure to leavetown, he was invited to the
country seat of the Earl of Berkshire, his brother-in-law,
to spend the long vacation with him at Charlton and Wilts, his
lady going at the same time on avisit to pass the remaining part

(06:06):
of the summer at her uncle Mordaunt's.
When they came to divide their children, the lady wished him to
take his son John with him, and let her have Charles.
But Dryden was too absolute, andthey parted in anger.
He took Charles with him, and she was obliged to be content
with John. When the fatal day arrived, the
anxiety of the lady's spirits caused her such an effervescence

(06:26):
of blood as threw her into so violent a fever, that her life
was despaired of, till a letter came from Dryden, reproving her
for her womanish credulity, and assuring her that her child was
well, which revived her spirits.And in six weeks after, she
received an inquiry small of thewhole affair.
Dryden, either through fear of being reckoned superstitious, or

(06:47):
thinking of a science beneath his study, was extremely
cautious of letting anyone know that he was a dealer in
astrology. Therefore he could not excuse
his absence on his son's birthday, from a hunting match
which Earl Berkshire had made, to which all the neighboring
gentlemen were invited. When he went out, he took care
to set his son a double exercisein the Latin tongue, which he

(07:08):
taught his children himself, with a strict charge not to stir
out of the room till his return,well knowing that the task with
which he had set him would take him a longer time than he would
be absent from him. Charles was performing his
exercise and obedience to his father's command, when, as I'll
fate would have it, the stag made toward the house, and the
noise alarming the servants, they hastened out to see the

(07:29):
sport. One of them, taking young Dryden
by the hand, led him out along with them, when, just as they
came to the gate, the stag, being at Bay with the dogs, made
a bold push and leaped over the court wall, which, being low and
very old, the dogs followed, threw down a part thereof, and
poor Charles was buried in the ruins.
He was presently got out, but much bruised, so that he

(07:52):
languished for six weeks in a very dangerous way, which
accomplished the first part of his father's prophecy.
In his 23rd year, being at Rome,he fell from the top of an old
tower belonging to the Vatican, occasioned by a swimming in his
head, with which he was seized by the heat of the weather.
He recovered this also, but everafter remained in a languishing

(08:12):
sickly state till the 33rd year of his age, when, being returned
to England, he was drowned at Windsor, being taken with the
cramp, as he was bathing in the Thames with another gentleman,
to whom he called for assistance, but too late.
Thus the Father's prophetical calculation proved but too true.

(08:34):
And now it is time for Chapter 6of Rose Mortimer, or Almost
time. Because this is the recommended
starting point for new listeners, I'm going to take a
little time here to bring everyone up to speed on the plot
from this Penny Dreadful. Bear with me, this will be worth
the few minutes. It will take long time.
Listeners, feel free to skip ahead to the reading.
I'll mark the time signature in the show notes for you.

(08:56):
Or simply skip ahead exactly 9 minutes from right here.
If you're new here, you're goingto love this one.
In chapter 1, we open on noble, virtuous young Rose being
physically accosted on a deserted St. apparently for
dishonorable purposes, by a debauched Parson.
The Parson is Abel Booth. She screams and screams, but no

(09:18):
one comes, and just as it seems she is about to be ravished, A
bearded gentleman steps up and punches Abel out.
This is Jack Halliday, a scene painter at the ballet.
Abel wakes up a moment later andhe and Jack snarl at each other
a little bit, and Jack is ready to give him another Hertz
doughnut, but Rose begs him not to.

(09:39):
Jack walks her back to her home as Abel glares after her,
cursing her and swearing that. By all the devils in hell, she
shall yet be mine. Pro tip, if your Parson swears
by all the devils in hell, you might consider switching
churches. In chapter 2, we open in Rose's
home, which she shares with her father, Hugh Mortimer.
We learn that he is a brute and a criminal, specifically a

(10:01):
forger of banknotes, and that Abel Booth is able to get him
transported to Australia at any time.
We gather that he is holding back doing so because he wants
Rose. Her father is angry with her for
fleeing from him, and yells at her for weeping.
Then someone shows up to visit, and Rose's father orders her out
of the room. The newcomer is a tall, dark
stranger with a fabulous mustache, whom we will soon

(10:25):
learn is Count Lerno. He is here to buy some
counterfeit banknotes from Hugh,but Hugh tries to renege on
their deal. Count Lerno grabs him by the
throat, threatens him with a revolver, throws him to the
floor and leaves the room with all the banknotes, only paying
him half the agreed upon some. On his way out the door, he
locks eyes with Rose and stares wolfishly at her.

(10:45):
We are given to understand that he is marking her for conquest.
In Chapter 3. Rose goes back to the theater to
try again to talk her way into ashowbiz job.
Just as she is being repulsed, Jack Halladay appears and
Squires her to the manager's door.
Past the screeners. She is conveyed into the
manager's presence. The manager is there with
another man in the room. He tells her to get lost, but

(11:07):
just then the other man turns around and hey, hey, it's Count
Lerno. Count Lerno, of course, urges
the manager to take Rose on. The manager does as she is
leaving, she tells Jack Hallidayof her good fortune and he is
delighted but warns her not to trust Count Lerno.
Back home, Rose sees Abel Booth leaving her apartment.

(11:27):
Entering, she asks her father what Abel was doing and Hugh
realizes Abel was spying on him.Hugh clearly knows some kind of
showdown is coming and he blamesRose for it.
It is your namby pamby modesty that has brought this evil down
on me. Apparently she was supposed to
allow Abel Booth to ravish her the previous day and he is now
angry because she did not. Now looking out the window he

(11:50):
sees Abel Booth and two other men on the sidewalk looking up
at them. Hugh knows this means the hour
has come, so he orders Rose up into her room upstairs and locks
her in and he gets an old fashioned pistol out of a hidden
cubby in the floor. Rose shivers upstairs.
She smells smoke and fears the house is on fire, but it goes
away and she realizes it's just Hue burning some evidence.

(12:13):
Then someone starts pounding on the door and being unanswered.
They force it open and come in. There's a pistol shot, a shriek
of pain and terror and scufflingand fighting, and then silence.
Rose uses a fire iron to pry up some of the flooring and peep
through into the room below, butloses her balance and falls
through, landing in a heap in the room below.

