'"Non tali auxilio non defensoribus istis Tempus eget."
'That the mob should, in revenge, wreck her house and destroy her property was to be expected at a time when we cannot protect our streets in the very day time. But there was more.
'Clarinda's mother at the time of the trial had in her keeping a certain quantity of stolen property. Whether she knew it to be stolen or not cannot be said. When, however, the old woman accepted Clarinda's proposal that she should give evidence against the conspiracy she seems to have thought that the garrets of her daughter's house would be a safe place for storing these goods. She was observed to be conveying them by a woman, the mistress of one of the conspirators. While the house was in the hands of the mob, this woman looked for, and found the property—a miserable paltry collection of rags—in the garrets. For the sake of revenge she brought information against Clarinda, who now therefore lies in Newgate waiting her trial at the Old Bailey.
'What should Clarinda do? If she pleads "Not Guilty," which under ordinary circumstances she should do; the more so as there is no evidence whatever to connect her with any knowledge of these rags; she will be acquitted; but then her mother will be arrested and tried on this capital charge. If, on the other hand, she takes upon herself the full responsibility, the mother escapes scot free while the daughter may pay the full penalty for the crime.
'The reader will not think it necessary to ask what course will be pursued by Clarinda. The generous heart which would risk all, sacrifice all, lavish all, in the cause of justice and for the rescue of a man—not her lover, but a worthless husband's cousin—from an ignominious and undeserved death, will assuredly not hesitate to save her erring mother even at the risk of her own life. That generous heart; that noble heart; will be sustained and followed unto the end, even though justice demands the uttermost penalty, by the tears of all who can admire heroic sacrifice and filial martyrdom.'
There was more, but this is enough.
In a single day the voice of the people veered round to the opposite pole. It was wonderful how quickly opinion was changed. Jenny, who yesterday had been a traitress; a spy; a receiver of stolen goods; a hussy with no character; suddenly became a heroine; a martyr.
Then the men remembered once more that she was a wonderful actress; a most charming woman; a most beautiful, graceful, vivacious creature. Then, as of old, men recalled the evenings when as they sat in the pit, Jenny seemed to have singled out one by one each for a separate and individual smile, so that they went home, their heads in the clouds, to dream of things impossible and unspeakable, and all the old love for the Favourite returned to them, and they panted for Jenny to be set free.
During this time I was with Jenny all day long ready to be of service to her. The more I observed her, the more I marvelled at the strange power which brought all men to their knees before her. She had but to smile upon them and they were conquered. The Governor of the Prison was her servant; the turnkeys were her slaves; her visitors crowded her narrow cell every afternoon, while Jenny received them dressed like a Countess with the manner of a Countess. Sometimes I was honoured by her commands to play to them; tea and chocolate were served daily. Great ladies came with the rest to gaze upon her; actresses, once her rivals, now came, all rivalry apart, to weep over her; gentlemen wrote her letters of passionate love; portrait painters begged on their knees permission to limn her lovely features. In a word, for a while the centre of fashion was Jenny's cell in Newgate.