diff options
Diffstat (limited to '872-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 872-0.txt | 9078 |
1 files changed, 9078 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/872-0.txt b/872-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61f9e10 --- /dev/null +++ b/872-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9078 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Reprinted Pieces, by Charles Dickens + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Reprinted Pieces + + +Author: Charles Dickens + + + +Release Date: December 25, 2014 [eBook #872] +[This file was first posted on February 6, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REPRINTED PIECES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1905 Chapman and Hall edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + Reprinted Pieces + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +_The Long Voyage_ 309 +_The Begging-letter Writer_ 317 +_A Child’s Dream of a Star_ 324 +_Our English Watering-place_ 327 +_Our French Watering-place_ 335 +_Bill-sticking_ 346 +“_Births_. _Mrs. Meek_, _of a Son_” 357 +_Lying Awake_ 361 +_The Ghost of Art_ 367 +_Out of Town_ 373 +_Out of the Season_ 379 +_A Poor Man’s Tale of a Patent_ 386 +_The Noble Savage_ 391 +_A Flight_ 397 +_The Detective Police_ 406 +_Three_ “_Detective_” _Anecdotes_ 422 + _I.—The Pair of + Gloves_ + _II.—The Artful + Touch_ + _III.—The Sofa_ +_On Duty with Inspector Field_ 430 +_Down with the Tide_ 442 +_A Walk in a Workhouse_ 451 +_Prince Bull_. _A Fairy Tale_ 457 +_A Plated Article_ 462 +_Our Honourable Friend_ 470 +_Our School_ 475 +_Our Vestry_ 481 +_Our Bore_ 487 +_A Monument of French Folly_ 494 + + [Picture: The long voyage] + + + + +THE LONG VOYAGE + + +WHEN the wind is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against the +dark windows, I love to sit by the fire, thinking of what I have read in +books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a strong fascination for +my mind from my earliest childhood; and I wonder it should have come to +pass that I never have been round the world, never have been shipwrecked, +ice-environed, tomahawked, or eaten. + +Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year’s Eve, I find +incidents of travel rise around me from all the latitudes and longitudes +of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but appear and vanish +as they will—‘come like shadows, so depart.’ Columbus, alone upon the +sea with his disaffected crew, looks over the waste of waters from his +high station on the poop of his ship, and sees the first uncertain +glimmer of the light, ‘rising and falling with the waves, like a torch in +the bark of some fisherman,’ which is the shining star of a new world. +Bruce is caged in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall +often startle him out of his sleep at home when years have passed away. +Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland journey—would that it +had been his last!—lies perishing of hunger with his brave companions: +each emaciated figure stretched upon its miserable bed without the power +to rise: all, dividing the weary days between their prayers, their +remembrances of the dear ones at home, and conversation on the pleasures +of eating; the last-named topic being ever present to them, likewise, in +their dreams. All the African travellers, wayworn, solitary and sad, +submit themselves again to drunken, murderous, man-selling despots, of +the lowest order of humanity; and Mungo Park, fainting under a tree and +succoured by a woman, gratefully remembers how his Good Samaritan has +always come to him in woman’s shape, the wide world over. + +A shadow on the wall in which my mind’s eye can discern some traces of a +rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearful story of travel derived from +that unpromising narrator of such stories, a parliamentary blue-book. A +convict is its chief figure, and this man escapes with other prisoners +from a penal settlement. It is an island, and they seize a boat, and get +to the main land. Their way is by a rugged and precipitous sea-shore, +and they have no earthly hope of ultimate escape, for the party of +soldiers despatched by an easier course to cut them off, must inevitably +arrive at their distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by +any hazard they survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they all must +have foreseen, besets them early in their course. Some of the party die +and are eaten; some are murdered by the rest and eaten. This one awful +creature eats his fill, and sustains his strength, and lives on to be +recaptured and taken back. The unrelateable experiences through which he +has passed have been so tremendous, that he is not hanged as he might be, +but goes back to his old chained-gang work. A little time, and he tempts +one other prisoner away, seizes another boat, and flies once +more—necessarily in the old hopeless direction, for he can take no other. +He is soon cut off, and met by the pursuing party face to face, upon the +beach. He is alone. In his former journey he acquired an inappeasable +relish for his dreadful food. He urged the new man away, expressly to +kill him and eat him. In the pockets on one side of his coarse +convict-dress, are portions of the man’s body, on which he is regaling; +in the pockets on the other side is an untouched store of salted pork +(stolen before he left the island) for which he has no appetite. He is +taken back, and he is hanged. But I shall never see that sea-beach on +the wall or in the fire, without him, solitary monster, eating as he +prowls along, while the sea rages and rises at him. + +Captain Bligh (a worse man to be entrusted with arbitrary power there +could scarcely be) is handed over the side of the Bounty, and turned +adrift on the wide ocean in an open boat, by order of Fletcher Christian, +one of his officers, at this very minute. Another flash of my fire, and +‘Thursday October Christian,’ five-and-twenty years of age, son of the +dead and gone Fletcher by a savage mother, leaps aboard His Majesty’s +ship Briton, hove-to off Pitcairn’s Island; says his simple grace before +eating, in good English; and knows that a pretty little animal on board +is called a dog, because in his childhood he had heard of such strange +creatures from his father and the other mutineers, grown grey under the +shade of the bread-fruit trees, speaking of their lost country far away. + +See the Halsewell, East Indiaman outward bound, driving madly on a +January night towards the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck! +The captain’s two dear daughters are aboard, and five other ladies. The +ship has been driving many hours, has seven feet water in her hold, and +her mainmast has been cut away. The description of her loss, familiar to +me from my early boyhood, seems to be read aloud as she rushes to her +destiny. + + ‘About two in the morning of Friday the sixth of January, the ship + still driving, and approaching very fast to the shore, Mr. Henry + Meriton, the second mate, went again into the cuddy, where the + captain then was. Another conversation taking place, Captain Pierce + expressed extreme anxiety for the preservation of his beloved + daughters, and earnestly asked the officer if he could devise any + method of saving them. On his answering with great concern, that he + feared it would be impossible, but that their only chance would be to + wait for morning, the captain lifted up his hands in silent and + distressful ejaculation. + + ‘At this dreadful moment, the ship struck, with such violence as to + dash the heads of those standing in the cuddy against the deck above + them, and the shock was accompanied by a shriek of horror that burst + at one instant from every quarter of the ship. + + ‘Many of the seamen, who had been remarkably inattentive and remiss + in their duty during great part of the storm, now poured upon deck, + where no exertions of the officers could keep them, while their + assistance might have been useful. They had actually skulked in + their hammocks, leaving the working of the pumps and other necessary + labours to the officers of the ship, and the soldiers, who had made + uncommon exertions. Roused by a sense of their danger, the same + seamen, at this moment, in frantic exclamations, demanded of heaven + and their fellow-sufferers that succour which their own efforts, + timely made, might possibly have procured. + + ‘The ship continued to beat on the rocks; and soon bilging, fell with + her broadside towards the shore. When she struck, a number of the + men climbed up the ensign-staff, under an apprehension of her + immediately going to pieces. + + ‘Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered to these unhappy beings the + best advice which could be given; he recommended that all should come + to the side of the ship lying lowest on the rocks, and singly to take + the opportunities which might then offer, of escaping to the shore. + + ‘Having thus provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safety of + the desponding crew, he returned to the round-house, where, by this + time, all the passengers and most of the officers had assembled. The + latter were employed in offering consolation to the unfortunate + ladies; and, with unparalleled magnanimity, suffering their + compassion for the fair and amiable companions of their misfortunes + to prevail over the sense of their own danger. + + ‘In this charitable work of comfort, Mr. Meriton now joined, by + assurances of his opinion, that, the ship would hold together till + the morning, when all would be safe. Captain Pierce, observing one + of the young gentlemen loud in his exclamations of terror, and + frequently cry that the ship was parting, cheerfully bid him be + quiet, remarking that though the ship should go to pieces, he would + not, but would be safe enough. + + ‘It is difficult to convey a correct idea of the scene of this + deplorable catastrophe, without describing the place where it + happened. The Haleswell struck on the rocks at a part of the shore + where the cliff is of vast height, and rises almost perpendicular + from its base. But at this particular spot, the foot of the cliff is + excavated into a cavern of ten or twelve yards in depth, and of + breadth equal to the length of a large ship. The sides of the cavern + are so nearly upright, as to be of extremely difficult access; and + the bottom is strewed with sharp and uneven rocks, which seem, by + some convulsion of the earth, to have been detached from its roof. + + ‘The ship lay with her broadside opposite to the mouth of this + cavern, with her whole length stretched almost from side to side of + it. But when she struck, it was too dark for the unfortunate persons + on board to discover the real magnitude of the danger, and the + extreme horror of such a situation. + + ‘In addition to the company already in the round-house, they had + admitted three black women and two soldiers’ wives; who, with the + husband of one of them, had been allowed to come in, though the + seamen, who had tumultuously demanded entrance to get the lights, had + been opposed and kept out by Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, the third and + fifth mates. The numbers there were, therefore, now increased to + near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a chair, a cot, or some other + moveable, with a daughter on each side, whom he alternately pressed + to his affectionate breast. The rest of the melancholy assembly were + seated on the deck, which was strewed with musical instruments, and + the wreck of furniture and other articles. + + ‘Here also Mr. Meriton, after having cut several wax-candles in + pieces, and stuck them up in various parts of the round-house, and + lighted up all the glass lanthorns he could find, took his seat, + intending to wait the approach of dawn; and then assist the partners + of his dangers to escape. But, observing that the poor ladies + appeared parched and exhausted, he brought a basket of oranges and + prevailed on some of them to refresh themselves by sucking a little + of the juice. At this time they were all tolerably composed, except + Miss Mansel, who was in hysteric fits on the floor of the deck of the + round-house. + + ‘But on Mr. Meriton’s return to the company, he perceived a + considerable alteration in the appearance of the ship; the sides were + visibly giving way; the deck seemed to be lifting, and he discovered + other strong indications that she could not hold much longer + together. On this account, he attempted to go forward to look out, + but immediately saw that the ship had separated in the middle, and + that the forepart having changed its position, lay rather further out + towards the sea. In such an emergency, when the next moment might + plunge him into eternity, he determined to seize the present + opportunity, and follow the example of the crew and the soldiers, who + were now quitting the ship in numbers, and making their way to the + shore, though quite ignorant of its nature and description. + + ‘Among other expedients, the ensign-staff had been unshipped, and + attempted to be laid between the ship’s side and some of the rocks, + but without success, for it snapped asunder before it reached them. + However, by the light of a lanthorn, which a seaman handed through + the skylight of the round-house to the deck, Mr. Meriton discovered a + spar which appeared to be laid from the ship’s side to the rocks, and + on this spar he resolved to attempt his escape. + + ‘Accordingly, lying down upon it, he thrust himself forward; however, + he soon found that it had no communication with the rock; he reached + the end of it, and then slipped off, receiving a very violent bruise + in his fall, and before he could recover his legs, he was washed off + by the surge. He now supported himself by swimming, until a + returning wave dashed him against the back part of the cavern. Here + he laid hold of a small projection in the rock, but was so much + benumbed that he was on the point of quitting it, when a seaman, who + had already gained a footing, extended his hand, and assisted him + until he could secure himself a little on the rock; from which he + clambered on a shelf still higher, and out of the reach of the surf. + + ‘Mr. Rogers, the third mate, remained with the captain and the + unfortunate ladies and their companions nearly twenty minutes after + Mr. Meriton had quitted the ship. Soon after the latter left the + round-house, the captain asked what was become of him, to which Mr. + Rogers replied, that he was gone on deck to see what could be done. + After this, a heavy sea breaking over the ship, the ladies exclaimed, + “Oh, poor Meriton! he is drowned; had he stayed with us he would have + been safe!” and they all, particularly Miss Mary Pierce, expressed + great concern at the apprehension of his loss. + + ‘The sea was now breaking in at the fore part of the ship, and + reached as far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce gave Mr. Rogers a + nod, and they took a lamp and went together into the stern-gallery, + where, after viewing the rocks for some time, Captain Pierce asked + Mr. Rogers if he thought there was any possibility of saving the + girls; to which he replied, he feared there was none; for they could + only discover the black face of the perpendicular rock, and not the + cavern which afforded shelter to those who escaped. They then + returned to the round-house, where Mr. Rogers hung up the lamp, and + Captain Pierce sat down between his two daughters. + + ‘The sea continuing to break in very fast, Mr. Macmanus, a + midshipman, and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked Mr. Rogers what they + could do to escape. “Follow me,” he replied, and they all went into + the stern-gallery, and from thence to the upper-quarter-gallery on + the poop. While there, a very heavy sea fell on board, and the + round-house gave way; Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek at + intervals, as if the water reached them; the noise of the sea at + other times drowning their voices. + + ‘Mr. Brimer had followed him to the poop, where they remained + together about five minutes, when on the breaking of this heavy sea, + they jointly seized a hen-coop. The same wave which proved fatal to + some of those below, carried him and his companion to the rock, on + which they were violently dashed and miserably bruised. + + ‘Here on the rock were twenty-seven men; but it now being low water, + and as they were convinced that on the flowing of the tide all must + be washed off, many attempted to get to the back or the sides of the + cavern, beyond the reach of the returning sea. Scarcely more than + six, besides Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, succeeded. + + ‘Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station, was so nearly exhausted, that + had his exertions been protracted only a few minutes longer, he must + have sunk under them. He was now prevented from joining Mr. Meriton, + by at least twenty men between them, none of whom could move, without + the imminent peril of his life. + + ‘They found that a very considerable number of the crew, seamen and + soldiers, and some petty officers, were in the same situation as + themselves, though many who had reached the rocks below, perished in + attempting to ascend. They could yet discern some part of the ship, + and in their dreary station solaced themselves with the hopes of its + remaining entire until day-break; for, in the midst of their own + distress, the sufferings of the females on board affected them with + the most poignant anguish; and every sea that broke inspired them + with terror for their safety. + + ‘But, alas, their apprehensions were too soon realised! Within a + very few minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers gained the rock, an + universal shriek, which long vibrated in their ears, in which the + voice of female distress was lamentably distinguished, announced the + dreadful catastrophe. In a few moments all was hushed, except the + roaring of the winds and the dashing of the waves; the wreck was + buried in the deep, and not an atom of it was ever afterwards seen.’ + +The most beautiful and affecting incident I know, associated with a +shipwreck, succeeds this dismal story for a winter night. The Grosvenor, +East Indiaman, homeward bound, goes ashore on the coast of Caffraria. It +is resolved that the officers, passengers, and crew, in number one +hundred and thirty-five souls, shall endeavour to penetrate on foot, +across trackless deserts, infested by wild beasts and cruel savages, to +the Dutch settlements at the Cape of Good Hope. With this forlorn object +before them, they finally separate into two parties—never more to meet on +earth. + +There is a solitary child among the passengers—a little boy of seven +years old who has no relation there; and when the first party is moving +away he cries after some member of it who has been kind to him. The +crying of a child might be supposed to be a little thing to men in such +great extremity; but it touches them, and he is immediately taken into +that detachment. + +From which time forth, this child is sublimely made a sacred charge. He +is pushed, on a little raft, across broad rivers by the swimming sailors; +they carry him by turns through the deep sand and long grass (he +patiently walking at all other times); they share with him such putrid +fish as they find to eat; they lie down and wait for him when the rough +carpenter, who becomes his especial friend, lags behind. Beset by lions +and tigers, by savages, by thirst, by hunger, by death in a crowd of +ghastly shapes, they never—O Father of all mankind, thy name be blessed +for it!—forget this child. The captain stops exhausted, and his faithful +coxswain goes back and is seen to sit down by his side, and neither of +the two shall be any more beheld until the great last day; but, as the +rest go on for their lives, they take the child with them. The carpenter +dies of poisonous berries eaten in starvation; and the steward, +succeeding to the command of the party, succeeds to the sacred +guardianship of the child. + +God knows all he does for the poor baby; how he cheerfully carries him in +his arms when he himself is weak and ill; how he feeds him when he +himself is griped with want; how he folds his ragged jacket round him, +lays his little worn face with a woman’s tenderness upon his sunburnt +breast, soothes him in his sufferings, sings to him as he limps along, +unmindful of his own parched and bleeding feet. Divided for a few days +from the rest, they dig a grave in the sand and bury their good friend +the cooper—these two companions alone in the wilderness—and then the time +comes when they both are ill, and beg their wretched partners in despair, +reduced and few in number now, to wait by them one day. They wait by +them one day, they wait by them two days. On the morning of the third, +they move very softly about, in making their preparations for the +resumption of their journey; for, the child is sleeping by the fire, and +it is agreed with one consent that he shall not be disturbed until the +last moment. The moment comes, the fire is dying—and the child is dead. + +His faithful friend, the steward, lingers but a little while behind him. +His grief is great, he staggers on for a few days, lies down in the +desert, and dies. But he shall be re-united in his immortal spirit—who +can doubt it!—with the child, when he and the poor carpenter shall be +raised up with the words, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of +these, ye have done it unto Me.’ + +As I recall the dispersal and disappearance of nearly all the +participators in this once famous shipwreck (a mere handful being +recovered at last), and the legends that were long afterwards revived +from time to time among the English officers at the Cape, of a white +woman with an infant, said to have been seen weeping outside a savage hut +far in the interior, who was whisperingly associated with the remembrance +of the missing ladies saved from the wrecked vessel, and who was often +sought but never found, thoughts of another kind of travel came into my +mind. + +Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly summoned from home, who travelled a +vast distance, and could never return. Thoughts of this unhappy wayfarer +in the depths of his sorrow, in the bitterness of his anguish, in the +helplessness of his self-reproach, in the desperation of his desire to +set right what he had left wrong, and do what he had left undone. + +For, there were many, many things he had neglected. Little matters while +he was at home and surrounded by them, but things of mighty moment when +he was at an immeasurable distance. There were many many blessings that +he had inadequately felt, there were many trivial injuries that he had +not forgiven, there was love that he had but poorly returned, there was +friendship that he had too lightly prized: there were a million kind +words that he might have spoken, a million kind looks that he might have +given, uncountable slight easy deeds in which he might have been most +truly great and good. O for a day (he would exclaim), for but one day to +make amends! But the sun never shone upon that happy day, and out of his +remote captivity he never came. + +Why does this traveller’s fate obscure, on New Year’s Eve, the other +histories of travellers with which my mind was filled but now, and cast a +solemn shadow over me! Must I one day make his journey? Even so. Who +shall say, that I may not then be tortured by such late regrets: that I +may not then look from my exile on my empty place and undone work? I +stand upon a sea-shore, where the waves are years. They break and fall, +and I may little heed them; but, with every wave the sea is rising, and I +know that it will float me on this traveller’s voyage at last. + + + + +THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER + + +THE amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful +purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the Window +Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions of this +time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does +to the deserving,—dirtying the stream of true benevolence, and muddling +the brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between the +base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us,—he +is more worthy of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst +characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have +been sent there long ago. + +I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver +of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as +regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the great +branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence. I ought to know +something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door at all +hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in +ambush for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town +into the country; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have been +staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense +distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has +died and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed from +this transitory scene: he has been his own son, his own mother, his own +baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He +has wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in; a pound to set him up in life +for ever; a pair of boots to take him to the coast of China; a hat to get +him into a permanent situation under Government. He has frequently been +exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence. He has had such +openings at Liverpool—posts of great trust and confidence in merchants’ +houses, which nothing but seven-and-sixpence was wanting to him to +secure—that I wonder he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at the +present moment. + +The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most +astounding nature. He has had two children who have never grown up; who +have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been continually +driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of +fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his +letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have never changed in +the least degree through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, +what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always +been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and has +never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has +never cared for himself; he could have perished—he would rather, in +short—but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a +father,—to write begging letters when he looked at her? (He has usually +remarked that he would call in the evening for an answer to this +question.) + +He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has +done to him would have broken anybody else’s heart. His brother went +into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got him +to be security for an immense sum and left him to pay it; his brother +would have given him employment to the tune of hundreds a-year, if he +would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated +principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in +consequence) permit his brother to provide for him. His landlord has +never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I +don’t know, but he has never taken it out. The broker’s man has grown +grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day. + +He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the +army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press, +the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of +business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every +college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote Latin in his letters (but +generally misspells some minor English word); he can tell you what +Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be +observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the +newspapers; and rounds off his appeal with some allusion, that may be +supposed to be in my way, to the popular subject of the hour. + +His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never +written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first +time; that shall be the last. Don’t answer it, and let it be understood +that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more +frequently) he _has_ written a few such letters. Then he encloses the +answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him, +and a request that they may be carefully returned. He is fond of +enclosing something—verses, letters, pawnbrokers’ duplicates, anything to +necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon ‘the pampered minion of +fortune,’ who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure +number two—but he knows me better. + +He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes +quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits he writes down-hill and +repeats words—these little indications being expressive of the +perturbation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with +me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human nature is,—who +better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it—as many +men have done before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him +now—many men have done that before him too! Shall he tell me why he +writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on +that ground plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human +nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, before +twelve at noon. + +Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is +no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at +last. He has enlisted into the Company’s service, and is off +directly—but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it +is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he should take out a +single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight +or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what +has passed; but if he calls at nine, to-morrow morning may he hope to +find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in +Bengal? + +Once he wrote me rather a special letter, proposing relief in kind. He +had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up in brown +paper, at people’s houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in +which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he +expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on +a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself +all over), in which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to earn +an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country with a +cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well until the day +before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That +this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the +shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London—a somewhat +exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again +for money; but that if I would have the goodness _to leave him out a +donkey_, he would call for the animal before breakfast! + +At another time my friend (I am describing actual experiences) introduced +himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of distress. He +had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre—which was really open; its +representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor—who +was really ill; and he and his were in a state of absolute starvation. +If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it +to me to say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over +that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards he +was in some other strait. I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in +extremity—and we adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards he +had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want of a +water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and did not reply +to that epistle. But a little while afterwards, I had reason to feel +penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken-hearted lines, +informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last +night at nine o’clock! + +I despatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his +poor children; but the messenger went so soon, that the play was not +ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a +most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity +Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a +London Police-Office with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was +wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by +the excellence of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his +attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition, +and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A +collection was made for the ‘poor fellow,’ as he was called in the +reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being +universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day comes to me a friend +of mine, the governor of a large prison. ‘Why did you ever go to the +Police-Office against that man,’ says he, ‘without coming to me first? I +know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my +warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you; and then he was +eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence a pound, and early asparagus at I +don’t know how much a bundle!’ On that very same day, and in that very +same hour, my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding +to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed +the night in a ‘loathsome dungeon.’ And next morning an Irish gentleman, +a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very well +persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office again, +positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and, +resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ‘sat down’ before it +for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I remained +within the walls; and he raised the siege at midnight with a prodigious +alarum on the bell. + +The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance. +Whole pages of the ‘Court Guide’ are ready to be references for him. +Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for +probity and virtue. They have known him time out of mind, and there is +nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Somehow, they don’t give him that one +pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough—they want to +do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his +trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those +who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or +later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger—man, woman, or +child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an independent +Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling, +and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the +infection of begging-letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What +Sydney Smith so happily called ‘the dangerous luxury of dishonesty’ is +more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in this instance than in +any other. + +He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter Writers. +Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to-day in +recognition of a begging-letter,—no matter how unlike a common +begging-letter,—and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such +communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the begging-letters become +Angels’ visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull +way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of +little use inquiring into the Begging-Letter Writer’s circumstances. He +may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned +(though that was not the first inquiry made); but apparent misery is +always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the +intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an +incident of his dissipated and dishonest life. + +That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are +gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police Reports of +such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the +extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this is to be +found (as no one knows better than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a +part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit +themselves as having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified +their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of all +virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is +preparing for the press (on the 29th of April, 1850), and never once +taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most +audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever +known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow’s +proceedings; it has been his business to write to all sorts and +conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and +unblemished honour, professing to be in