(12:33):
The room is covered with blood and great pools.
Then someone chuckles fiendishly.
It's Abel Booth. He's in her room upstairs,
having let himself in, apparently with a key, obviously
hoping to find her there, alone and defenseless.
As he drops down into the room, she runs for the door and out of
the house and runs, she knows not with her, until she drops

(12:54):
fainting from exhaustion againsta doorpost someplace.
Chapter 4 opens on Count Lerno in his drawing room.
The count, we learned, came to England two years before.
Nobody knows from whence, but he's handsome and well bred and
rich and throws great gambling parties, so he's been accepted
into high society. Tonight we see him in formal
evening dress in his drawing room, steaming open some packs

(13:17):
of playing cards so that he can mark the backs.
Then we cut to the party that night.
He is hosting a number of noblesand notables, including one
Captain Roper, who is slightly suspected of having thrown a
race in which a horse he owned was running, which should have
won but did not, and a young baronet named Sir Harold King.
As the evening progresses, we observe that Sir Harold, who

(13:38):
just inherited a fortune, is themark who is being fleeced, and
we more than suspect that Captain Roper and Count Lerno
are in cahoots to do it. But Captain Roper overdoes it,
and Sir Harold gets suspicious and starts closely watching him.
Then he pounces, seizes his sleeve and accuses him of
cheating. Captain Roper, infuriated, leaps
to the wall where a pair of rapiers are hanging, throws one

(14:01):
to Sir Harold, and makes a pass.A short, fierce swordfight
ensues, ending when Captain Roper is disarmed.
But still furious, He grabs A revolver off the wall, which
Count Lerno had earlier. Told him he kept.
Loaded and fires point blank at his opponent.
Unfortunately for him, Count Lerno had lied.
The revolver was not loaded, butthe other gamblers, though cool

(14:21):
with a duel, find attempted murder to be a bridge too far
and pounce on him. When they do, the missing card
falls out of his Wescott. The Count orders him to leave,
but on his way out he vows revenge and insinuates that the
Count is also Trixie. The Count pounces upon him,
horse whips him and ejects him from the room.
The other gamblers also missile off, saying they're done for the

(14:42):
night and leaving the count muttering to himself.
The first brick of the house hasfallen, he mutters.
The secret of my life is no longer safe.
He must make his escape before it all comes down.
But he determines before he doesso he's going to make a conquest
of Rose. No Rose, he mutters.
Nothing in heaven or. Earth can save thee.

(15:05):
Thou shalt be mine. Thou shalt be mine.
Ha ha ha ha, curtain. In Chapter 5, we're back to
Rose. She's waking up from her swoon
with the help of a policeman, and there's a crowd of onlookers
around her. Among them is Jack Halladay, the
scene painter who takes her backto her home in a cab, but
there's no sign of her father oranyone.

(15:27):
Jack asks her if she might be willing to stay with his mother
while she figures out what to do, and after meeting Missus
Halladay, she gladly takes them up on the offer.
Meanwhile they share what they know with Scotland Yard, and
hope to hear news of Hugh Mortimer's fate soon.
Thus passes a week by. Rose takes to the ballet very
nicely, and Mr. Flathers is soonvery glad.

(15:48):
He exceeded to Count Lerno's request to take care on the
ballet master. Mr. Totts is enraptured.
That girl will make a wonderful dancer.
He tells Flathers. She's a Cerrito, she's an
Elsler, she's a Talioni, she's aCarlotta.
Keep her and she'll make your fortune.
And her own, too. Mr. Flathers reply, though is a
little chilling. I wish I could.

(16:10):
I wish I were not in that atrocious villain's power.
Poor girl. If she only knew what miseries
in store for her time. Flies the show goes on.
Count Lerno comes around a lot and pays a lot of attention to
Rose despite Jack Halliday's warning.
She feels she must be civil to him as she owes him her job and
maybe her life, but she still mistrusts him.

(16:33):
The Christmas performance comes and Rose is cast as Goddess of
Mourning. She's the star of the show, but
in the audience, the Count does,muttering encouragement to
himself. It cannot fail.
She cannot suspect. Then after the show he
approaches her to tell her he has a message from her father
and if she will come with him hewill take her to him.
She accepts the offer but something tells her not all is

(16:55):
what it seems. She stands there by his coach,
trying to think of a reason to bow out, considering even
running from him. But then Jack Halliday appears
in the distance and the Count seizes Rose bundles her into the
waiting coach and is off with her to a magnificent palatial
estate. Rose is increasingly alarmed.
Her father never moved in such circles.

(17:15):
She demands the Count take her to her father instead.
The Count informs her that he has deceived her and taken her
to his estate, the mistress of which he hopes she will consent
to be. She of course refuses, so he
seizes her again, bears her up the stairs and locks.
Her in a bedroom. Clearly he plans to return
shortly, and probably to try to force himself upon her.

(17:36):
She runs to the window, opens it, notices an ornamental point
art on the wall, grabs it, slashes the curtains up to make
a rope, and slides down to freedom.
Running away through the open country and nearly frozen to
death, she finally finds a smallmean looking house with a light
burning inside. Inside her a course ruffian and
his old hag mother Rose asks them to shelter her till

(17:58):
daylight. They let her in and then the
host and Hostess exchange a glance and the old hag bolts the
door that. Brings us to.
Today's chapter, Chapter 6. Rose is not out of the woods
yet. She's in this strange house with
this ruffian and his haggish mother, and she can't help
wondering if she's jumped out ofone frying pan and right into

(18:19):
another. The hag orders her to go
upstairs and get some rest. She'd love to, but something
tells her these two are not to be trusted, and her host keeps
staring covetously at the costume jewelry bracelets that
she's wearing. Is she in danger?
Spoiler Yes. How will she escape from their
clutches? Spoiler By just kidding.

(18:40):
You'll have to wait and see, starting right about now.
Chapter 6. The lonely, how the loft schemes
of plunder, the struggle in the dark, the fearful leap, terror,
the escape, the disguise. As the door closed behind her,

(19:00):
Rosa's heart sank within her. She had escaped one danger, it
is true, but was it only to encounter another?
The interior of the house in which she had taken refuge was
mean and shabby in the extreme, and the countenance of its
inmates most repulsive. Their rough tongues seemed to
find it difficult to frame. Courteous sentences and polite

(19:22):
phrases sat upon them with bad grace, though both the man and
the woman, in a rude, uncouth fashion, did their best for her
comfort. Her dress, alas for the poor
dress, it was now much torn, andmud bespattered, was taken by
the old hag to dry. But on the fair white, rounded
arm of the poor girl still glistened a bracelet which she
had worn at the theatre the night before, and which, if of

(19:44):
real stones, would have been worth a small Kingdom.
On this the eyes of the beetle browed ruffian fixed themselves
with a covetous glare. But Rose noticed him not as he
stood near the dying embers of the fire, sadly thinking over
the events of the past few hours.
Come, old woman. Cried the man in a loud, harsh
tones. Is this ear?

(20:04):
Poor Gala perishing a cold shower to a bedroom?
Can't you? The old hag stared and muttered
something between her teeth, butsnatching up a flaring tallow
candle which stuck in the neck of an old bottle, served to
light the apartment and signaling Rose to follow her,
she led the way to a ladder, which was the only means of
communication with the upper story.

(20:24):
Rose shrank back. She hesitated to ascend a tumble
down ladder, leading till she knew not with her.
Go up, I tell her. Said the hag.
I'd rather not, no. I will stay down here till
daylight. He says you're to.
Go up, said the hag. And when he says a thing, he
means what he do now then with that light mother.

