[Illustration: Seizure of Ebba.] CHAPTER X

THE STATUE AT CHARING CROSS


One morning, two persons took their way along Parliament Street and
Whitehall, and, chatting as they walked, turned into the entrance of
Spring Gardens, for the purpose of looking at the statue at Charing
Cross. One of them was remarkable for his dwarfish stature and strange
withered features. The other was a man of middle size, thin, rather
elderly, and with a sharp countenance, the sourness of which was
redeemed by a strong expression of benevolence. He was clad in a black
coat, rather rusty, but well brushed, buttoned up to the chin, black
tights, short drab gaiters, and wore a white neckcloth and spectacles. Mr. Loftus (for so he was called) was a retired merchant, of moderate
fortune, and lived in Abingdon Street. He was a bachelor, and therefore
pleased himself; and being a bit of an antiquary, rambled about all day
long in search of some object of interest. His walk, on the present
occasion, was taken with that view. "By Jove! what a noble statue that is, Morse!" cried Loftus, gazing at
it. "The horse is magnificent--positively magnificent." "I recollect when the spot was occupied by a gibbet, and when, in lieu
of a statue, an effigy of the martyred monarch was placed there,"
replied Morse. "That was in the time of the Protectorate." "You cannot get those dreams out of your head, Morse," said Loftus,
smiling. "I wish I could persuade myself I had lived for two centuries
and a half." "Would you could have seen the ancient cross, which once stood there,
erected by Edward the First to his beloved wife, 'Eleanor of Castile'!" said Morse, heedless of the other's remark. "It was much mutilated when
I remember it; some of the pinnacles were broken, and the foliage
defaced, but the statues of the queen were still standing in the
recesses; and altogether the effect was beautiful." "It must have been charming," observed Loftus, rubbing his hands; "and,
though I like the statue, I would much rather have had the old Gothic
cross. But how fortunate the former escaped destruction in Oliver
Cromwell's time!" "I can tell you how that came to pass, sir," replied Morse, "for I was
assistant to John Rivers, the brazier, to whom the statue was sold." "Ah! indeed!" exclaimed Loftus. "I have heard something of the story,
but should like to have full particulars." "You shall hear them, then," replied Morse. "Yon statue, which, as you
know, was cast by Hubert le Sueur, in 1633, was ordered by Parliament to
be sold and broken to pieces. Well, my master, John Rivers, being a
stanch Royalist, though he did not dare to avow his principles,
determined to preserve it from destruction. Accordingly, he offered a
good round sum for it, and was declared the purchaser. But how to
dispose of it was the difficulty? He could trust none of his men but me,
whom he knew to be as hearty a hater of the Roundheads, and as loyal to
the memory of our slaughtered sovereign, as himself. Well, we digged a
great pit, secretly, in the cellar, whither the statue had been
conveyed, and buried it. The job occupied us nearly a month; and during
that time, my master collected together all the pieces of old brass he
could procure. These he afterwards produced, and declared they were the
fragments of the statue. But the cream of the jest was to come. He began
to cast handles of knives and forks in brass, giving it out that they
were made from the metal of the statue. And plenty of 'em he sold too,
for the Cavaliers bought 'em as memorials of their martyred monarch, and
the Roundheads as evidences of his fall. In this way he soon got back
his outlay." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Loftus. "Well, in due season came the Restoration," pursued Morse; "and my
master made known to King Charles the Second the treasure he had kept
concealed for him. It was digged forth, placed in its old position--but
I forget whether the brazier was rewarded. I rather think not." "No matter," cried Loftus; "he was sufficiently rewarded by the
consciousness of having done a noble action. But let us go and examine
the sculpture on the pedestal more closely." With this he crossed over the road; and, taking off his hat, thrust his
head through the iron railing surrounding the pedestal, while Morse, in
order to point out the beauties of the sculpture with greater
convenience, mounted upon a stump beside him. "You are aware that this is the work of Grinling Gibbons, sir?" cried
the dwarf. "To be sure I am," replied Loftus--"to be sure. What fancy and gusto is
displayed in the treatment of these trophies!" "The execution of the royal arms is equally admirable," cried Morse. "Never saw anything finer," rejoined Loftus--"never, upon my life." Every one knows how easily a crowd is collected in London, and it cannot
be supposed that our two antiquaries would be allowed to pursue their
investigations unmolested. Several ragged urchins got round them, and
tried to discover what they were looking at, at the same time cutting
their jokes upon them. These were speedily joined by a street-sweeper,
rather young in the profession, a ticket-porter, a butcher's apprentice,
an old Israelitish clothes-man, a coalheaver, and a couple of
charity-boys. "My eyes!" cried the street-sweeper, "only twig these coves. If they
ain't green 'uns, I'm done." "Old Spectacles thinks he has found it all out," remarked the porter;
"ve shall hear wot it all means by-and-by." "Plesh ma 'art," cried the Jew, "vat two funny old genelmen. I vonder
vat they thinks they sees?" "I'll tell 'ee, master," rejoined the butcher's apprentice; "they're a
tryin' vich on 'em can see farthest into a millstone." [Illustration: Antiquaries.] "Only think of living all my life in London, and never examining this
admirable work of art before!" cried Loftus, quite unconscious that he
had become the object of general curiosity. "Look closer at it, old gem'man," cried the porter. "The nearer you get,
the more you'll admire it." "Quite true," replied Loftus, fancying Morse had spoken; "it'll bear the
closest inspection." "I say, Ned," observed one of the charity-boys to the other, "do you get
over the railin'; they must ha' dropped summat inside. See what it is." "I'm afraid o' spikin' myself, Joe," replied the other; "but just give
us a lift, and I'll try." "Wot are you arter there, you young rascals?" cried the coalheaver;
"come down, or I'll send the perlice to you." "Wot two precious guys these is!" cried a ragamuffin lad, accompanied by
a bulldog. "I've a good mind to chuck the little 'un off the post, and
set Tartar at him. Here, boy, here!" "That 'ud be famous fun, indeed, Spicer!" cried another rapscallion
behind him. "Arrah! let 'em alone, will you there, you young divils!" cried an Irish
bricklayer; "don't you see they're only two paiceable antiquaries." "Oh, they're antiquaries, are they?" screamed the little street-sweeper. "Vell, I never see the likes on 'em afore; did you, Sam?" "Never," replied the porter. "Och, murther in Irish!