Thus it was with this sick Monkey before me, waiting to be tied to the Tree. I turned my Face upon him after this Recital of his Woes and whisper'd, How are you called? I am called Ned.
Well, go on, my Ned. And so, Master, I became this poor Dunghil you see before you.
And why did you come here? I am here I know not how, unless there be some Lodestone in that new Church yonder. In Bath I was brought to the Brink of Eternity; in Salisbury I was consum'd to a meer Sceleton; in Guildford I was given up for a Dead Man. Now I am here in Lime- house, and before this in the unlucky Isle of Dogs.
And how are you? I am mighty weary and sore in my Feet, and could wish the Earth might swallow me, Master.
And where will you go, if it be not under the Earth? Where can I go? If I leave here, I must come back.
Why do you look so Fearfully on me, Ned? I have a Swimming in the Head, Master. Last night I dreamed of riding and eating Cream.
You are very much a Child. I have become so. Well, it is too late to be sorry.
Do you mean there is no Hope? No, not any Hope now. I have no means of continuing.
And will you make an End of it? What End do I have but the Gallows?
Well, if I were in your case I would prefer self-murther to a Hanging.
At this he passionately flew out and said, How can you? But I put my Finger to his Cheek, to still its Motion, and his Storm soon blew over. He was mine, and as I spoke my Eyes were brisk and sparkling.
Better that you choose your own Occasion, and not be the Top whipp'd by 111 Fortune. Well, Master, I understand you and I know what you would have me do.
I speak nothing, but let you speak. And I know nothing, but what I suppose you would have me know. And yet I cannot do it.
You cannot fear Death for the pain of it, since you have endured more Pain in Life than you shall find in Death. But then what of the World to come, Master?
You are past believing in the Old Wives Tales of Divines and Sermonisers, Ned. Your Body is all of you, and when that's done there's an End of it. And it is the End I have been seeking for this Poor Life. I am no thing now. I am undone.
The Night was coming on, being within half an Hour of Sunset, and the Light began to be dusky as I gave Ned my Knife. It grows Cold, said he. You will not be here so long, I replied, that it will freeze you. We walked together towards the Church, the work men now being gone to their Homes, and when Ned fell a'crying I bid him keep on: he was so poor a Bundle of Humanity that his Steps were but small and tottering, but at last I brought him to the brink of the Foundacions.
Then with his eyes wide and his arms across (one Hand clasping the Knife), he gazed upwards at my half completed Work as the Rays of the Sunne lengthened and the Stone grew dull. Then his gaze was fixt for a considerable time upon the Ground, for he durst not Stir from this life: he was as like to fall into a Melancholly fit, but I have more Mercury in my Temper and I guided his Knife till he fell.
I let slip an Ay me as I crouched to see him in the Darkness beneath the Church, then I rose from my Knees in a dung Sweat and burst out Laughing; for indeed there would be no great Miss of him. Yet I walk'd away at once, lest my Case should be discovered to the Watchman, and I hurried across Rope-Makers-Field to the River side; but as I did so I was forced to pass the Congrégation of Beggars who were sat beside small Fires to fry their Scraps of Rottenness. They were ill-looking Vermin and even by their flickering Lights I could see their unkempt Hair, swarthy Countenances, and long rusty Beards swaddled up in Raggs: some Heads were covered with Thrum caps, and others thrust into the tops of old Stockings so that, with their Cloaths of diverse colours, they looked like nothing so much as Ancient Britons. I wrapped my Coat around me and hurried on, my nostrils filled with the Scent of their reeking Dung-hills and puddles of Piss.
Some of them seemed elevated strangely, and danced about a pitiful Fire in one corner of the Field: they stompt and roared like those being whipt at Bridewell, but that their Lashes came from strong Liquor and Forgetfulnesse. And as the Winde gusted from the River I heard Snatches of their Song, viz.
A Wheel that turns, a Wheel that turned ever, A Wheel that turns, and will leave turning never.
I must have stood listening in a strange Posture for this Band of Rogues caught sight of me and let out a loud Bawling and Calling to one another; and then a confus'd Hurry of Thought and Dizzinesse came upon me like a Man often meets in a Dreame. I ran towards them with outstretch'd Arms and cried, Do you remember me? I will never, never leave thee! I will never, never leave thee!
AND AS the cry faded away, the noise of the traffic returned with increased clarity. The group of vagrants were standing in a corner of some derelict ground, where unwanted objects from the city had over the years been deposited: broken bottles and unrecognisable pieces of metal were strewn over a wide area, crab grass and different varieties of tall ragweed partially obscured the shapes of abandoned or burnt-out cars, while rotting mattresses sank into the soil. A hoarding had been erected by the river side: it was of a dark red colour, but from here the images were indistinct and only the words HAVE ANOTHER BEFORE YOU GO were still visible. Now, in the early summer, this forgotten area had the sweet, rank, dizzying odour of decay. The vagrants had started a fire, piling up the old rags and newspapers which they found lying beside them, and were now dancing around it -or, rather, they stumbled backwards and forwards with their fire as the wavering centre. They shouted out words in the air but they were too deeply imbued in alcohol or meths to know either the time or the place in which they found themselves. A light rain fell across their faces as they stared upward from the turning earth.
Some distance away from them, in a corner of the ground closest to the Thames, a solitary tramp was staring at the figure in the dark coat who was now walking away: 'Do you remember me?' the tramp cried out, 'You're the one, aren't you! I've seen you! I've watched you!' The figure paused for a moment before hurrying on; then the tramp's attention shifted and, forgetting all about the man (who had even now reached the river and stood with his back towards the city), he bent over once more and continued digging with his hands into the damp earth. Behind him the outline of the Limehouse church could be seen against the darkening sky; he gazed up at the building, with its massive but now crumbling and discoloured stone, and rubbed his neck with the palm of his right hand. 'It's getting cold,' he said, T'm off. I've had enough of this. I'm cold.'
It was about half-an-hour before sunset and, although the other vagrants would stay by the fire until they dropped exhausted on the ground and slept where they fell, he started making his way to a derelict house (early Georgian in appearance) which stood at the corner of Narrow Street and Rope-Maker's-Field. This was an area in which there were many such dwellings, with their windows boarded up and their doors fastened with planks, but this particular place had been used for many years -and, as such, it was recognised and permitted by the police. The theory was that the employment of this one house prevented the vagrants from trying to enter the church or its crypt as a resting place but, in truth, none of them would have ventured into St Anne's.