(20:47):
Cried the man with an oath. Up up quicker, it'll be the
worst for you. Rose ascended the ladder in
safety and saw that she was in asort of loft.
Her head almost touched the rafters and the floor was litter
with straw. Lie.
Down and go to sleep. Said the old woman, as she
disappeared down the ladder, taking the light with her, and
leaving Rose in total darkness. For some minutes our heroines

(21:10):
stood afraid to move a step, butas her eyes became better
accustomed to the darkness, she grew bolder, and advancing to
the narrow aperture which answered the purpose of a
window. She looked out.
The wall of the house seemed to go straight down into the water,
for beneath her the ripples camesluggishly plashing, and she
could just discern the dim outline of a boat moored to a

(21:30):
stake driven deep into the mud. Her present position was fraught
with peril. She could not but mistrust the
inhabitants of the Hut, though as yet she had no proof of their
entertaining any ill feeling toward her.
Wearily she turned away from thewindow, and gathering together
an armful of straw, seated herself upon it, determined not
to close her eyes. But her efforts were in vain.

(21:53):
Exhausted nature exercised her sway, and poor Rose soon fell
into a deep slumber. After a while she woke suddenly.
How long she had been asleep shehad no means of ascertaining,
but now the faint Gray light of early dawn was beginning to make
things partly visible in the misty ghost like manner.
Immediately beneath her, she heard the voices of the man and

(22:13):
woman in fierce conversation. I tell you yes.
Said the man. I saw the jewels of twinkling on
her arm like blazes. They'd set you and me up for
life. That's what they do.
How are you going to get them? Trust me for that.
Give me a hold of that there knife.
Rose instinctively felt that shewas the subject of the
conversation of these wretches. She felt that her life was about

(22:37):
to be sacrificed for a trumpery theatrical goo goo not worth a
crown. What could she do?
Would they let her go if she gave them the Mach diamonds?
When she next heard the voices, the speakers had evidently
altered their position. They had come to the bottom of
the ladder leading to the loft, in which she lay pale and
trembling. Now listen to me, mother, said

(22:57):
the man with an oath. As soon as I've got up, you pull
the ladder away so that she can't escape, you hear?
I, I I'm not. Deaf.
Grumbled the other. Well, you just mind what you're
at, that's all. A moment's pause and then the
sound of heavy footsteps on the creaking ladder.
Rose shrank into the farthest and darkest corner of the loft

(23:18):
as the head of the beetle browedruffian appeared through the
trap. With the exception of a space of
a few feet round the window, where the early rays of light
penetrated, the loft was in complete darkness.
With beating, hardened, bated breath, Rose watched the ruffian
As for a few moments he stood near the window, a long bladed
knife held firmly between his teeth.

(23:39):
Rose hastily put her hand into the bosom of her dress, and
pulled out the poignard which had rendered her such good
service when escaping from the Count.
It was a tiny weapon, better suited for a toy than for a
death struggle, but on it? Rested Rose's only hope of life.
With low mumbled curses, the ruffian commenced feeling about

(24:00):
in every direction. Rose shrank still further back.
Growling to himself, he stumbledalong, but without searching the
corner in which our heroine was concealed.
Then he suddenly paused. He can't have got away now.
How? He muttered, perplexed.
Then, guiding himself by the wall, he commenced making a tour
of the loft. If he only persevered in this

(24:23):
plan, Rose knew she must be discovered.
Again. She saw him cross the light, but
it was only a momentary glimpse she obtained of him, and then he
plunged to gain Into Darkness. Rose felt he was drawing near
her. She felt his low muttered curses
in his stealthy footfall. But.
How near he was. She could not tell.
Clutching her dagger tightly in her little hand, she scarcely

(24:45):
dared to breathe. All was silent as the grave.
She knew nothing, heard nothing of her pursuer's whereabouts,
till a cold, clammy hand rested on her bare shoulder.
With a scream she started from her place of concealment.
With an oath and a yell of triumph he followed her.
Then, her eyes glaring fiercely like those of a tiger at Bay,

(25:05):
she turned and confronted him with impetuous force.
He rushed on and seized her by the throat.
Her brain whirled round, she almost lost consciousness and
sank to the ground. With a low laugh he bent over
her and raised on high the hand holding the cruel long bladed
knife. Then only was it that Rose
recovered her presence of mind sufficiently to act.

(25:25):
Striking upward with her tiny dagger, its sharp point entered
the cheek of her antagonist as he bent over her, and as he
moved started a Crimson streak across his scowling face.
With a frightful yell he put up both hands, for the blood
raining over his face blinded him.
To do this he was forced to relinquish his hold of Rose,
who, not slow to seize this opportunity of escape, pushed

(25:47):
him away from her with all her force, and staggered to her
feet. There was not a moment to lose.
How was her escape? To be made.
The latter was gone. Only one chance remained, the
window. It was just large enough for her
to squeeze through, and to her great joy she saw the tide had
risen considerably, and the leapwas nothing very terrific for an
expert diver. Without a moment's hesitation

(26:09):
she plunged head first into the muddy river.
As she regained the surface, a few strokes took her to the boat
into which she clambered. Then, looking at the window when
she had jumped, she saw the hideous blood stained features
of her would be murderer glaringfuriously at her.
Her nimble finger speedily unfastened the rope with which
the boat was moored, and then with one vigorous push, she

(26:31):
launched the frail bark out intothe stream.
She was only just in time for a game that I'll favored.
Face appeared at the window, anda couple of sharp reports in
quick succession from a pistol and the sprinkling of the shot
like hail in the water around her, warned her that she had no
time to spare. With a few rapid strokes of the
skulls, Rose took the boat stillfurther away from land, and then

(26:53):
directing its head down the stream, The tide being in her
favor, she soon turned to bend in the river and lost sight of
the hateful house. Now she had time for reflection,
so, unshipping her skulls, she allowed the boat to drift with
the current, while she endeavored to settle the course
which it would be best for her to pursue.
It was now nearly broad daylight, and in a few minutes

(27:14):
she would reach the more crowdedpart of the river, where she
would certainly attract attention, which, however
flattering it might be, was not at all what she desired.
While yet she pondered, her eye rested upon a bundle lying in
the stern of the boat. Eagerly she seized it and found
that it contained a suit of boysclothes, which, although
somewhat too large for her, would nevertheless serve the

(27:34):
purpose of disguise and warmth. For, be it remembered, a ballet
dress, however pretty, is not exactly suited to a river
excursion on a frosty December morning.
Again seizing the skulls, she impelled the boat toward the
shore at a part where the Reed grown bank seemed to offer the
best concealment, and in a very short time emerged looking as
pretty and fragile as sailor boyas you can imagine.