distress—the general admiration +and respect for whom has ensured a ready and generous reply. + +Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real person +may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than any +abstract treatise—and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which +the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been +for some time constantly increasing—the writer of this paper entreats the +attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a +type of the experience of many; some on a smaller, some on an infinitely +larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his +conclusions from it. + +Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever, +and able to recall but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in +which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good was done by +it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The +begging-letters flying about by every post, made it perfectly manifest +that a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire +to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor +were suffering, and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought +to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of +preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those +wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves +cumbering society. That imagination,—soberly following one of these +knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the +life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the +children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late +lamented Mr. Drouet,—contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be +presented very much longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle +of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of +the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead +to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them. +That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the +thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their +youth—for of flower or blossom such youth has none—the Gospel was NOT +preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all +wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set +right. And that no Post-Office Order to any amount, given to a +Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be +presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it. + +The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their +habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support them are +parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within +their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful; +they pervert the lessons of our lives; they change what ought to be our +strength and virtue into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a +plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any +sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade. + +There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more +ways than one—sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the subtle +poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases, +distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set +against this miserable imposition. Physical life respected, moral life +comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, +would educate a score of children for a year. Let us give all we can; +let us give more than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do more than +ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the +scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our +duty. + + + + +A CHILD’S DREAM OF A STAR + + +THERE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of +a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child too, and his +constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They +wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and +blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they +wondered at the goodness and the power of GOD who made the lovely world. + +They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all the children +upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be +sorry? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are +the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol +down the hill-sides are the children of the water; and the smallest +bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely +be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their +playmates, the children of men, no more. + +There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before +the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and +more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they +watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw it first +cried out, ‘I see the star!’ And often they cried out both together, +knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such +friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always +looked out once again, to bid it good night; and when they were turning +round to sleep, they used to say, ‘God bless the star!’ + +But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the sister +drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the +window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when +he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the +bed, ‘I see the star!’ and then a smile would come upon the face, and a +little weak voice used to say, ‘God bless my brother and the star!’ + +And so the time came all too soon! when the child looked out alone, and +when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little grave +among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long rays down +towards him, as he saw it through his tears. + +Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining +way from earth to Heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed, +he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a +train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star, +opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels +waited to receive them. + +All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the +people who were carried up into the star; and some came out from the long +rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people’s necks, and kissed +them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so +happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. + +But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one +he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified +and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. + +His sister’s angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to +the leader among those who had brought the people thither: + +‘Is my brother come?’ + +And he said ‘No.’ + +She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, +and cried, ‘O, sister, I am here! Take me!’ and then she turned her +beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into +the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it through his +tears. + +From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home +he was to go to, when his time should come; and he thought that he did +not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his +sister’s angel gone before. + +There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he was so +little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out +on his bed, and died. + +Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels, +and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes +all turned upon those people’s faces. + +Said his sister’s angel to the leader: + +‘Is my brother come?’ + +And he said, ‘Not that one, but another.’ + +As the child beheld his brother’s angel in her arms, he cried, ‘O, +sister, I am here! Take me!’ And she turned and smiled upon him, and +the star was shining. + +He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an old servant +came to him and said: + +‘Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son!’ + +Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his +sister’s angel to the leader. + +‘Is my brother come?’ + +And he said, ‘Thy mother!’ + +A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother +was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and +cried, ‘O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!’ And they +answered him, ‘Not yet,’ and the star was shining. + +He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning grey, and he was sitting in +his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed +with tears, when the star opened once again. + +Said his sister’s angel to the leader: ‘Is my brother come?’ + +And he said, ‘Nay, but his maiden daughter.’ + +And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a +celestial creature among those three, and he said, ‘My daughter’s head is +on my sister’s bosom, and her arm is around my mother’s neck, and at her +feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, +GOD be praised!’ + +And the star was shining. + +Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was +wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And +one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, +as he had cried so long ago: + +‘I see the star!’ + +They whispered one another, ‘He is dying.’ + +And he said, ‘I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move +towards the star as a child. And O, my Father, now I thank thee that it +has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me!’ + +And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. + + + + +OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE + + +IN the Autumn-time of the year, when the great metropolis is so much +hotter, so much noisier, so much more dusty or so much more water-carted, +so much more crowded, so much more disturbing and distracting in all +respects, than it usually is, a quiet sea-beach becomes indeed a blessed +spot. Half awake and half asleep, this idle morning in our sunny window +on the edge of a chalk-cliff in the old-fashioned watering-place to which +we are a faithful resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to sketch its +picture. + +The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as still +before us as if they were sitting for the picture. It is dead low-water. +A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the cliff, as if it were +faintly trying from recollection to imitate the sea; and the world of +butterflies hovering over the crop of radish-seed are as restless in +their little way as the gulls are in their larger manner when the wind +blows. But the ocean lies winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion—its +glassy waters scarcely curve upon the shore—the fishing-boats in the tiny +harbour are all stranded in the mud—our two colliers (our watering-place +has a maritime trade employing that amount of shipping) have not an inch +of water within a quarter of a mile of them, and turn, exhausted, on +their sides, like faint fish of an antediluvian species. Rusty cables +and chains, ropes and rings, undermost parts of posts and piles and +confused timber-defences against the waves, lie strewn about, in a brown +litter of tangled sea-weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of +giants had been making tea here for ages, and had observed an untidy +custom of throwing their tea-leaves on the shore. + +In truth, our watering-place itself has been left somewhat high and dry +by the tide of years. Concerned as we are for its honour, we must +reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little semicircular +sweep of houses, tapering off at the end of the wooden pier into a point +in the sea, was a gay place, and when the lighthouse overlooking it shone +at daybreak on company dispersing from public balls, is but dimly +traditional now. There is a bleak chamber in our watering-place which is +yet called the Assembly ‘Rooms,’ and understood to be available on hire +for balls or concerts; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little +gentleman came down and stayed at the hotel, who said that he had danced +there, in bygone ages, with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known to have +been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of innumerable duels. +But he was so old and shrivelled, and so very rheumatic in the legs, that +it demanded more imagination than our watering-place can usually muster, +to believe him; therefore, except the Master of the ‘Rooms’ (who to this +hour wears knee-breeches, and who confirmed the statement with tears in +his eyes), nobody did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even +in the Honourable Miss Peepy, long deceased. + +As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our watering-place now, +red-hot cannon balls are less improbable. Sometimes, a misguided +wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, or a juggler, or +somebody with an Orrery that is several stars behind the time, takes the +place for a night, and issues bills with the name of his last town lined +out, and the name of ours ignominiously written in, but you may be sure +this never happens twice to the same unfortunate person. On such +occasions the discoloured old Billiard Table that is seldom played at +(unless the ghost of the Honourable Miss Peepy plays at pool with other +ghosts) is pushed into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted +into front seats, back seats, and reserved seats—which are much the same +after you have paid—and a few dull candles are lighted—wind +permitting—and the performer and the scanty audience play out a short +match which shall make the other most low-spirited—which is usually a +drawn game. After that, the performer instantly departs with maledictory +expressions, and is never heard of more. + +But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that an annual +sale of ‘Fancy and other China,’ is announced here with mysterious +constancy and perseverance. Where the china comes from, where it goes +to, why it is annually put up to auction when nobody ever thinks of +bidding for it, how it comes to pass that it is always the same china, +whether it would not have been cheaper, with the sea at hand, to have +thrown it away, say in eighteen hundred and thirty, are standing enigmas. +Every year the bills come out, every year the Master of the Rooms gets +into a little pulpit on a table, and offers it for sale, every year +nobody buys it, every year it is put away somewhere till next year, when +it appears again as if the whole thing were a new idea. We have a faint +remembrance of an unearthly collection of clocks, purporting to be the +work of Parisian and Genevese artists—chiefly bilious-faced clocks, +supported on sickly white crutches, with their pendulums dangling like +lame legs—to which a similar course of events occurred for several years, +until they seemed to lapse away, of mere imbecility. + +Attached to our Assembly Rooms is a library. There is a wheel of fortune +in it, but it is rusty and dusty, and never turns. A large doll, with +moveable eyes, was put up to be raffled for, by five-and-twenty members +at two shillings, seven years ago this autumn, and the list is not full +yet. We are rather sanguine, now, that the raffle will come off next +year. We think so, because we only want nine members, and should only +want eight, but for number two having grown up since her name was +entered, and withdrawn it when she was married. Down the street, there +is a toy-ship of considerable burden, in the same condition. Two of the +boys who were entered for that raffle have gone to India in real ships, +since; and one was shot, and died in the arms of his sister’s lover, by +whom he sent his last words home. + +This is the library for the Minerva Press. If you want that kind of +reading, come to our watering-place. The leaves of the romances, reduced +to a condition very like curl-paper, are thickly studded with notes in +pencil: sometimes complimentary, sometimes jocose. Some of these +commentators, like commentators in a more extensive way, quarrel with one +another. One young gentleman who sarcastically writes ‘O!!!’ after every +sentimental passage, is pursued through his literary career by another, +who writes ‘Insulting Beast!’ Miss Julia Mills has read the whole +collection of these books. She has left marginal notes on the pages, as +‘Is not this truly touching? J. M.’ ‘How thrilling! J. M.’ ‘Entranced +here by the Magician’s potent spell. J. M.’ She has also italicised her +favourite traits in the description of the hero, as ‘his hair, which was +_dark_ and _wavy_, clustered in _rich profusion_ around a _marble brow_, +whose lofty paleness bespoke the intellect within.’ It reminds her of +another hero. She adds, ‘How like B. L. Can this be mere coincidence? +J. M.’ + +You would hardly guess which is the main street of our watering-place, +but you may know it by its being always stopped up with donkey-chaises. +Whenever you come here, and see harnessed donkeys eating clover out of +barrows drawn completely across a narrow thoroughfare, you may be quite +sure you are in our High Street. Our Police you may know by his uniform, +likewise by his never on any account interfering with anybody—especially +the tramps and vagabonds. In our fancy shops we have a capital +collection of damaged goods, among which the flies of countless summers +‘have been roaming.’ We are great in obsolete seals, and in faded +pin-cushions, and in rickety camp-stools, and in exploded cutlery, and in +miniature vessels, and in stunted little telescopes, and in objects made +of shells that pretend not to be shells. Diminutive spades, barrows, and +baskets, are our principal articles of commerce; but even they don’t look +quite new somehow. They always seem to have been offered and refused +somewhere else, before they came down to our watering-place. + +Yet, it must not be supposed that our watering-place is an empty place, +deserted by all visitors except a few staunch persons of approved +fidelity. On the contrary, the chances are that if you came down here in +August or September, you wouldn’t find a house to lay your head in. As +to finding either house or lodging of which you could reduce the terms, +you could scarcely engage in a more hopeless pursuit. For all this, you +are to observe that every season is the worst season ever known, and that +the householding population of our watering-place are ruined regularly +every autumn. They are like the farmers, in regard that it is surprising +how much ruin they will bear. We have an excellent hotel—capital baths, +warm, cold, and shower—first-rate bathing-machines—and as good butchers, +bakers, and grocers, as heart could desire. They all do business, it is +to be presumed, from motives of philanthropy—but it is quite certain that +they are all being ruined. Their interest in strangers, and their +politeness under ruin, bespeak their amiable nature. You would say so, +if you only saw the baker helping a new comer to find suitable +apartments. + +So far from being at a discount as to company, we are in fact what would +be popularly called rather a nobby place. Some tip-top ‘Nobbs’ come down +occasionally—even Dukes and Duchesses. We have known such carriages to +blaze among the donkey-chaises, as made beholders wink. Attendant on +these equipages come resplendent creatures in plush and powder, who are +sure to be stricken disgusted with the indifferent accommodation of our +watering-place, and who, of an evening (particularly when it rains), may +be seen very much out of drawing, in rooms far too small for their fine +figures, looking discontentedly out of little back windows into +bye-streets. The lords and ladies get on well enough and quite +good-humouredly: but if you want to see the gorgeous phenomena who wait +upon them at a perfect non-plus, you should come and look at the +resplendent creatures with little back parlours for servants’ halls, and +turn-up bedsteads to sleep in, at our watering-place. You have no idea +how they take it to heart. + +We have a pier—a queer old wooden pier, fortunately without the slightest +pretensions to architecture, and very picturesque in consequence. Boats +are hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all over it; lobster-pots, nets, +masts, oars, spars, sails, ballast, and rickety capstans, make a perfect +labyrinth of it. For ever hovering about this pier, with their hands in +their pockets, or leaning over the rough bulwark it opposes to the sea, +gazing through telescopes which they carry about in the same profound +receptacles, are the Boatmen of our watering-place. Looking at them, you +would say that surely these must be the laziest boatmen in the world. +They lounge about, in obstinate and inflexible pantaloons that are +apparently made of wood, the whole season through. Whether talking +together about the shipping in the Channel, or gruffly unbending over +mugs of beer at the public-house, you would consider them the slowest of +men. The chances are a thousand to one that you might stay here for ten +seasons, and never see a boatman in a hurry. A certain expression about +his loose hands, when they are not in his pockets, as if he were carrying +a considerable lump of iron in each, without any inconvenience, suggests +strength, but he never seems to use it. He has the appearance of +perpetually strolling—running is too inappropriate a word to be thought +of—to seed. The only subject on which he seems to feel any approach to +enthusiasm, is pitch. He pitches everything he can lay hold of,—the +pier, the palings, his boat, his house,—when there is nothing else left +he turns to and even pitches his hat, or his rough-weather clothing. Do +not judge him by deceitful appearances. These are among the bravest and +most skilful mariners that exist. Let a gale arise and swell into a +storm, let a sea run that might appal the stoutest heart that ever beat, +let the Light-boat on these dangerous sands throw up a rocket in the +night, or let them hear through the angry roar the signal-guns of a ship +in distress, and these men spring up into activity so dauntless, so +valiant, and heroic, that the world cannot surpass it. Cavillers may +object that they chiefly live upon the salvage of valuable cargoes. So +they do, and God knows it is no great living that they get out of the +deadly risks they run. But put that hope of gain aside. Let these rough +fellows be asked, in any storm, who volunteers for the life-boat to save +some perishing souls, as poor and empty-handed as themselves, whose lives +the perfection of human reason does not rate at the value of a farthing +each; and that boat will be manned, as surely and as cheerfully, as if a +thousand pounds were told down on the weather-beaten pier. For this, and +for the recollection of their comrades whom we have known, whom the +raging sea has engulfed before their children’s eyes in such brave +efforts, whom the secret sand has buried, we hold the boatmen of our +watering-place in our love and honour, and are tender of the fame they +well deserve. + +So many children are brought down to our watering-place that, when they +are not out of doors, as they usually are in fine weather, it is +wonderful where they are put: the whole village seeming much too small to +hold them under cover. In the afternoons, you see no end of salt and +sandy little boots drying on upper window-sills. At bathing-time in the +morning, the little bay re-echoes with every shrill variety of shriek and +splash—after which, if the weather be at all fresh, the sands teem with +small blue mottled legs. The sands are the children’s great resort. +They cluster there, like ants: so busy burying their particular friends, +and making castles with infinite labour which the next tide overthrows, +that it is curious to consider how their play, to the music of the sea, +foreshadows the realities of their after lives. + +It is curious, too, to observe a natural ease of approach that there +seems to be between the children and the boatmen. They mutually make +acquaintance, and take individual likings, without any help. You will +come upon one of those slow heavy fellows sitting down patiently mending +a little ship for a mite of a boy, whom he could crush to death by +throwing his lightest pair of trousers on him. You will be sensible of +the oddest contrast between the smooth little creature, and the rough man +who seems to be carved out of hard-grained wood—between the delicate hand +expectantly held out, and the immense thumb and finger that can hardly +feel the rigging of thread they mend—between the small voice and the +gruff growl—and yet there is a natural propriety in the companionship: +always to be noted in confidence between a child and a person who has any +merit of reality and genuineness: which is admirably pleasant. + +We have a preventive station at our watering-place, and much the same +thing may be observed—in a lesser degree, because of their official +character—of the coast blockade; a steady, trusty, well-conditioned, +well-conducted set of men, with no misgiving about looking you full in +the face, and with a quiet thorough-going way of passing along to their +duty at night, carrying huge sou’-wester clothing in reserve, that is +fraught with all good prepossession. They are handy fellows—neat about +their houses—industrious at gardening—would get on with their wives, one +thinks, in a desert island—and people it, too, soon. + +As to the naval officer of the station, with his hearty fresh face, and +his blue eye that has pierced all kinds of weather, it warms our hearts +when he comes into church on a Sunday, with that bright mixture of blue +coat, buff waistcoat, black neck-kerchief, and gold epaulette, that is +associated in the minds of all Englishmen with brave, unpretending, +cordial, national service. We like to look at him in his Sunday state; +and if we were First Lord (really possessing the indispensable +qualification for the office of knowing nothing whatever about the sea), +we would give him a ship to-morrow. + +We have a church, by-the-by, of course—a hideous temple of flint, like a +great petrified haystack. Our chief clerical dignitary, who, to his +honour, has done much for education both in time and money, and has +established excellent schools, is a sound, shrewd, healthy gentleman, who +has got into little occasional difficulties with the neighbouring +farmers, but has had a pestilent trick of being right. Under a new +regulation, he has yielded the church of our watering-place to another +clergyman. Upon the whole we get on in church well. We are a little +bilious sometimes, about these days of fraternisation, and about nations +arriving at a new and more unprejudiced knowledge of each other (which +our Christianity don’t quite approve), but it soon goes off, and then we +get on very well. + +There are two dissenting chapels, besides, in our small watering-place; +being in about the proportion of a hundred and twenty guns to a yacht. +But the dissension that has torn us lately, has not been a religious one. +It has arisen on the novel question of Gas. Our watering-place has been +convulsed by the agitation, Gas or No Gas. It was never reasoned why No +Gas, but there was a great No Gas party. Broadsides were printed and +stuck about—a startling circumstance in our watering-place. The No Gas +party rested content with chalking ‘No Gas!’ and ‘Down with Gas!’ and +other such angry war-whoops, on the few back gates and scraps of wall +which the limits of our watering-place afford; but the Gas party printed +and posted bills, wherein they took the high ground of proclaiming +against the No Gas party, that it was said Let there be light and there +was light; and that not to have light (that is gas-light) in our +watering-place, was to contravene the great decree. Whether by these +thunderbolts or not, the No Gas party were defeated; and in this present +season we have had our handful of shops illuminated for the first time. +Such of the No Gas party, however, as have got shops, remain in +opposition and burn tallow—exhibiting in their windows the very picture +of the sulkiness that punishes itself, and a new illustration of the old +adage about cutting off your nose to be revenged on your face, in cutting +off their gas to be revenged on their business. + +Other population than we have indicated, our watering-place has none. +There are a few old used-up boatmen who creep about in the sunlight with +the help of sticks, and there is a poor imbecile shoemaker who wanders +his lonely life away among the rocks, as if he were looking for his +reason—which he will never find. Sojourners in neighbouring +watering-places come occasionally in flys to stare at us, and drive away +again as if they thought us very dull; Italian boys come, Punch comes, +the Fantoccini come, the Tumblers come, the Ethiopians come; Glee-singers +come at night, and hum and vibrate (not always melodiously) under our +windows. But they all go soon, and leave us to ourselves again. We once +had a travelling Circus and Wombwell’s Menagerie at the same time. They +both know better than ever to try it again; and the Menagerie had nearly +razed us from the face of the earth in getting the elephant away—his +caravan was so large, and the watering-place so small. We have a fine +sea, wholesome for all people; profitable for the body, profitable for +the mind. The poet’s words are sometimes on its awful lips: + + And the stately ships go on + To their haven under the hill; + But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand. + And the sound of a voice that is still! + + Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O sea! + But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + +Yet it is not always so, for the speech of the sea is various, and wants +not abundant resource of cheerfulness, hope, and lusty encouragement. +And since I have been idling at the window here, the tide has risen. The +boats are dancing on the bubbling water; the colliers are afloat again; +the white-bordered waves rush in; the children + + Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him + When he comes back; + +the radiant sails are gliding past the shore, and shining on the far +horizon; all the sea is sparkling, heaving, swelling up with life and +beauty, this bright morning. + + + + +OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE + + +HAVING earned, by many years of fidelity, the right to be sometimes +inconstant to our English watering-place, we have dallied for two or +three seasons with a French watering-place: once solely known to us as a +town with a very long street, beginning with an abattoir and ending with +a steam-boat, which it seemed our fate to behold only at daybreak on +winter mornings, when (in the days before continental railroads), just +sufficiently awake to know that we were most uncomfortably asleep, it was +our destiny always to clatter through it, in the coupé of the diligence +from Paris, with a sea of mud behind us, and a sea of tumbling waves +before. In relation to which latter monster, our mind’s eye now recalls +a worthy Frenchman in a seal-skin cap with a braided hood over it, once +our travelling companion in the coupé aforesaid, who, waking up with a +pale and crumpled visage, and looking ruefully out at the grim row of +breakers enjoying themselves fanatically on an instrument of torture +called ‘the Bar,’ inquired of us whether we were ever sick at sea? Both +to prepare his mind for the abject creature we were presently to become, +and also to afford him consolation, we replied, ‘Sir, your servant is +always sick when it is possible to be so.’ He returned, altogether +uncheered by the bright example, ‘Ah, Heaven, but I am always sick, even +when it is impossible to be so.’ + +The means of communication between the French capital and our French +watering-place are wholly changed since those days; but, the Channel +remains unbridged as yet, and the old floundering and knocking about go +on there. It must be confessed that saving in reasonable (and therefore +rare) sea-weather, the act of arrival at our French watering-place from +England is difficult to be achieved with dignity. Several little +circumstances combine to render the visitor an object of humiliation. In +the first place, the steamer no sooner touches the port, than all the +passengers fall into captivity: being boarded by an overpowering force of +Custom-house officers, and marched into a gloomy dungeon. In the second +place, the road to this dungeon is fenced off with ropes breast-high, and +outside those ropes all the English in the place who have lately been +sea-sick and are now well, assemble in their best clothes to enjoy the +degradation of their dilapidated fellow-creatures. ‘Oh, my gracious! how +ill this one has been!’ ‘Here’s a damp one coming next!’ ‘Here’s a pale +one!’ ‘Oh! Ain’t he green in the face, this next one!’ Even we ourself +(not deficient in natural dignity) have a lively remembrance of +staggering up this detested lane one September day in a gale of wind, +when we were received like an irresistible comic actor, with a burst of +laughter and applause, occasioned by the extreme imbecility of our legs. + +We were coming to the third place. In the third place, the captives, +being shut up in the gloomy dungeon, are strained, two or three at a +time, into an inner cell, to be examined as to passports; and across the +doorway of communication, stands a military creature making a bar of his +arm. Two ideas are generally present to the British mind during these +ceremonies; first, that it is necessary to make for the cell with violent +struggles, as if it were a life-boat and the dungeon a ship going down; +secondly, that the military creature’s arm is a national affront, which +the government at home ought instantly to ‘take up.’ The British mind +and body becoming heated by these fantasies, delirious answers are made +to inquiries, and extravagant actions performed. Thus, Johnson persists +in giving Johnson as his baptismal name, and substituting for his +ancestral designation the national ‘Dam!’ Neither can he by any means be +brought to recognise the distinction between a portmanteau-key and a +passport, but will obstinately persevere in tendering the one when asked +for the other. This brings him to the fourth place, in a state of mere +idiotcy; and when he is, in the fourth place, cast out at a little door +into a howling wilderness of touters, he becomes a lunatic with wild eyes +and floating hair until rescued and soothed. If friendless and +unrescued, he is generally put into a railway omnibus and taken to Paris. + +But, our French watering-place, when it is once got into, is a very +enjoyable place. It has a varied and beautiful country around it, and +many characteristic and agreeable things within it. To be sure, it might +have fewer bad smells and less decaying refuse, and it might be better +drained, and much cleaner in many parts, and therefore infinitely more +healthy. Still, it is a bright, airy, pleasant, cheerful town; and if +you were to walk down either of its three well-paved main streets, +towards five o’clock in the afternoon, when delicate odours of cookery +fill the air, and its hotel windows (it is full of hotels) give glimpses +of long tables set out for dinner, and made to look sumptuous by the aid +of napkins folded fan-wise, you would rightly judge it to be an +uncommonly good town to eat and drink in. + +We have an old walled town, rich in cool public wells of water, on the +top of a hill within and above the present business-town; and if it were +some hundreds of miles further from England, instead of being, on a clear +day, within sight of the grass growing in the crevices of the +chalk-cliffs of Dover, you would long ago have been bored to death about +that town. It is more picturesque and quaint than half the innocent +places which tourists, following their leader like sheep, have made +impostors of. To say nothing of its houses with grave courtyards, its +queer by-corners, and its many-windowed streets white and quiet in the +sunlight, there is an ancient belfry in it that would have been in all +the Annuals and Albums, going and gone, these hundred years if it had but +been more expensive to get at. Happily it has escaped so well, being +only in our French watering-place, that you may like it of your own +accord in a natural manner, without being required to go into convulsions +about it. We regard it as one of the later blessings of our life, that +BILKINS, the only authority on Taste, never took any notice that we can +find out, of our French watering-place. Bilkins never wrote about it, +never pointed out anything to be seen in it, never measured anything in +it, always left it alone. For which relief, Heaven bless the town and +the memory of the immortal Bilkins likewise! + +There is a charming walk, arched and shaded by trees, on the old walls +that form the four sides of this High Town, whence you get glimpses of +the streets below, and changing views of the other town and of the river, +and of the hills and of the sea. It is made more agreeable and peculiar +by some of the solemn houses that are rooted in the deep streets below, +bursting into a fresher existence a-top, and having doors and windows, +and even gardens, on these ramparts. A child going in at the courtyard +gate of one of these houses, climbing up the many stairs, and coming out +at the fourth-floor window, might conceive himself another