(27:57):
I've got the boat here, she saidto herself, so I may as well
float down as far as Westminster.
So saying, she stepped a game into the little bark and in a
few minutes was once more floating gaily down in midstream
towards London. By and by the towers of the
Houses of Parliament came Insight, and then Rose directed
the skiff towards a landing place just on the upper side of

(28:17):
the bridge. It was yet early and but few
people were about, but some halfdozen watermen were lounging at
the pier. Oh, that little 1 cried 1.
Where are you I'll from likely looking loud enough said another
do better in petticoats, growled1/3.
It required some little courage on the part of Rose to walk past

(28:38):
these men, for the dress she wore was.
Strange to her, and she much feared she might be discovered
by her awkwardness. Here, you fellows, look after my
boat. She said in this consequential
and swaggering a tone as she could assume, and then, putting
her hands into her pockets, she strolled past the group of men
and walked sharply in the direction of Missus Halliday's
house, which she had learned to call home. 20 minutes brisk

(29:01):
walking brought her to the door,which happened to be open.
Rose entered rapidly, ascended the stairs, and knocked at the
door of Missus Halliday's room. Come in, said that worthy old
lady. Rose availed herself of the
permission, but then Mrs. Halliday, who had not yet
completed her toilette, saw whatshe believed to be a good
looking sailor boy enter her room.
She gave a shrill scream and hastily threw her dress over her

(29:22):
shoulders. Don't you know me, Rose said.
Our heroine. Lure me.
And so it is. And oh, the state Jack's been in
about you. And where have you been?
Which the dress it becomes you well, though fine feathers don't
make fine birds. And I hope it's no harm.
None of those masked balls and wickedness because it's pale.

(29:43):
You are my darling, and a little.
Drop of Brandy, though it is early in the morning.
And such are courses I don't approve, and you haven't told me
a bit about it yet. So ran on the worthy, kind
hearted, talkative old lady, patting Rose on the cheek as she
spoke, and holding her hand in her own.
Rose commenced a narration of her adventures.
But before she had half told of them, her strength gave way, and

(30:05):
she burst into a flood of tears.Bless you, my dear, Don't fret,
cried the old lady. Your troubles are over.
Now, good old soul, had Rose's troubles even begun?
Oh, if she had. Known what a fearful fate
awaited her, what dreadful end she was rapidly approaching

(30:28):
well. Ho, that was quite a tale,
wasn't it? One of the things I really
appreciate about this dreadful, besides the fact that so much
happens in each and every chapter, is how proactive Rose
Mortimer is. Back in that age, most heroines
basically just looked fetching and waited for a hero to rescue
them, and although Rose does require a rescue a time or two,

(30:48):
she's resourceful in a way that Victorian heroines seldom were.
I mean, really? In this chapter she literally
Shanks a guy and steals his boat.
Absolute legend. In the next chapter, back at
Missus Halliday's house, Rose tries to rest and recover from
the terrors of the night and repair her tattered ballet dress
in time for rehearsals. The dress is done just in time,

(31:10):
and luckily there's a cab right outside the house.
But wait, why was that man waiting with the cab driver?
And why is the cab going so fastand recklessly through the foggy
streets to to the theater? No, to somewhere else?
What's going on? We shall see.
Before we move on to this week'sVictorian short story of a cult

(31:34):
mystery, let's pause to appreciate one of the bits of
poetical fervor that we've been handed down from the early
Victorian era via one of the great old informal evening song
books. This song comes from the
Corinthian, an extensive collection of flash songs, slang
ditties and rum chants publishedin 1833 by Jay Duncan of
Holborn, London. It's chock full of flash can't

(31:56):
terms, so I've annotated the entire poem in the show notes so
that you can follow along. Here we go.
Maul Spriggins or the Hundreds of Drury, a very popular slang
chaunt tune, O tis love. To the hundreds of Drury I write

(32:16):
and the rest of my flash companions.
To the buttocks that padded all night.
To pimps, whores, bods and theirstallions.
To those who are down in the Whit rattling their Darbys with
pleasure, who laugh at the rum culls they've bit, and now they
are snacking the treasure. This time I expect to be nabbed.
My duds. They grow wonder a seedy.

(32:37):
I pray you to send me some, bub,a bottle or two of the needy.
I beg you won't bring it yourself.
The Harmon is at the Old Bailey.I'd rather you send it by half,
for if that they Twiggy they'll nail you.
Maul Spriggins came here the other night.
She tipped. Such a joram of diddle garnish
is the prisoner's delight. We footed away to the fiddle.

(33:00):
Her fortunate diving did fail, for which she has changed
habitation. But now the whore pads it in
jail and laughs at the fools of the nation.
This time I expect no reprieve. The sheriff's came down with the
warrants. An account now behind us.
We leave of our birth education and parents.
Our bolts are knocked off in thewhat our friends to die

(33:21):
penitent. Pray us.
The nubbing cull pops from the pit and into the tumbrit conveys
us through the streets. Our slow wheels do move.
The toll of the death bell dismays us with nosegays.
We're decked in with gloves so trim and so gay They array us.
The passage all crowded we see, With maidens that move us to

(33:42):
pity our Ere all admiring agree Such lads are not left in the
city. O then to the tree I must go.
The judge hath so ordered the sentence.
And then comes the gownsman you know, And tells a dull tale of
repentance. But the gullets we've tied very
tight. We beg all spectators pray for
us. Our peepers are hid from the

(34:03):
site. The ladder shoves off.
Then we Moor us. Now it's time to take a short
break, and when we come back we'll duck directly into our
weekly Victorian Ghost story, anaccount of some strange
disturbances in Onger Street by J Sheridan Lefanu.
Stick around. Welcome back to the second-half

(34:38):
of the weekly Sunday evening Penny Dreadful Hour.
Now where were we? Ah yes, moving on to our
evening's Victorian short story of ghostly presences and
sinistero cultures. This evening's Victorian Ghost
Story is an account of some strange disturbances in Onger

(35:00):
Street by J Sheridan Lefanu, which was first published in
1851. While listening to it, keep in
mind that it takes place in Dublin, was written by an Irish
writer and was published near the end of The Great Potato
Famine. Daily experience, for this
author was probably haunted by Spectres.
Lufanu at the outbreak of faminewas something of a rising star

(35:21):
in Tory political circles, but that ended in 1847 when he
joined what you might call an intra party political
insurrection against the government's indifference to the
suffering of the Irish. By the time of the famine Lafanu
had already established himself as basically the United Kingdoms
answer to Edgar Allen Poe. One has to wonder what being
surrounded by so much death for half a decade and so many

(35:45):
untenanted ruins afterwards. Dublin, where he lived, wasn't
as hard hit as the country counties, but more than
1,000,000 Irish died of hunger over those five years.
Like one out of every seven people.
Another million emigrated. The whole country was like a
bombed out Hulk for decades. As if that weren't enough,
Lafanu was a Protestant of Huguenot descendant and a

(36:07):
country whose ancient establishment was Catholic and
medieval. It's hard to remember this
today, but until Vatican 2, manyProtestants looked at
Catholicism as a darksome, mysterious global conspiracy.
Cult type thing. It still carries a whiff of that
legend, or, or at least that legend has some cultural
potency. If you read The Da Vinci Code,

(36:28):
you'll know what I mean. Being surrounded by those ruins
of both buildings and cultures of unimaginable antiquity must
have been pretty inspiring for awriter of Lafani's imagination
and temperament. If ever there was a training
regimen for a writer of ghostly and darks and tales, I guess
this would have been it. I'm just glad I didn't have to
walk his Rd. Today, Elefantu is widely

(36:51):
regarded as the best ghost storywriter of his time.
He's best known for having revolutionized vampire
literature with Carmilla in 1872.
Before Carmilla, well, vampires were like Varney.
Afterwards, they were basically like Count Dracula, a model that
would hold until the advent of Edward Cullen.

(37:11):
All right, enough gambling. Let's get on with this story
now. An account of some strange
disturbances in Ongier Street byJay Sheridan Lafanu, 1851.
Part one of three parts. Part 2 will be presented in next

(37:31):
Sunday's show, and Part 3 the Sunday after that.
It is not worth telling this story of mine, at least not
worth writing, told, indeed, as I have sometimes been called
upon to tell it to. A circle of intelligent and
eager faces, lighted up by a good after dinner fire and a
winter's evening, with a cold wind rising and wailing outside,

(37:53):
and all snug and cozy within. It has gone off, though I say it
who should not indifferently well.
But it is a. Venture to do as you would have
me. Pen, ink, and paper are cold
vehicles for the marvelous, and a reader decidedly a more
critical animal than a listener.If, however, you can induce your
friends to read it after nightfall and when the fireside

(38:14):
talk is run on for a while, on the thrilling tales of shapeless
terror. In short, if you will secure me
the Molia tempura fondi, I will go to my work and say my say
with better heart. Well, then, these conditions
presupposed, I shall waste no more words, but tell you simply
how it all happened. My cousin Tom Ludlow and I

(38:34):
studied medicine together. I think he would have succeeded
had he stuck to the profession, but he preferred the church,
poor fellow, and died early, a sacrifice to contagion
contracted in the noble discharge of his duties for my
present purpose. I say enough of his character
when I mention that he was of a sedate but frank and cheerful
nature, very exact in his observance of truth, and not by

(38:56):
any means, like myself, of an excitable or nervous
temperament. My Uncle Ludlow, Tom's father,
while we were attending lectures, purchased 3 or 4 old
houses in Ongier St., one of which was unoccupied.
He resided in the country, and Tom proposed that we should take
up our abode in the untenanted house so long as it should
continue on. Let a move which would

(39:16):
accomplish the double end of settling us nearer alike to our
lecture rooms and to our amusements, and of relieving us
from the weekly charge of rent for our lodgings.
Our furniture was very scant, our whole equipage remarkably
modest and primitive, and, in short, our arrangements pretty
nearly as simple as those of a bivouac.
Our new plan was therefore executed almost as soon as

(39:38):
conceived. The front drawing room was our
sitting room. I had the bedroom over it and
Tom the back bedroom on the samefloor, which nothing could have
induced me to occupy. The house to begin with was a
very old one. It had been, I believe, newly
fronted about 50 years before, but with this exception it had
nothing modern about it. The agent who bought it and

(39:58):
looked into the titles for my uncle told me that it was sold
along with much other forfeited property at Chichester House, I
think in 17 two. It had belonged to Sir Thomas
Hackett, who was Lord Mayor of Dublin in James the Second's
time. How old it was then I can't say,
but at all events it had seen years and changes enough to have
contracted all that mysterious and saddened air, at once

(40:21):
exciting and depressing, which belongs to most old mansions.
There had been very little done in the way of modernizing
details, and perhaps it was better so.
For there was something queer and bygone in the very walls and
ceilings, in the shape of the doors, in the windows, in the
odd diagonal sight of the chimney pieces, in the beams and
ponderous cornices. Not to mention the singular

(40:43):
solidity of all the woodwork, from the banisters to the window
frames, which hopefully defied disguise and would have
emphatically proclaimed their antiquity through any
conceivable amount of modern finery and finish.
An effort had indeed been made to the extent of papering the
drawing rooms, but somehow the paper looked raw and out of
keeping. And the old woman who kept a

(41:04):
little dirt pie of a shop in thelane, and whose daughter, a girl
of 2 and 50, was our solitary handmaid, coming in at sunrise
and chastely receiving a gain assoon as she had made already for
tea in our State apartment. This woman, I say, remembered it
when old Judge Horrocks, who, having earned a reputation of a
particularly hanging judge, ended by hanging himself, as the

(41:25):
coroner's jury, found under an impulse of temporary insanity,
with a child skipping rope over the massive old banisters.
I say, when he resided there, entertaining good company with
fine venison and rare old port. In those halcyon days.
The drawing rooms were hung withgilded leather, and I dare say,
cut a good figure, for they werereally spacious rooms.

(41:46):
The bedrooms were wainscotted, but the front one was not
gloomy, and in it the coziness of antiquity quite overcame its
somber associations. But the back bedroom, with its
two queerly placed melancholy windows, staring vacantly at the
foot of the bed, and with a shadowy recess to be found in
most old houses in Dublin, like a large ghostly closet, which,

(42:07):
from congeniality of temperament, had amalgamated
with the bedchamber and dissolved the partition at night
time. This alcove, as our maid was
won't to call it, had in my eyesan especially sinister and
suggestive character. Tom's distant and solitary
candle glimmered vainly into itsdarkness.
There it was, always overlookinghim, always itself impenetrable.

(42:29):
But this was only a part of the effect.
The whole room was. I can't tell how repulsive to
me. There was, I suppose, in its
proportions and features, a latent discord, a certain
mysterious and indescribable relation, which Jarred
indistinctly upon some secret sense of the fitting and the
safe. And raised in definable

(42:50):
suspicions and apprehensions of the imagination On the whole, as
I began by saying, nothing couldhave induced me to pass a knight
alone in it. I had never pretended to conceal
from poor Tom my superstitious weakness, and he, on the other
hand, most unaffectedly ridiculed my tremors.
The skeptic was, however, destined to receive a lesson, as

(43:11):
you shall hear. We had not been very long in
occupation of our respective dormitories when I began to
complain of uneasy nights and disturbed sleep.
I was, I suppose, the more impatient under this annoyance,
as I was usually a sound sleeperand by no means prone to
nightmares. It was now however, my destiny,
instead of enjoying my customaryrepose every night to Sup full

(43:34):
of horrors. After a preliminary course of
disagreeable and frightful dreams, my troubles took a
definite form, and the same vision, without an appreciable
variation and a single detail, visited me, at least on average,
every second night in the week. Now this dream, nightmare,
infernal vision, which you please, of which I was the
miserable sport, was on. This wise I saw, or thought I

(43:57):
saw, with the most abominable distinctness, though at the
time, in profound darkness, every article of furniture and
accidental arrangement of the chamber in which I lay.
This, as you know, is incidentalto ordinary nightmare.
Well, while in this clairvoyant condition, which seemed but the
lighting up of the theater, and which was to be exhibited the
monotonous tableau of horror which made my Knights

(44:19):
insupportable, my attention invariably became, I know not
why, fixed upon the windows opposite the foot of my bed, and
uniformly with the same effect. A sense of dreadful anticipation
always took slow but sure possession of me.
I became somehow conscious of a sort of horrid but undefined
preparation going forward in some unknown quarter and by some

(44:41):
unknown agency for my torment and.
After an interval. Which always seemed to be of the
same length. The picture suddenly flew up to
the window, where it remained fixed as if by an electrical
attraction, and my discipline ofhorror then commenced to last,
perhaps for hours. The picture thus mysteriously
glued to the window panes was the portrait of an old man in a

(45:03):
Crimson flowered silk dressing gown, the folds of which I could
now describe with a countenance embodying a strange mixture of
intellect, sensuality, and power, but with all sinister and
full of malignant omen. His nose was hooked like the
beak of a vulture, his eyes large, grey and prominent, and
lighted up with more than mortalcruelty and coldness.

(45:27):
These features were surmounted by a Crimson velvet cap, the
hair that peeped from under which was white with age, while
the eyebrows retained their original blackness.
Well, I remember every line, hue, and shadow of that Stony
countenance, and well I may. The gaze of this hellish visage
was fixed upon me, and mine returned it with the
inexplicable fascination of nightmare for what appeared to

(45:49):
me to be hours of agony. At last the cocky crew, and away
then flew the fiend who had enslaved me through the awful
watches of the night, and harassed and nervous, I rose to
the duties of the day I had. I can't say exactly why, but it
may have been from the exquisiteanguish and profound impressions
of unearthly horror with which this strange phantasmagoria was

(46:12):
associated, an insurmountable antipathy to describing the
exact nature of my nightly troubles.
To my friend and comrade generally, however, I told him
that I was haunted by abominabledreams, and true to the imputed
materialism of medicine, we put our heads together to dispel my
horrors, not by exorcism, but bya tonic.
I will do this tonic justice, and frankly admit that the

(46:34):
accursed portrait began to intermit its visits under its
influence. What of that?
Was this singular apparition as full of character as of terror,
therefore, the creature of my fancy, or the invention of my
poor stomach? Was it, in short, subjective, to
borrow the slang of the day, andnot the palpable aggression and
intrusion of an external agent? That, good friend, as we both

(46:57):
will admit, by no means follows.The evil spirit who enthralled
my senses in the shape of that portrait, may have been just as
near me, just as energetic, justas malignant, though I saw him
not. What means the whole moral code
of revealed religion regarding the due keeping of our own
bodies, soberness, temperance, etcetera?
Here is an obvious connection between the material and the

(47:19):
invisible. The healthy tone of the system
and its unimpaired energy may, for aught we can tell, guard US
against influences which would otherwise render life itself
terrific. The mesmerist and the
electrobiologist will fail upon an average of nine patients out
of 10. So may the evil spirit.
Special conditions of the corporeal system are

(47:40):
indispensable to the production of certain spiritual phenomena.
The operation succeeds sometimes, sometimes fails, that
is all. I found afterwards that my would
be skeptical companion had his troubles too, but of these I
knew nothing. Yet one night, for a wonder, I
was sleeping soundly, when I wasroused by a step in the lobby
outside my room, followed by theloud clang of what turned out to

(48:02):
be a large brass Candlestick, flung with all his force by poor
Tom Ludlow over the banisters and rattling with a rebound down
the second flight of stairs. And almost concurrently with
this, Tom burst open my door andbounced into my room backward in
a state of extraordinary agitation.
I had jumped out of bed and clutched him by the arm before I
had any distinct idea of my own whereabouts.

(48:25):
There we were in our shirts, standing before the open door,
staring through the great old banister opposite at the lobby
window, through which the sicklylight of a clouded moon was
gleaming. What's the matter, Tom?
What's the matter with you? What the devil's the matter with
you, Tom? I demanded, shaking him with
nervous impatience. He took a long breath before he
answered me, and then it was notvery coherently.

(48:47):
It's nothing. Nothing at all.
Did I speak? What did I say?
Where's the candle, Richard? What's dark?
I I had a candle. Yes.
Dark enough, I said. But what's the matter?
What is it? Why don't you speak, Tom?
Have you lost your wits? What is the matter?
The matter. It was all over.
It must have. It must have been a dream.
Nothing at all but a dream. Don't you think so?
It could not be anything more than a dream.

(49:10):
Of course, I said, feeling uncommonly nervous.
It. It was a dream, I thought.
He said there was a man in my room and and I jumped out of bed
and. And where's the candle?
In your room, most likely. I said, shall I go and bring it?
No, no, stay here. Don't go.
It's no matter. Don't I tell you it was all a
dream. Bolted or Dick.
I'll stay here. With you I I feel nervous so
Dick like a good fellow, light your candle and open the window.

(49:32):
I I am in a shocking state. I did as he asked me, and robing
himself like grand whale in one of my blankets, he seated
himself close beside my bed. Everybody knows how contagious
is fear of all sorts, but more especially that particular kind
of fear under which poor Tom wasat that moment laboring.
I would not have heard, nor, I believe, would he have

(49:54):
recapitulated just at that moment for half the world the
details of the Hiji's vision which had so unmanned him.
You don't mind telling me anything about your nonsensical
dream? Tom said, I affecting contempt,
but really in a panic. Let us talk about something
else. But it is quite plain that this
dirty old house disagrees with us both.
And hang me, if I stay here any longer, to be pestered with

(50:15):
indigestion and and bad nights. So we may as well look out for
lodgings, don't you think? So at once?
Tom agreed and after an intervalsaid.
I've been thinking, Richard, that it is a long time since I
saw my father and I have made-upmy mind to go down tomorrow and
return in a day or two, and you can take rooms for us in the
meantime. I fancy that this resolution,

(50:38):
obviously the result of the vision which had so profoundly
scared him, would probably vanish next morning with the
damps and shadows of night. But I was mistaken.
Off went Tom at the peep of day to the country, having agreed
that so soon as I had secured suitable lodgings, I was to
recall him by letter from his visit to my uncle Ludlow.
Now, anxious as I was to change my quarters, it so happened,

(51:01):
owing to a series of petty procrastinations and accidents,
that nearly a week elapsed before my bargain was made, and
my letter of recall on the wing to Tom.
And in the meantime, A trifling.Adventure or two had occurred to
your humble servant, which, absurd as they now appear
diminished by distance, did certainly at the time serve to
whet my appetite for change considerably.

(51:22):
A night or two after the departure of my comrade, I was
sitting by my bedroom fire, the door locked, and the ingredients
of a Tumblr of hot whiskey punchupon the crazed spider table.
For, as the best mode of keepingthe black spirits in white, blue
spirits in grey, with which I was environed at Bay, I had
adopted the practice recommendedby the wisdom of my ancestors,

(51:42):
and kept my spirits up by pouring spirits down.
I had thrown aside my volume of anatomy, and was treating myself
by way of a tonic preparatory tomy punch in bed, to half a dozen
pages of the Spectator, when I heard a step on the flight of
stairs descending from the attics.
It was 2:00. The streets were silent as a
churchyard. The sounds were therefore

(52:04):
perfectly distinct. There was a slow, heavy tread,
characterized by the emphasis and deliberation of age,
descending by the narrow staircase from above, and what
made the sound more singular, itwas plain that the feet which
produced it were perfectly bare,measuring the descent with
something between a pound and a flop.
Very ugly to hear. I knew quite well that my

(52:26):
attendant had gone away many hours before, and that nobody
but myself had any business in the house.
It was quite plain also, that the person who was coming
downstairs had no intention whatever of concealing his
movements, but, On the contrary,appeared disposed to make even
more noise, and proceed more deliberately than was at all
necessary. When the step reached the foot

(52:47):
of the stairs outside my room, it seemed to stop, and they
expected every moment to see my door open spontaneously, and
give admission to the original of my detested portrait.
I was, however, relieved in a few seconds by hearing the
dissent renewed just in the samemanner upon the staircase
leading down to the drawing room, and thence, after another
pause, down the next flight, andso on to the hall, whence I

(53:09):
heard no more. Now, by the time the sound had
ceased, I was wound up, as they say, to a very unpleasant pitch
of excitement. I listened, but there was not a
stir. I screwed up my courage to a
decisive experiment. Open the door, and an
Extentorian voice bawled over the banisters.
Who's there? There was no answer but a
ringing of my own voice through the empty house.

(53:31):
No renewal of the movement. Nothing, in short, to give my
unpleasant sensations a definitedirection.
There is, I think, something most disagreeably disenchanting
in the sound of 1's own voice under such circumstances,
exerted in solitude and in vain,it redoubled my sense of
isolation, and my misgivings increased on perceiving that the
door which I certainly thought Ihad left open, was closed behind

(53:55):
me in a vague alarm lest my retreat should be cut off.
I got a game into my room as quickly as I could, where I
remained in a state of imaginaryblockade and very uncomfortable
indeed until morning. Next night brought no return of
my barefooted fellow lodger. But the night?
Following being in my bed and inthe dark somewhere, I suppose,

(54:16):
about the same hour as before, Idistinctly heard the old fellow
again descending from the Garretts.
This time I had had my punch, and the morale of the Garrison
was consequently excellent. I jumped out of bed, clutched
the poker as I passed the expiring fire, and in a moment
was upon the lobby. The sound had ceased by this
time. The dark and chill were

(54:36):
discouraging, and guess my horror when I saw, or thought I
saw a black monster, whether in the shape of man or bear, I
could not say, standing with itsback to the wall in the lobby,
facing me with a pair of great greenish eyes shining dimly out.
Now I must be frank and confess that the cupboard which
displayed our plates and cups stood just there, though at the

(54:58):
moment I did not recollect it. At the same time, I must
honestly say that, making every allowance for an excited
imagination, I never could satisfy myself that I was made
the dupe of my own fancy in thismatter.
For this apparition, after one or two shiftings of shape, as if
in the act of incipient transformation, began, as it
seemed, on second thoughts to advance upon me in its original

(55:20):
form. From an instinct of terror
rather than courage. I hurled the poker with all my
force at its head, and to the music of a horrid crash, made my
way into my room and double locked the door.
Then in a minute more. I heard the horrid.
Bare feet walk down the stairs till the sound ceased, and the
hall, as on the former occasion.If the apparition of the night

(55:43):
before was an ocular delusion ofmy fancy, sporting with the dark
outlines of our cupboard, and ifits horrid eyes were nothing but
a pair of inverted teacups, I had, at all events, the
satisfaction of having launched the poker with admirable effect,
and, in true fancy phrase, knocked its two daylights into
one, as the commingled fragmentsof my tea service testified.

(56:04):
I did my best to gather comfort and courage from these
evidences, but it would not do. And then what could I say of
those horrid bare feet, and the regular tramp, tramp, tramp,
which measured the distance of the entire staircase through the
solitude of my haunted dwelling,and at an hour when no good
influence was stirring confound it?

(56:26):
The whole affair was abominable.I was out of spirits and dreaded
the approach of night. It came, ushered ominously in
with a thunderstorm and dull torrents of depressing rain
earlier than usual. The streets grew silent and by
12:00, nothing but the comfortless pattering of the
rain. Was to be heard.
To be continued in Part 2 next week.

(56:53):
Well, you can see why this guy is so well regarded today.
This is one of his earlier efforts too.
He gets better later, like we all do.
In the next segment of the story, we'll learn the source of
those barefoot footsteps. Mild spoiler, they're not really
from footsteps, but our narratorgets no relief from learning
what they really are. Then we get the real story of

(57:14):
what it was that drove Tom, our narrator's roommate, to quit the
premises so suddenly. Now let's lighten the mood a
little bit with a visit to one of the old Victorian journals of
comedy. These aren't as funny today as
they were back in the 1840s, because they tend to be peppered
with contemporary pop cultural and political references that

(57:36):
only the deepest diving scholar of early Victorian life can even
catch today. But some of them can still be
pretty amusing, and they give usa window into the amusements and
humors of the age. This one is from Punch Magazine,
came out in July 31st, 1841, andits headline is Poetry on an
Improved Principle. Let me earnestly implore you,

(58:02):
good Mr. Punch, to give publicity to a new invention in
the art of poetry which I desireonly to claim the merit of
having discovered. I am perfectly willing to permit
others to improve upon it and bring it to that perfection of
which I am delightedly. Aware it is susceptible, it is
sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the
decline, that it is no longer relished, that the public will

(58:25):
never again purchase it as a luxury.
But it must be some consolation to our modern poets to know, as
they no doubt do, For it is by this time notorious that their
productions really do a vast deal of service, that they are
of a value for which they were never designed.
They, I mean many of them, have found their way into the
pharmacopia, and are constantly prescribed by physicians as

(58:49):
soberifics of rare potency. For instance, not Poppy, nor
Mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever
usher thee to that sweet sleep to which man may be conducted by
a few doses of Robert Montgomery's Devil's Elixir,
called Satan, or by a portion, or rather a potion of Oxford.

(59:10):
Apollo, we know, was the God of medicine as well as of poetry.
Behold in this our barred his two divine functions equally
mingled. But waving this, of which it was
not my intention to speak, let me remark that the reason why
poetry will no longer go down with the public as poetry is
that the whole framework is wornout.
No new rhymes can be got at. When we come to a mountain, we

(59:34):
are tolerably sure that a fountain is not very far off.
When we see sadness, it leads atonce to madness.
To borrow is sure to be followedby sorrow.
Although, it is said, when poverty comes at the door, love
flies out the window. A saying which seems to imply
that poverty may sometimes enterat the chimney or elsewhere.
Yet I assure you, in poetry the poor always come in and always

(59:56):
go out at the door. My new invention has closed the
door for the future. Against the vulgar crew of
versifiers. A man must be original.
He must write common sense too. Hard exactions, I know, but it
cannot be helped. I transmit you a specimen.
Like all great discoveries, the chief merit of my invention is
its simplicity. Here then we have Iran Contra

(01:00:20):
with a teetotaler on going forthLast night, a friend to see, I
met a man by trade at SNOB reeling along the path he held
his way. Ho ho quo thigh.
He's DRUNK lately. China since my baby left.
Do it almost everyday. Oh, this is a different poem,
isn't it? OK, back on track then.

(01:00:41):
Thus to him, were it not better far you were a little SOBER.
We're happier for your family, Iguess, than playing off such rum
rigs. Besides, old drunkers, when
policemen see him, are taken up at once by TH.
EM me drunk, the cobbler cried. The devil trouble you.
You want to kick up a blessed ROW now May I never wish to work

(01:01:03):
for Hobie if DRAM I've had the lying S and OB.
I've just returned from a teetotal party tovanus jammed in
ice spring CART. The man as lectured now was
drunk by blessy. He's sent home in a CHAISE.
He'd taken so much lush into hisbelly.
I'm blessed if he could TODDLEA pair on him his self and his

(01:01:25):
good lady. The gin had got into her HEAD.
My I and Betty, what weak mortals we are.
They said they took but ginger BEER.
But As for me, I've stuck twas rather ropey all day to weak
imperial POP and now we've had this little bit aspiring just
stand at QUARTER. Well, except for the usual end

(01:01:52):
of episode Victorian dad jokes. That's it for today.
I hope you will join me again for next show.
It's 1/2 hour Tupony Terrible Tuesday episode in which we will
start out with Chapter 6 of The Mysteries of London by George WM
Reynolds, first published starting in 1844.
Mysteries of London, by the way,was the single most widely read
work of fiction in the United Kingdom in the 1800s.

(01:02:15):
Don't be fooled by its anodyne name.
It's really quite good. But you knew that.
That's the beauty of quote UN quote low art.
Like penny dreadfuls, it has to deliver the goods or people
won't pay for it. After that, we'll explore one or
two spicy Victorian supper club songs.
These can get pretty naughty. If the episode has an explicit
content tag on it, that'll be why.

(01:02:37):
Plus we'll patter more Flash Can't words and maybe get some
other stuff too. And that's all coming your way
in two nights at Dick Turpin's scragging Hour 537.
That's 1737 military time this coming Tuesday eve.
Before we share you off as usual, we've got one or two

(01:02:58):
dorky old early Victorian dad jokes to share, courtesy of Joe
Miller's Jests or the Wits Vade Meekum, the most famous
collection of alleged wisecracksof the early 1800s.
A gentleman was asking another how that poor devil S could live
now that my Lord T had turned him off upon his wits of the

(01:03:18):
other that is living upon a slender stock indeed.
Replied the first. Country Parson having divided
his text under 2 and 20 heads, one of the congregation went out
of the church in a great hurry, and being met by a friend, he
asked him whether he was going home for my nightcap.
Answered the first. For I find we are to stay here

(01:03:40):
all night. Very modest young gentleman of
the county of Tipperary, having attempted many ways in vain to
acquire the affections of a ladyof great fortune, at last was
resolved to try what could be done by the help of music, and
therefore entertained her with serenade under her windows at
midnight. But she ordered her servant to
drive him hence by throwing stones at him.

(01:04:02):
Your music, my friend said one of his companions, is as
powerful as that of Orpheus, forit draws the very stones about
you. A certain senator, who, it may
be, is not esteemed the wisest man in the house, has a frequent
custom of shaking his head when another speaks, which giving
offense to a particular person, he complained of the affront.

(01:04:23):
But one who had been long acquainted with him, assured the
House it was only an I'll habit that he had got, for though he
would often times shake his head, there was nothing in it.
A gentleman having LED into Guinea for two or three days, to
a person whose promises he had not much faith in, was very much
surprised to find that he punctually kept his word with
him, the same gentleman being some time after desirous of

(01:04:47):
borrowing the like sum. No, said the other, you have
deceived me once. I am resolved, you shan't.
Do it a second time. My Lord, Chief Justice Holt had
sent by his warrant one of the French prophets, A foolish sect
that started up in his time to prison, upon which Mr. Lacey,
one of their followers, came oneday to my Lord's house, and

(01:05:07):
desired to speak with him. The servants told him he was not
well, and saw no company that day.
But tell him, said Lacey, I mustsee him, for I come to him from
the Lord, which being told the Chief Justice, he ordered him to
come in and asked him his business.
I come, said he, from the Lord, who has sent me to thee, and
would have thee grant a nulli prosecui for John Atkins, whom

(01:05:28):
thou hast cast into prison. Thou art a false prophet,
answered my Lord in a lying knave.
For if the Lord had sent thee, it would have been to the
Attorney General. He knows it is not in my power
to grant a nulli prosecui. That's it for us.
Thanks for joining us. Our theme music is a version of
Golden Slippers, A minstrel showsong written by James A Bland in

(01:05:51):
1879. This version is by Seattle old
Time band $4.00 Shoe. For more of their music, see
$4.00 shoe.com. That's the number 4, the word
dollar and the word shoe all crammed together into one word
in all lowercase. The Penny Dreadful Variety hour
is a creation of Pulp Lit Productions.
For more details see Penny dread.com get in touch with me.

(01:06:12):
Hit me up at Finn at pennydread.com.
Thanks again for joining me Manabs.
It is now time for us to Pike off like we spotted a red West.
Get down the lane for the Penny Dreadful show.
I'm Finn, JD, John signing off and now go out there and fill up
the rest of the week with all that is rump teak tum with the
chill off Bye now.

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3.01: The ballet-girl shanks her would-be murderer! — The ghost of the 'hanging judge.' — Astrology is just for fun ... or is it?

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.css-14f5ked{margin:0;word-break:break-word;display:-webkit-box;-webkit-box-orient:vertical;box-orient:vertical;-webkit-line-clamp:2;overflow:hidden;}3.01: The ballet-girl shanks her would-be murderer! — The ghost of the 'hanging judge.' — Astrology is just for fun ... or is it?