Jack, +alighting on enchanted ground from another bean-stalk. It is a place +wonderfully populous in children; English children, with governesses +reading novels as they walk down the shady lanes of trees, or nursemaids +interchanging gossip on the seats; French children with their smiling +bonnes in snow-white caps, and themselves—if little boys—in straw +head-gear like bee-hives, work-baskets and church hassocks. Three years +ago, there were three weazen old men, one bearing a frayed red ribbon in +his threadbare button-hole, always to be found walking together among +these children, before dinner-time. If they walked for an appetite, they +doubtless lived en pension—were contracted for—otherwise their poverty +would have made it a rash action. They were stooping, blear-eyed, dull +old men, slip-shod and shabby, in long-skirted short-waisted coats and +meagre trousers, and yet with a ghost of gentility hovering in their +company. They spoke little to each other, and looked as if they might +have been politically discontented if they had had vitality enough. +Once, we overheard red-ribbon feebly complain to the other two that +somebody, or something, was ‘a Robber;’ and then they all three set their +mouths so that they would have ground their teeth if they had had any. +The ensuing winter gathered red-ribbon unto the great company of faded +ribbons, and next year the remaining two were there—getting themselves +entangled with hoops and dolls—familiar mysteries to the +children—probably in the eyes of most of them, harmless creatures who had +never been like children, and whom children could never be like. Another +winter came, and another old man went, and so, this present year, the +last of the triumvirate, left off walking—it was no good, now—and sat by +himself on a little solitary bench, with the hoops and the dolls as +lively as ever all about him. + +In the Place d’Armes of this town, a little decayed market is held, which +seems to slip through the old gateway, like water, and go rippling down +the hill, to mingle with the murmuring market in the lower town, and get +lost in its movement and bustle. It is very agreeable on an idle summer +morning to pursue this market-stream from the hill-top. It begins, +dozingly and dully, with a few sacks of corn; starts into a surprising +collection of boots and shoes; goes brawling down the hill in a +diversified channel of old cordage, old iron, old crockery, old clothes, +civil and military, old rags, new cotton goods, flaming prints of saints, +little looking-glasses, and incalculable lengths of tape; dives into a +backway, keeping out of sight for a little while, as streams will, or +only sparkling for a moment in the shape of a market drinking-shop; and +suddenly reappears behind the great church, shooting itself into a bright +confusion of white-capped women and blue-bloused men, poultry, +vegetables, fruits, flowers, pots, pans, praying-chairs, soldiers, +country butter, umbrellas and other sun-shades, girl-porters waiting to +be hired with baskets at their backs, and one weazen little old man in a +cocked hat, wearing a cuirass of drinking-glasses and carrying on his +shoulder a crimson temple fluttering with flags, like a glorified +pavior’s rammer without the handle, who rings a little bell in all parts +of the scene, and cries his cooling drink Hola, Hola, Ho-o-o! in a shrill +cracked voice that somehow makes itself heard, above all the chaffering +and vending hum. Early in the afternoon, the whole course of the stream +is dry. The praying-chairs are put back in the church, the umbrellas are +folded up, the unsold goods are carried away, the stalls and stands +disappear, the square is swept, the hackney coaches lounge there to be +hired, and on all the country roads (if you walk about, as much as we do) +you will see the peasant women, always neatly and comfortably dressed, +riding home, with the pleasantest saddle-furniture of clean milk-pails, +bright butter-kegs, and the like, on the jolliest little donkeys in the +world. + +We have another market in our French watering-place—that is to say, a few +wooden hutches in the open street, down by the Port—devoted to fish. Our +fishing-boats are famous everywhere; and our fishing people, though they +love lively colours, and taste is neutral (see Bilkins), are among the +most picturesque people we ever encountered. They have not only a +quarter of their own in the town itself, but they occupy whole villages +of their own on the neighbouring cliffs. Their churches and chapels are +their own; they consort with one another, they intermarry among +themselves, their customs are their own, and their costume is their own +and never changes. As soon as one of their boys can walk, he is provided +with a long bright red nightcap; and one of their men would as soon think +of going afloat without his head, as without that indispensable appendage +to it. Then, they wear the noblest boots, with the hugest tops—flapping +and bulging over anyhow; above which, they encase themselves in such +wonderful overalls and petticoat trousers, made to all appearance of +tarry old sails, so additionally stiffened with pitch and salt, that the +wearers have a walk of their own, and go straddling and swinging about +among the boats and barrels and nets and rigging, a sight to see. Then, +their younger women, by dint of going down to the sea barefoot, to fling +their baskets into the boats as they come in with the tide, and bespeak +the first fruits of the haul with propitiatory promises to love and marry +that dear fisherman who shall fill that basket like an Angel, have the +finest legs ever carved by Nature in the brightest mahogany, and they +walk like Juno. Their eyes, too, are so lustrous that their long gold +ear-rings turn dull beside those brilliant neighbours; and when they are +dressed, what with these beauties, and their fine fresh faces, and their +many petticoats—striped petticoats, red petticoats, blue petticoats, +always clean and smart, and never too long—and their home-made stockings, +mulberry-coloured, blue, brown, purple, lilac—which the older women, +taking care of the Dutch-looking children, sit in all sorts of places +knitting, knitting, knitting from morning to night—and what with their +little saucy bright blue jackets, knitted too, and fitting close to their +handsome figures; and what with the natural grace with which they wear +the commonest cap, or fold the commonest handkerchief round their +luxuriant hair—we say, in a word and out of breath, that taking all these +premises into our consideration, it has never been a matter of the least +surprise to us that we have never once met, in the cornfields, on the +dusty roads, by the breezy windmills, on the plots of short sweet grass +overhanging the sea—anywhere—a young fisherman and fisherwoman of our +French watering-place together, but the arm of that fisherman has +invariably been, as a matter of course and without any absurd attempt to +disguise so plain a necessity, round the neck or waist of that +fisherwoman. And we have had no doubt whatever, standing looking at +their uphill streets, house rising above house, and terrace above +terrace, and bright garments here and there lying sunning on rough stone +parapets, that the pleasant mist on all such objects, caused by their +being seen through the brown nets hung across on poles to dry, is, in the +eyes of every true young fisherman, a mist of love and beauty, setting +off the goddess of his heart. + +Moreover it is to be observed that these are an industrious people, and a +domestic people, and an honest people. And though we are aware that at +the bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall down and worship the +Neapolitans, we make bold very much to prefer the fishing people of our +French watering-place—especially since our last visit to Naples within +these twelvemonths, when we found only four conditions of men remaining +in the whole city: to wit, lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers, and +all of them beggars; the paternal government having banished all its +subjects except the rascals. + +But we can never henceforth separate our French watering-place from our +own landlord of two summers, M. Loyal Devasseur, citizen and +town-councillor. Permit us to have the pleasure of presenting M. Loyal +Devasseur. + +His own family name is simply Loyal; but, as he is married, and as in +that part of France a husband always adds to his own name the family name +of his wife, he writes himself Loyal Devasseur. He owns a compact little +estate of some twenty or thirty acres on a lofty hill-side, and on it he +has built two country houses, which he lets furnished. They are by many +degrees the best houses that are so let near our French watering-place; +we have had the honour of living in both, and can testify. The +entrance-hall of the first we inhabited was ornamented with a plan of the +estate, representing it as about twice the size of Ireland; insomuch that +when we were yet new to the property (M. Loyal always speaks of it as ‘La +propriété’) we went three miles straight on end in search of the bridge +of Austerlitz—which we afterwards found to be immediately outside the +window. The Château of the Old Guard, in another part of the grounds, +and, according to the plan, about two leagues from the little +dining-room, we sought in vain for a week, until, happening one evening +to sit upon a bench in the forest (forest in the plan), a few yards from +the house-door, we observed at our feet, in the ignominious circumstances +of being upside down and greenly rotten, the Old Guard himself: that is +to say, the painted effigy of a member of that distinguished corps, seven +feet high, and in the act of carrying arms, who had had the misfortune to +be blown down in the previous winter. It will be perceived that M. Loyal +is a staunch admirer of the great Napoleon. He is an old soldier +himself—captain of the National Guard, with a handsome gold vase on his +chimney-piece presented to him by his company—and his respect for the +memory of the illustrious general is enthusiastic. Medallions of him, +portraits of him, busts of him, pictures of him, are thickly sprinkled +all over the property. During the first month of our occupation, it was +our affliction to be constantly knocking down Napoleon: if we touched a +shelf in a dark corner, he toppled over with a crash; and every door we +opened, shook him to the soul. Yet M. Loyal is not a man of mere castles +in the air, or, as he would say, in Spain. He has a specially practical, +contriving, clever, skilful eye and hand. His houses are delightful. He +unites French elegance and English comfort, in a happy manner quite his +own. He has an extraordinary genius for making tasteful little bedrooms +in angles of his roofs, which an Englishman would as soon think of +turning to any account as he would think of cultivating the Desert. We +have ourself reposed deliciously in an elegant chamber of M. Loyal’s +construction, with our head as nearly in the kitchen chimney-pot as we +can conceive it likely for the head of any gentleman, not by profession a +Sweep, to be. And, into whatsoever strange nook M. Loyal’s genius +penetrates, it, in that nook, infallibly constructs a cupboard and a row +of pegs. In either of our houses, we could have put away the knapsacks +and hung up the hats of the whole regiment of Guides. + +Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman in the town. You can transact +business with no present tradesman in the town, and give your card ‘chez +M. Loyal,’ but a brighter face shines upon you directly. We doubt if +there is, ever was, or ever will be, a man so universally pleasant in the +minds of people as M. Loyal is in the minds of the citizens of our French +watering-place. They rub their hands and laugh when they speak of him. +Ah, but he is such a good child, such a brave boy, such a generous +spirit, that Monsieur Loyal! It is the honest truth. M. Loyal’s nature +is the nature of a gentleman. He cultivates his ground with his own +hands (assisted by one little labourer, who falls into a fit now and +then); and he digs and delves from morn to eve in prodigious +perspirations—‘works always,’ as he says—but, cover him with dust, mud, +weeds, water, any stains you will, you never can cover the gentleman in +M. Loyal. A portly, upright, broad-shouldered, brown-faced man, whose +soldierly bearing gives him the appearance of being taller than he is, +look into the bright eye of M. Loyal, standing before you in his +working-blouse and cap, not particularly well shaved, and, it may be, +very earthy, and you shall discern in M. Loyal a gentleman whose true +politeness is ingrain, and confirmation of whose word by his bond you +would blush to think of. Not without reason is M. Loyal when he tells +that story, in his own vivacious way, of his travelling to Fulham, near +London, to buy all these hundreds and hundreds of trees you now see upon +the Property, then a bare, bleak hill; and of his sojourning in Fulham +three months; and of his jovial evenings with the market-gardeners; and +of the crowning banquet before his departure, when the market-gardeners +rose as one man, clinked their glasses all together (as the custom at +Fulham is), and cried, ‘Vive Loyal!’ + +M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but no family; and he loves to drill the +children of his tenants, or run races with them, or do anything with +them, or for them, that is good-natured. He is of a highly convivial +temperament, and his hospitality is unbounded. Billet a soldier on him, +and he is delighted. Five-and-thirty soldiers had M. Loyal billeted on +him this present summer, and they all got fat and red-faced in two days. +It became a legend among the troops that whosoever got billeted on M. +Loyal rolled in clover; and so it fell out that the fortunate man who +drew the billet ‘M. Loyal Devasseur’ always leaped into the air, though +in heavy marching order. M. Loyal cannot bear to admit anything that +might seem by any implication to disparage the military profession. We +hinted to him once, that we were conscious of a remote doubt arising in +our mind, whether a sou a day for pocket-money, tobacco, stockings, +drink, washing, and social pleasures in general, left a very large margin +for a soldier’s enjoyment. Pardon! said Monsieur Loyal, rather wincing. +It was not a fortune, but—à la bonne heure—it was better than it used to +be! What, we asked him on another occasion, were all those neighbouring +peasants, each living with his family in one room, and each having a +soldier (perhaps two) billeted on him every other night, required to +provide for those soldiers? ‘Faith!’ said M. Loyal, reluctantly; a bed, +monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a candle. And they share their +supper with those soldiers. It is not possible that they could eat +alone.’—‘And what allowance do they get for this?’ said we. Monsieur +Loyal drew himself up taller, took a step back, laid his hand upon his +breast, and said, with majesty, as speaking for himself and all France, +‘Monsieur, it is a contribution to the State!’ + +It is never going to rain, according to M. Loyal. When it is impossible +to deny that it is now raining in torrents, he says it will be +fine—charming—magnificent—to-morrow. It is never hot on the Property, he +contends. Likewise it is never cold. The flowers, he says, come out, +delighting to grow there; it is like Paradise this morning; it is like +the Garden of Eden. He is a little fanciful in his language: smilingly +observing of Madame Loyal, when she is absent at vespers, that she is +‘gone to her salvation’—allée à son salut. He has a great enjoyment of +tobacco, but nothing would induce him to continue smoking face to face +with a lady. His short black pipe immediately goes into his breast +pocket, scorches his blouse, and nearly sets him on fire. In the Town +Council and on occasions of ceremony, he appears in a full suit of black, +with a waistcoat of magnificent breadth across the chest, and a +shirt-collar of fabulous proportions. Good M. Loyal! Under blouse or +waistcoat, he carries one of the gentlest hearts that beat in a nation +teeming with gentle people. He has had losses, and has been at his best +under them. Not only the loss of his way by night in the Fulham +times—when a bad subject of an Englishman, under pretence of seeing him +home, took him into all the night public-houses, drank ‘arfanarf’ in +every one at his expense, and finally fled, leaving him shipwrecked at +Cleefeeway, which we apprehend to be Ratcliffe Highway—but heavier losses +than that. Long ago a family of children and a mother were left in one +of his houses without money, a whole year. M. Loyal—anything but as rich +as we wish he had been—had not the heart to say ‘you must go;’ so they +stayed on and stayed on, and paying-tenants who would have come in +couldn’t come in, and at last they managed to get helped home across the +water; and M. Loyal kissed the whole group, and said, ‘Adieu, my poor +infants!’ and sat down in their deserted salon and smoked his pipe of +peace.—‘The rent, M. Loyal?’ ‘Eh! well! The rent!’ M. Loyal shakes his +head. ‘Le bon Dieu,’ says M. Loyal presently, ‘will recompense me,’ and +he laughs and smokes his pipe of peace. May he smoke it on the Property, +and not be recompensed, these fifty years! + +There are public amusements in our French watering-place, or it would not +be French. They are very popular, and very cheap. The sea-bathing—which +may rank as the most favoured daylight entertainment, inasmuch as the +French visitors bathe all day long, and seldom appear to think of +remaining less than an hour at a time in the water—is astoundingly cheap. +Omnibuses convey you, if you please, from a convenient part of the town +to the beach and back again; you have a clean and comfortable +bathing-machine, dress, linen, and all appliances; and the charge for the +whole is half-a-franc, or fivepence. On the pier, there is usually a +guitar, which seems presumptuously enough to set its tinkling against the +deep hoarseness of the sea, and there is always some boy or woman who +sings, without any voice, little songs without any tune: the strain we +have most frequently heard being an appeal to ‘the sportsman’ not to bag +that choicest of game, the swallow. For bathing purposes, we have also a +subscription establishment with an esplanade, where people lounge about +with telescopes, and seem to get a good deal of weariness for their +money; and we have also an association of individual machine proprietors +combined against this formidable rival. M. Féroce, our own particular +friend in the bathing line, is one of these. How he ever came by his +name we cannot imagine. He is as gentle and polite a man as M. Loyal +Devasseur himself; immensely stout withal; and of a beaming aspect. M. +Féroce has saved so many people from drowning, and has been decorated +with so many medals in consequence, that his stoutness seems a special +dispensation of Providence to enable him to wear them; if his girth were +the girth of an ordinary man, he could never hang them on, all at once. +It is only on very great occasions that M. Féroce displays his shining +honours. At other times they lie by, with rolls of manuscript testifying +to the causes of their presentation, in a huge glass case in the +red-sofa’d salon of his private residence on the beach, where M. Féroce +also keeps his family pictures, his portraits of himself as he appears +both in bathing life and in private life, his little boats that rock by +clockwork, and his other ornamental possessions. + +Then, we have a commodious and gay Theatre—or had, for it is burned down +now—where the opera was always preceded by a vaudeville, in which (as +usual) everybody, down to the little old man with the large hat and the +little cane and tassel, who always played either my Uncle or my Papa, +suddenly broke out of the dialogue into the mildest vocal snatches, to +the great perplexity of unaccustomed strangers from Great Britain, who +never could make out when they were singing and when they were +talking—and indeed it was pretty much the same. But, the caterers in the +way of entertainment to whom we are most beholden, are the Society of +Welldoing, who are active all the summer, and give the proceeds of their +good works to the poor. Some of the most agreeable fêtes they contrive, +are announced as ‘Dedicated to the children;’ and the taste with which +they turn a small public enclosure into an elegant garden beautifully +illuminated; and the thorough-going heartiness and energy with which they +personally direct the childish pleasures; are supremely delightful. For +fivepence a head, we have on these occasions donkey races with English +‘Jokeis,’ and other rustic sports; lotteries for toys; roundabouts, +dancing on the grass to the music of an admirable band, fire-balloons and +fireworks. Further, almost every week all through the summer—never mind, +now, on what day of the week—there is a fête in some adjoining village +(called in that part of the country a Ducasse), where the people—really +the people—dance on the green turf in the open air, round a little +orchestra, that seems itself to dance, there is such an airy motion of +flags and streamers all about it. And we do not suppose that between the +Torrid Zone and the North Pole there are to be found male dancers with +such astonishingly loose legs, furnished with so many joints in wrong +places, utterly unknown to Professor Owen, as those who here disport +themselves. Sometimes, the fête appertains to a particular trade; you +will see among the cheerful young women at the joint Ducasse of the +milliners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge of the art of making common +and cheap things uncommon and pretty, by good sense and good taste, that +is a practical lesson to any rank of society in a whole island we could +mention. The oddest feature of these agreeable scenes is the everlasting +Roundabout (we preserve an English word wherever we can, as we are +writing the English language), on the wooden horses of which machine +grown-up people of all ages are wound round and round with the utmost +solemnity, while the proprietor’s wife grinds an organ, capable of only +one tune, in the centre. + +As to the boarding-houses of our French watering-place, they are Legion, +and would require a distinct treatise. It is not without a sentiment of +national pride that we believe them to contain more bores from the shores +of Albion than all the clubs in London. As you walk timidly in their +neighbourhood, the very neckcloths and hats of your elderly compatriots +cry to you from the stones of the streets, ‘We are Bores—avoid us!’ We +have never overheard at street corners such lunatic scraps of political +and social discussion as among these dear countrymen of ours. They +believe everything that is impossible and nothing that is true. They +carry rumours, and ask questions, and make corrections and improvements +on one another, staggering to the human intellect. And they are for ever +rushing into the English library, propounding such incomprehensible +paradoxes to the fair mistress of that establishment, that we beg to +recommend her to her Majesty’s gracious consideration as a fit object for +a pension. + +The English form a considerable part of the population of our French +watering-place, and are deservedly addressed and respected in many ways. +Some of the surface-addresses to them are odd enough, as when a laundress +puts a placard outside her house announcing her possession of that +curious British instrument, a ‘Mingle;’ or when a tavern-keeper provides +accommodation for the celebrated English game of ‘Nokemdon.’ But, to us, +it is not the least pleasant feature of our French watering-place that a +long and constant fusion of the two great nations there, has taught each +to like the other, and to learn from the other, and to rise superior to +the absurd prejudices that have lingered among the weak and ignorant in +both countries equally. + +Drumming and trumpeting of course go on for ever in our French +watering-place. Flag-flying is at a premium, too; but, we cheerfully +avow that we consider a flag a very pretty object, and that we take such +outward signs of innocent liveliness to our heart of hearts. The people, +in the town and in the country, are a busy people who work hard; they are +sober, temperate, good-humoured, light-hearted, and generally remarkable +for their engaging manners. Few just men, not immoderately bilious, +could see them in their recreations without very much respecting the +character that is so easily, so harmlessly, and so simply, pleased. + + + + +BILL-STICKING + + +IF I had an enemy whom I hated—which Heaven forbid!—and if I knew of +something which sat heavy on his conscience, I think I would introduce +that something into a Posting-Bill, and place a large impression in the +hands of an active sticker. I can scarcely imagine a more terrible +revenge. I should haunt him, by this means, night and day. I do not +mean to say that I would publish his secret, in red letters two feet +high, for all the town to read: I would darkly refer to it. It should be +between him, and me, and the Posting-Bill. Say, for example, that, at a +certain period of his life, my enemy had surreptitiously possessed +himself of a key. I would then embark my capital in the lock business, +and conduct that business on the advertising principle. In all my +placards and advertisements, I would throw up the line SECRET KEYS. +Thus, if my enemy passed an uninhabited house, he would see his +conscience glaring down on him from the parapets, and peeping up at him +from the cellars. If he took a dead wall in his walk, it would be alive +with reproaches. If he sought refuge in an omnibus, the panels thereof +would become Belshazzar’s palace to him. If he took boat, in a wild +endeavour to escape, he would see the fatal words lurking under the +arches of the bridges over the Thames. If he walked the streets with +downcast eyes, he would recoil from the very stones of the pavement, made +eloquent by lamp-black lithograph. If he drove or rode, his way would be +blocked up by enormous vans, each proclaiming the same words over and +over again from its whole extent of surface. Until, having gradually +grown thinner and paler, and having at last totally rejected food, he +would miserably perish, and I should be revenged. This conclusion I +should, no doubt, celebrate by laughing a hoarse laugh in three +syllables, and folding my arms tight upon my chest agreeably to most of +the examples of glutted animosity that I have had an opportunity of +observing in connexion with the Drama—which, by-the-by, as involving a +good deal of noise, appears to me to be occasionally confounded with the +Drummer. + +The foregoing reflections presented themselves to my mind, the other day, +as I contemplated (being newly come to London from the East Riding of +Yorkshire, on a house-hunting expedition for next May), an old warehouse +which rotting paste and rotting paper had brought down to the condition +of an old cheese. It would have been impossible to say, on the most +conscientious survey, how much of its front was brick and mortar, and how +much decaying and decayed plaster. It was so thickly encrusted with +fragments of bills, that no ship’s keel after a long voyage could be half +so foul. All traces of the broken windows were billed out, the doors +were billed across, the water-spout was billed over. The building was +shored up to prevent its tumbling into the street; and the very beams +erected against it were less wood than paste and paper, they had been so +continually posted and reposted. The forlorn dregs of old posters so +encumbered this wreck, that there was no hold for new posters, and the +stickers had abandoned the place in despair, except one enterprising man +who had hoisted the last masquerade to a clear spot near the level of the +stack of chimneys where it waved and drooped like a shattered flag. +Below the rusty cellar-grating, crumpled remnants of old bills torn down, +rotted away in wasting heaps of fallen leaves. Here and there, some of +the thick rind of the house had peeled off in strips, and fluttered +heavily down, littering the street; but, still, below these rents and +gashes, layers of decomposing posters showed themselves, as if they were +interminable. I thought the building could never even be pulled down, +but in one adhesive heap of rottenness and poster. As to getting in—I +don’t believe that if the Sleeping Beauty and her Court had been so +billed up, the young Prince could have done it. + +Knowing all the posters that were yet legible, intimately, and pondering +on their ubiquitous nature, I was led into the reflections with which I +began this paper, by considering what an awful thing it would be, ever to +have wronged—say M. JULLIEN for example—and to have his avenging name in +characters of fire incessantly before my eyes. Or to have injured MADAME +TUSSAUD, and undergo a similar retribution. Has any man a +self-reproachful thought associated with pills, or ointment? What an +avenging spirit to that man is PROFESSOR HOLLOWAY! Have I sinned in oil? +CABBURN pursues me. Have I a dark remembrance associated with any +gentlemanly garments, bespoke or ready made? MOSES and SON are on my +track. Did I ever aim a blow at a defenceless fellow-creature’s head? +That head eternally being measured for a wig, or that worse head which +was bald before it used the balsam, and hirsute afterwards—enforcing the +benevolent moral, ‘Better to be bald as a Dutch cheese than come to +this,’—undoes me. Have I no sore places in my mind which MECHI +touches—which NICOLL probes—which no registered article whatever +lacerates? Does no discordant note within me thrill responsive to +mysterious watchwords, as ‘Revalenta Arabica,’ or ‘Number One St. Paul’s +Churchyard’? Then may I enjoy life, and be happy. + +Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing to this effect, I beheld advancing +towards me (I was then on Cornhill, near to the Royal Exchange), a solemn +procession of three advertising vans, of first-class dimensions, each +drawn by a very little horse. As the cavalcade approached, I was at a +loss to reconcile the careless deportment of the drivers of these +vehicles, with the terrific announcements they conducted through the +city, which being a summary of the contents of a Sunday newspaper, were +of the most thrilling kind. Robbery, fire, murder, and the ruin of the +United Kingdom—each discharged in a line by itself, like a separate +broad-side of red-hot shot—were among the least of the warnings addressed +to an unthinking people. Yet, the Ministers of Fate who drove the awful +cars, leaned forward with their arms upon their knees in a state of +extreme lassitude, for want of any subject of interest. The first man, +whose hair I might naturally have expected to see standing on end, +scratched his head—one of the smoothest I ever beheld—with profound +indifference. The second whistled. The third yawned. + +Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it appeared to me, as the fatal cars +came by me, that I descried in the second car, through the portal in +which the charioteer was seated, a figure stretched upon the floor. At +the same time, I thought I smelt tobacco. The latter impression passed +quickly from me; the former remained. Curious to know whether this +prostrate figure was the one impressible man of the whole capital who had +been stricken insensible by the terrors revealed to him, and whose form +had been placed in the car by the charioteer, from motives of humanity, I +followed the procession. It turned into Leadenhall-market, and halted at +a public-house. Each driver dismounted. I then distinctly heard, +proceeding from the second car, where I had dimly seen the prostrate +form, the words: + +‘And a pipe!’ + +The driver entering the public-house with his fellows, apparently for +purposes of refreshment, I could not refrain from mounting on the shaft +of the second vehicle, and looking in at the portal. I then beheld, +reclining on his back upon the floor, on a kind of mattress or divan, a +little man in a shooting-coat. The exclamation ‘Dear me’ which +irresistibly escaped my lips caused him to sit upright, and survey me. I +found him to be a good-looking little man of about fifty, with a shining +face, a tight head, a bright eye, a moist wink, a quick speech, and a +ready air. He had something of a sporting way with him. + +He looked at me, and I looked at him, until the driver displaced me by +handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and what I understand is called ‘a +screw’ of tobacco—an object which has the appearance of a curl-paper +taken off the barmaid’s head, with the curl in it. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, when the removed person of the driver again +admitted of my presenting my face at the portal. ‘But—excuse my +curiosity, which I inherit from my mother—do you live here?’ + +‘That’s good, too!’ returned the little man, composedly laying aside a +pipe he had smoked out, and filling the pipe just brought to him. + +‘Oh, you _don’t_ live here then?’ said I. + +He shook his head, as he calmly lighted his pipe by means of a German +tinder-box, and replied, ‘This is my carriage. When things are flat, I +take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the inventor of these +wans.’ + +His pipe was now alight. He drank his beer all at once, and he smoked +and he smiled at me. + +‘It was a great idea!’ said I. + +‘Not so bad,’ returned the little man, with the modesty of merit. + +‘Might I be permitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of my +memory?’ I asked. + +‘There’s not much odds in the name,’ returned the little man, ‘—no name +particular—I am the King of the Bill-Stickers.’ + +‘Good gracious!’ said I. + +The monarch informed me, with a smile, that he had never been crowned or +installed with any public ceremonies, but that he was peaceably +acknowledged as King of the Bill-Stickers in right of being the oldest +and most respected member of ‘the old school of bill-sticking.’ He +likewise gave me to understand that there was a Lord Mayor of the +Bill-Stickers, whose genius was chiefly exercised within the limits of +the city. He made some allusion, also, to an inferior potentate, called +‘Turkey-legs;’ but I did not understand that this gentleman was invested +with much power. I rather inferred that he derived his title from some +peculiarity of gait, and that it was of an honorary character. + +‘My father,’ pursued the King of the Bill-Stickers, ‘was Engineer, +Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, in the +year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. My father stuck bills at the +time of the riots of London.’ + +‘You must be acquainted with the whole subject of bill-sticking, from +that time to the present!’ said I. + +‘Pretty well so,’ was the answer. + +‘Excuse me,’ said I; ‘but I am a sort of collector—’ + +‘‘Not Income-tax?’ cried His Majesty, hastily removing his pipe from his +lips. + +‘No, no,’ said I. + +‘Water-rate?’ said His Majesty. + +‘No, no,’ I returned. + +‘Gas? Assessed? Sewers?’ said His Majesty. + +‘You misunderstand me,’ I replied, soothingly. ‘Not that sort of +collector at all: a collector of facts.’ + +‘Oh, if it’s only facts,’ cried the King of the Bill-Stickers, recovering +his good-humour, and banishing the great mistrust that had suddenly +fallen upon him, ‘come in and welcome! If it had been income, or +winders, I think I should have pitched you out of the wan, upon my soul!’ + +Readily complying with the invitation, I squeezed myself in at the small +aperture. His Majesty, graciously handing me a little three-legged stool +on which I took my seat in a corner, inquired if I smoked. + +‘I do;—that is, I can,’ I answered. + +‘Pipe and a screw!’ said His Majesty to the attendant charioteer. ‘Do +you prefer a dry smoke, or do you moisten it?’ + +As unmitigated tobacco produces most disturbing effects upon my system +(indeed, if I had perfect moral courage, I doubt if I should smoke at +all, under any circumstances), I advocated moisture, and begged the +Sovereign of the Bill-Stickers to name his usual liquor, and to concede +to me the privilege of paying for it. After some delicate reluctance on +his part, we were provided, through the instrumentality of the attendant +charioteer, with a can of cold rum-and-water, flavoured with sugar and +lemon. We were also furnished with a tumbler, and I was provided with a +pipe. His Majesty, then observing that we might combine business with +conversation, gave the word for the car to proceed; and, to my great +delight, we jogged away at a foot pace. + +I say to my great delight, because I am very fond of novelty, and it was +a new sensation to be jolting through the tumult of the city in that +secluded Temple, partly open to the sky, surrounded by the roar without, +and seeing nothing but the clouds. Occasionally, blows from whips fell +heavily on the Temple’s walls, when by stopping up the road longer than +usual, we irritated carters and coachmen to madness; but they fell +harmless upon us within and disturbed not the serenity of our peaceful +retreat. As I looked upward, I felt, I should imagine, like the +Astronomer Royal. I was enchanted by the contrast between the freezing +nature of our external mission on the blood of the populace, and the +perfect composure reigning within those sacred precincts: where His +Majesty, reclining easily on his left arm, smoked his pipe and drank his +rum-and-water from his own side of the tumbler, which stood impartially +between us. As I looked down from the clouds and caught his royal eye, +he understood my reflections. ‘I have an idea,’ he observed, with an +upward glance, ‘of training scarlet runners across in the season,—making +a arbour of it,—and sometimes taking tea in the same, according to the +song.’ + +I nodded approval. + +‘And here you repose and think?’ said I. + +‘And think,’ said he, ‘of posters—walls—and hoardings.’ + +We were both silent, contemplating the vastness of the subject. I +remembered a surprising fancy of dear THOMAS HOOD’S, and wondered whether +this monarch ever sighed to repair to the great wall of China, and stick +bills all over it. + +‘And so,’ said he, rousing himself, ‘it’s facts as you collect?’ + +‘Facts,’ said I. + +‘The facts of bill-sticking,’ pursued His Majesty, in a benignant manner, +‘as known to myself, air as following. When my father was Engineer, +Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, he +employed women to post bills for him. He employed women to post bills at +the time of the riots of London. He died at the age of seventy-five +year, and was buried by the murdered Eliza Grimwood, over in the Waterloo +Road.’ + +As this was somewhat in the nature of a royal speech, I listened with +deference and silently. His Majesty, taking a scroll from his pocket, +proceeded, with great distinctness, to pour out the following flood of +information:— + +‘“The bills being at that period mostly proclamations and declarations, +and which were only a demy size, the manner of posting the bills (as they +did not use brushes) was by means of a piece of wood which they called a +‘dabber.’ Thus things continued till such time as the State Lottery was +passed, and then the printers began to print larger bills, and men were +employed instead of women, as the State Lottery Commissioners then began +to send men all over England to post bills, and would keep them out for +six or eight months at a time, and they were called by the London +bill-stickers ‘trampers,’ their wages at the time being ten shillings per +day, besides expenses. They used sometimes to be stationed in large +towns for five or six months together, distributing the schemes to all +the houses in the town. And then there were more caricature wood-block +engravings for posting-bills than there are at the present time, the +principal printers, at that time, of posting-bills being Messrs. Evans +and Ruffy, of Budge Row; Thoroughgood and Whiting, of the present day; +and Messrs. Gye and Balne, Gracechurch Street, City. The largest bills +printed at that period were a two-sheet double crown; and when they +commenced printing four-sheet bills, two bill-stickers would work +together. They had no settled wages per week, but had a fixed price for +their work, and the London bill-stickers, during a lottery week, have +been known to earn, each, eight or nine pounds per week, till the day of +drawing; likewise the men who carried boards in the street used to have +one pound per week, and the bill-stickers at that time would not allow +any one to wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as they had a society +amongst themselves, and very frequently dined together at some +public-house where they used to go of an evening to have their work +delivered out untoe ’em.”’ + +All this His Majesty delivered in a gallant manner; posting it, as it +were, before me, in a great proclamation. I took advantage of the pause +he now made, to inquire what a ‘two-sheet double crown’ might express? + +‘A two-sheet double crown,’ replied the King, ‘is a bill thirty-nine +inches wide by thirty inches high.’ + +‘Is it possible,’ said I, my mind reverting to the gigantic admonitions +we were then displaying to the multitude—which were as infants to some of +the posting-bills on the rotten old warehouse—‘that some few years ago +the largest bill was no larger than that?’ + +‘The fact,’ returned the King, ‘is undoubtedly so.’ Here he instantly +rushed again into the scroll. + +‘“Since the abolishing of the State Lottery all that good feeling has +gone, and nothing but jealousy exists, through the rivalry of each other. +Several bill-sticking companies have started, but have failed. The first +party that started a company was twelve year ago; but what was left of +the old school and their dependants joined together and opposed them. +And for some time we were quiet again, till a printer of Hatton Garden +formed a company by hiring the sides of houses; but he was not supported +by the public, and he left his wooden frames fixed up for rent. The last +company that started, took advantage of the New Police Act, and hired of +Messrs. Grissell and Peto the hoarding of Trafalgar Square, and +established a bill-sticking office in Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and +engaged some of the new bill-stickers to do their work, and for a time +got the half of all our work, and with such spirit did they carry on +their opposition towards us, that they used to give us in charge before +the magistrate, and get us fined; but they found it so expensive, that +they could not keep it up, for they were always employing a lot of +ruffians from the Seven Dials to come and fight us; and on one occasion +the old bill-stickers went to Trafalgar Square to attempt to post bills, +when they were given in custody by the watchman in their employ, and +fined at Queen Square five pounds, as they would not allow any of us to +speak in the office; but when they were gone, we had an interview with +the magistrate, who mitigated the fine to fifteen shillings. During the +time the men were waiting for the fine, this company started off to a +public-house that we were in the habit of using, and waited for us coming +back, where a fighting scene took place that beggars description. +Shortly after this, the principal one day came and shook hands with us, +and acknowledged that he had broken up the company, and that he himself +had lost five hundred pound in trying to overthrow us. We then took +possession of the hoarding in Trafalgar Square; but Messrs. Grissell and +Peto would not allow us to post our bills on the said hoarding without +paying them—and from first to last we paid upwards of two hundred pounds +for that hoarding, and likewise the hoarding of the Reform Club-house, +Pall Mall.”’ + +His Majesty, being now completely out of breath, laid down his scroll +(which he appeared to have finished), puffed at his pipe, and took some +rum-and-water. I embraced the opportunity of asking how many divisions +the art and mystery of bill-sticking comprised? He replied, +three—auctioneers’ bill-sticking, theatrical bill-sticking, general +bill-sticking. + +‘The auctioneers’ porters,’ said the King, ‘who do their bill-sticking, +are mostly respectable and intelligent, and generally well paid for their +work, whether in town or country. The price paid by the principal +auctioneers for country work is nine shillings per day; that is, seven +shillings for day’s work, one shilling for lodging, and one for paste. +Town work is five shillings a day, including paste.’ + +‘Town work must be rather hot work,’ said I, ‘if there be many of those +fighting scenes that beggar description, among the bill-stickers?’ + +‘Well,’ replied the King, ‘I an’t a stranger, I assure you, to black +eyes; a bill-sticker ought to know how to handle his fists a bit. As to +that row I have mentioned, that grew out of competition, conducted in an +uncompromising spirit. Besides a man in a horse-and-shay continually +following us about, the company had a watchman on duty, night and day, to +prevent us sticking bills upon the hoarding in Trafalgar Square. We went +there, early one morning, to stick bills and to black-wash their bills if +we were interfered with. We were interfered with, and I gave the word +for laying on the wash. It was laid on—pretty brisk—and we were all +taken to Queen Square: but they couldn’t fine me. I knew that,’—with a +bright smile—‘I’d only give directions—I was only the General.’ Charmed +with this monarch’s affability, I inquired if he had ever hired a +hoarding himself. + +‘Hired a large one,’ he replied, ‘opposite the Lyceum Theatre, when the +buildings was there. Paid thirty pound for it; let out places on it, and +called it “The External Paper-Hanging Station.” But it didn’t answer. +Ah!’ said His Majesty thoughtfully, as he filled the glass, +‘Bill-stickers have a deal to contend with. The bill-sticking clause was +got into the Police Act by a member of Parliament that employed me at his +election. The clause is pretty stiff respecting where bills go; but he +didn’t mind where his bills went. It was all right enough, so long as +they was his bills!’ + +Fearful that I observed a shadow of misanthropy on the King’s cheerful +face, I asked whose ingenious invention that was, which I greatly +admired, of sticking bills under the arches of the bridges. + +‘Mine!’ said His Majesty. ‘I was the first that ever stuck a bill under +a bridge! Imitators soon rose up, of course.—When don’t they? But they +stuck ’em at low-water, and the tide came and swept the bills clean away. +I knew that!’ The King laughed. + +‘What may be the name of that instrument, like an immense fishing-rod,’ I +inquired, ‘with which bills are posted on high places?’ + +‘The joints,’ returned His Majesty. ‘Now, we use the joints where +formerly we used ladders—as they do still in country places. Once, when +Madame’ (Vestris, understood) ‘was playing in Liverpool, another +bill-sticker and me were at it together on the wall outside the Clarence +Dock—me with the joints—him on a ladder. Lord! I had my bill up, right +over his head, yards above him, ladder and all, while he was crawling to +his work. The people going in and out of the docks, stood and +laughed!—It’s about thirty years since the joints come in.’ + +‘Are there any bill-stickers who can’t read?’ I took the liberty of +inquiring. + +‘Some,’ said the King. ‘But they know which is the right side up’ards of +their work. They keep it as it’s given out to ’em. I have seen a bill +or so stuck wrong side up’ards. But it’s very rare.’ + +Our discourse sustained some interruption at this point, by the +procession of cars occasioning a stoppage of about three-quarters of a +mile in length, as nearly as I could judge. His Majesty, however, +entreating me not to be discomposed by the contingent uproar, smoked with +great placidity, and surveyed the firmament. + +When we were again in motion, I begged to be informed what was the +largest poster His Majesty had ever seen. The King replied, ‘A +thirty-six sheet poster.’ I gathered, also, that there were about a +hundred and fifty bill-stickers in London, and that His Majesty +considered an average hand equal to the posting of one hundred bills +(single sheets) in a day. The King was of opinion, that, although +posters had much increased in size, they had not increased in number; as +the abolition of the State Lotteries had occasioned a great falling off, +especially in the country. Over and above which change, I bethought +myself that the custom of advertising in newspapers had greatly +increased. The completion of many London improvements, as Trafalgar +Square (I particularly observed the singularity of His Majesty’s calling +that an improvement), the Royal Exchange, &c., had of late years reduced +the number of advantageous posting-places. Bill-Stickers at present +rather confine themselves to districts, than to particular descriptions +of work. One man would strike over Whitechapel, another would take round +Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City Road; one (the King said) would +stick to the Surrey side; another would make a beat of the West-end. + +His Majesty remarked, with some approach to severity, on the neglect of +delicacy and taste, gradually introduced into the trade by the new +school: a profligate and inferior race of impostors who took jobs at +almost any price, to the detriment of the old school, and the confusion +of their own misguided employers. He considered that the trade was +overdone with competition, and observed speaking of his subjects, ‘There +are too many of ’em.’ He believed, still, that things were a little +better than they had been; adducing, as a proof, the fact that particular +posting places were now reserved, by common consent, for particular +posters; those places, however, must be regularly occupied by those +posters, or, they lapsed and fell into other hands. It was of no use +giving a man a Drury Lane bill this week and not next. Where was it to +go? He was of opinion that going to the expense of putting up your own +board on which your sticker could display your own bills, was the only +complete way of posting yourself at the present time; but, even to effect +this, on payment of a shilling a week to the keepers of steamboat piers +and other such places, you must be able, besides, to give orders for +theatres and public exhibitions, or you would be sure to be cut out by +somebody. His Majesty regarded the passion for orders, as one of the +most unappeasable appetites of human nature. If there were a building, +or if there were repairs, going on, anywhere, you could generally stand +something and make it right with the foreman of the works; but, orders +would be expected from you, and the man who could give the most orders +was the man who would come off best. There was this other objectionable +point, in orders, that workmen sold them for drink, and often sold them +to persons who were likewise troubled with the weakness of thirst: which +led (His Majesty said) to the presentation of your orders at Theatre +doors, by individuals who were ‘too shakery’ to derive intellectual +profit from the entertainments, and who brought a scandal on you. +Finally, His Majesty said that you could hardly put too little in a +poster; what you wanted, was, two or three good catch-lines for the eye +to rest on—then, leave it alone—and there you were! + +These are the minutes of my conversation with His Majesty, as I noted +them down shortly afterwards. I am not aware that I have been betrayed +into any alteration or suppression. The manner of the King was frank in +the extreme; and he seemed to me to avoid, at once that slight tendency +to repetition which may have been observed in the conversation of His +Majesty King George the Third, and—that slight under-current of egotism +which the curious observer may perhaps detect in the conversation of +Napoleon Bonaparte. + +I must do the King the justice to say that it was I, and not he, who +closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I became the subject of a +remarkable optical delusion; the legs of my stool appeared to me to +double up; the car to spin round and round with great violence; and a +mist to arise between myself and His Majesty. In addition to these +sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these unpleasant effects, +either to the paste with which the posters were affixed to the van: which +may have contained some small portion of arsenic; or, to the printer’s +ink, which may have contained some equally deleterious ingredient. Of +this, I cannot be sure. I am only sure that I was not affected, either +by the smoke, or the rum-and-water. I was assisted out of the vehicle, +in a state of mind which I have only experienced in two other places—I +allude to the Pier at Dover, and to the corresponding portion of the town +of Calais—and sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The procession had +then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for the King in several +other cars, but I have not yet had the happiness of seeing His Majesty. + + + + +‘BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON + + +MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is mine and Mrs. +Meek’s. When I saw the announcement in the Times, I dropped the paper. +I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked so noble that it +overpowered me. + +As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to Mrs. +Meek’s bedside. ‘Maria Jane,’ said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), ‘you are +now a public character.’ We read the review of our child, several times, +with feelings of the strongest emotion; and I sent the boy who cleans the +boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen copies. No reduction was made +on taking that quantity. + +It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been expected. +In fact, it had been expected, with comparative confidence, for some +months. Mrs. Meek’s mother, who resides with us—of the name of Bigby—had +made every preparation for its admission to our circle. + +I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I know I am a +quiet man. My constitution is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and, +in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small. I have the +greatest respect for Maria Jane’s Mama. She is a most remarkable woman. +I honour Maria Jane’s Mama. In my opinion she would storm a town, +single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry it. I have never known her +to yield any point whatever, to mortal man. She is calculated to terrify +the stoutest heart. + +Still—but I will not anticipate. + +The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress, on the +part of Maria Jane’s Mama, was one afternoon, several months ago. I came +home earlier than usual from the office, and, proceeding into the +dining-room, found an obstruction behind the door, which prevented it +from opening freely. It was an obstruction of a soft nature. On looking +in, I found it to be a female. + +The female in question stood in the corner behind the door, consuming +Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of that beverage pervading the +apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second glassful. She wore +a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was copious in figure. The +expression of her countenance was severe and discontented. The words to +which she gave utterance on seeing me, were these, ‘Oh, git along with +you, Sir, if you please; me and Mrs. Bigby don’t want no male parties +here!’ + +That female was Mrs. Prodgit. + +I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I made no +remark. Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after dinner, +in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I cannot say. But, +Maria Jane’s Mama said to me on her retiring for the night: in a low +distinct voice, and with a look of reproach that completely subdued me: +‘George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your wife’s nurse!’ + +I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I, writing +this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate animosity +towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane? I am +willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit; +but, it is undeniably true, that the latter female brought desolation and +devastation into my lowly dwelling. + +We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes exceedingly +so. But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and ‘Mrs. Prodgit!’ +announced (and she was very often announced), misery ensued. I could not +bear Mrs. Prodgit’s look. I felt that I was far from wanted, and had no +business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit’s presence. Between Maria Jane’s Mama, +and Mrs. Prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret, understanding—a dark +mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I +appeared to have done something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit +called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room—where the temperature +is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year—and sat looking at my +frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my rack of boots; a +serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my opinion, an +exhilarating object. The length of the councils that were held with Mrs. +Prodgit, under these circumstances, I will not attempt to describe. I +will merely remark, that Mrs. Prodgit always consumed Sherry Wine while +the deliberations were in progress; that they always ended in Maria +Jane’s being in wretched spirits on the sofa; and that Maria Jane’s Mama +always received me, when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph +that too plainly said, ‘Now, George Meek! You see my child, Maria Jane, +a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied!’ + +I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day when +Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and the +ever-memorable midnight when I brought her to my unobtrusive home in a +cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a bandbox, +and a basket, between the driver’s legs. I have no objection to Mrs. +Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never can forget is the +parent of Maria Jane) taking entire possession of my unassuming +establishment. In the recesses of my own breast, the thought may linger +that a man in possession cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman +Mrs. Prodgit; but, I ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do. +Huffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but, I can bear them without +complaint. They may tell in the long run; I may be hustled about, from +post to pillar, beyond my strength; nevertheless, I wish to avoid giving +rise to words in the family. + +The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus George, +my infant son. It is for him that I wish to utter a few plaintive +household words. I am not at all angry; I am mild—but miserable. + +I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in our +circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger were a +criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on his arrival, +instead of a holy babe? I wish to know why haste was made to stick those +pins all over his innocent form, in every direction? I wish to be +informed why light and air are excluded from Augustus George, like +poisons? Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged into a +basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, with miniature sheets and +blankets, that I can only hear him snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down +under the pink hood of a little bathing-machine, and can never peruse +even so much of his lineaments as his nose? + +Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the brushes of All +Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George? Am I to be told that his +sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have rashes brought out +upon it, by the premature and incessant use of those formidable little +instruments? + +Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of sharp +frills? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yielding surface is to +be crimped and small plaited? Or is my child composed of Paper or of +Linen, that impressions of the finer getting-up art, practised by the +laundress, are to be printed off, all over his soft arms and legs, as I +constantly observe them? The starch enters his soul; who can wonder that +he cries? + +Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a Torso? I +presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the usual practice. +Then, why are my poor child’s limbs fettered and tied up? Am I to be +told that there is any analogy between Augustus George Meek and Jack +Sheppard? + +Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be agreed +upon, and inform me what resemblance, in taste, it bears to that natural +provision which it is at once the pride and duty of Maria Jane to +administer to Augustus George! Yet, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and +abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with systematically forcing Castor Oil on my +innocent son, from the first hour of his birth. When that medicine, in +its efficient action, causes internal disturbance to Augustus George, I +charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and +inconsistently administering opium to allay the storm she has raised! +What is the meaning of this? + +If the days of Egyptian Mummies are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit require, +for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen that would carpet +my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires it? No! This morning, +within an hour, I beheld this agonising sight. I beheld my son—Augustus +George—in Mrs. Prodgit’s hands, and on Mrs. Prodgit’s knee, being +dressed. He was at the moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of +nature; having nothing on, but an extremely short shirt, remarkably +disproportionate to the length of his usual outer garments. Trailing +from Mrs. Prodgit’s lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or +bandage—I should say of several yards in extent. In this, I SAW Mrs. +Prodgit tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant, turning him over +and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now the back of +his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, and the bandage +secured by a pin, which I have every reason to believe entered the body +of my only child. In this tourniquet, he passes the present phase of his +existence. Can I know it, and smile! + +I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but I feel +deeply. Not for myself; for Augustus George. I dare not interfere. +Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor? Any parent? Any body? +I do not complain that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) +entirely alienates Maria Jane’s affections from me, and interposes an +impassable barrier between us. I do not complain of being made of no +account. I do not want to be of any account. But, Augustus George is a +production of Nature (I cannot think otherwise), and I claim that he +should be treated with some remote reference to Nature. In my opinion, +Mrs. Prodgit is, from first to last, a convention and a superstition. +Are all the faculty afraid of Mrs. Prodgit? If not, why don’t they take +her in hand and improve her? + +P.S. Maria Jane’s Mama boasts of her own knowledge of the subject, and +says she brought up seven children besides Maria Jane. But how do _I_ +know that she might not have brought them up much better? Maria Jane +herself is far from strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous +indigestion. Besides which, I learn from the statistical tables that one +child in five dies within the first year of its life; and one child in +three, within the fifth. That don’t look as if we could never improve in +these particulars, I think! + +P.P.S. Augustus George is in convulsions. + + + + +LYING AWAKE + + +‘MY uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost +down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle +up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French Opera, the +Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s Chop-house in London, and all the farrago of +noted places with which the brain of a traveller is crammed; in a word, +he was just falling asleep.’ + +Thus, that delightful writer, WASHINGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a +Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be lying: not with +my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open; not with my nightcap +drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I never wear a +nightcap: but with my hair pitchforked and touzled all over the pillow; +not just falling asleep by any means, but glaringly, persistently, and +obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps, with no scientific intention or +invention, I was illustrating the theory of the Duality of the Brain; +perhaps one part of my brain, being wakeful, sat up to watch the other +part which was sleepy. Be that as it may, something in me was as +desirous to go to sleep as it possibly could be, but something else in me +would not go to sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third. + +Thinking of George the Third—for I devote this paper to my train of +thoughts as I lay awake: most people lying awake sometimes, and having +some interest in the subject—put me in mind of BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, and so +Benjamin Franklin’s paper on the art of procuring pleasant dreams, which +would seem necessarily to include the art of going to sleep, came into my +head. Now, as I often used to read that paper when I was a very small +boy, and as I recollect everything I read then as perfectly as I forget +everything I read now, I quoted ‘Get out of bed, beat up and turn your +pillow, shake the bed-clothes well with at least twenty shakes, then +throw the bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing +undrest, walk about your chamber. When you begin to feel the cold air +unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall asleep, and +your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.’ Not a bit of it! I performed +the whole ceremony, and if it were possible for me to be more saucer-eyed +than I was before, that was the only result that came of it. + +Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and Benjamin +Franklin may have put it in my head by an American association of ideas; +but there I was, and the Horse-shoe Fall was thundering and tumbling in +my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows that I left upon the spray when I +really did last look upon it, were beautiful to see. The night-light +being quite as plain, however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand +miles further off than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about +Sleep; which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of myself to +Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of mine +(whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and heard him +apostrophising ‘the death of each day’s life,’ as I have heard him many a +time, in the days that are gone. + +But, Sleep. I will think about Sleep. I am determined to think (this is +the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the word Sleep, tight and +fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a second. I feel myself +unaccountably straying, already, into Clare Market. Sleep. It would be +curious, as illustrating the equality of sleep, to inquire how many of +its phenomena are common to all classes, to all degrees of wealth and +poverty, to every grade of education and ignorance. Here, for example, +is her Majesty Queen Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night, +and here is Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty’s +jails. Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same +Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now and then. So has Winking +Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued Parliament, or +has held a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty dress, the +deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused her great uneasiness. +I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable agitation of mind from taking +the chair at a public dinner at the London Tavern in my night-clothes, +which not all the courtesy of my kind friend and host MR. BATHE could +persuade me were quite adapted to the occasion. Winking Charley has been +repeatedly tried in a worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger to a +vault or firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, with an indistinct pattern +distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself on her +repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is quite common +to all three of us to skim along with airy strides a little above the +ground; also to hold, with the deepest interest, dialogues with various +people, all represented by ourselves; and to be at our wit’s end to know +what they are going to tell us; and to be indescribably astonished by the +secrets they disclose. It is probable that we have all three committed +murders and hidden bodies. It is pretty certain that we have all +desperately wanted to cry out, and have had no voice; that we have all +gone to the play and not been able to get in; that we have all dreamed +much more of our youth than of our later lives; that—I have lost it! The +thread’s broken. + +And up I go. I, lying here with the night-light before me, up I go, for +no reason on earth that I can find out, and drawn by no links that are +visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard! I have lived in Switzerland, +and rambled among the mountains; but, why I should go there now, and why +up the Great Saint Bernard in preference to any other mountain, I have no +idea. As I lie here broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened that +I can distinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I +make that journey, as I really did, on the same summer day, with the same +happy party—ah! two since dead, I grieve to think—and there is the same +track, with the same black wooden arms to point the way, and there are +the same storm-refuges here and there; and there is the same snow falling +at the top, and there are the same frosty mists, and there is the same +intensely cold convent with its ménagerie smell, and the same breed of +dogs fast dying out, and the same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn +to know as humbugs, and the same convent parlour with its piano and the +sitting round the fire, and the same supper, and the same lone night in a +cell, and the same bright fresh morning when going out into the highly +rarefied air was like a plunge into an icy bath. Now, see here what +comes along; and why does this thing stalk into my mind on the top of a +Swiss mountain! + +It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, chalked upon a door in a +little back lane near a country church—my first church. How young a +child I may have been at the time I don’t know, but it horrified me so +intensely—in connexion with the churchyard, I suppose, for it smokes a +pipe, and has a big hat with each of its ears sticking out in a +horizontal line under the brim, and is not in itself more oppressive than +a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of goggle eyes, and hands like two +bunches of carrots, five in each, can make it—that it is still vaguely +alarming to me to recall (as I have often done before, lying awake) the +running home, the looking behind, the horror, of its following me; though +whether disconnected from the door, or door and all, I can’t say, and +perhaps never could. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve to +think of something on the voluntary principle. + +The balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think about, +while I lie awake, as well as anything else. I must hold them tight +though, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead are the +Mannings, husband and wife, hanging on the top of Horse-monger Lane Jail. +In connexion with which dismal spectacle, I recall this curious fantasy +of the mind. That, having beheld that execution, and having left those +two forms dangling on the top of the entrance gateway—the man’s, a limp, +loose suit of clothes as if the man had gone out of them; the woman’s, a +fine shape, so elaborately corseted and artfully dressed, that it was +quite unchanged in its trim appearance as it slowly swung from side to +side—I never could, by my uttermost efforts, for some weeks, present the +outside of that prison to myself (which the terrible impression I had +received continually obliged me to do) without presenting it with the two +figures still hanging in the morning air. Until, strolling past the +gloomy place one night, when the street was deserted and quiet, and +actually seeing that the bodies were not there, my fancy was persuaded, +as it were, to take them down and bury them within the precincts of the +jail, where they have lain ever since. + +The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. There were +the horse, the bull, the parachute,—and the tumbler hanging on—chiefly by +his toes, I believe—below the car. Very wrong, indeed, and decidedly to +be stopped. But, in connexion with these and similar dangerous +exhibitions, it strikes me that that portion of the public whom they +entertain, is unjustly reproached. Their pleasure is in the difficulty +overcome. They are a public of great faith, and are quite confident that +the gentleman will not fall off the horse, or the lady off the bull or +out of the parachute, and that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes. +They do not go to see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There +is no parallel in public combats between men and beasts, because nobody +can answer for the particular beast—unless it were always the same beast, +in which case it would be a mere stage-show, which the same public would +go in the same state of mind to see, entirely believing in the brute +being beforehand safely subdued by the man. That they are not accustomed +to calculate hazards and dangers with any nicety, we may know from their +rash exposure of themselves in overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe +conveyances and places of all kinds. And I cannot help thinking that +instead of railing, and attributing savage motives to a people naturally +well disposed and humane, it is better to teach them, and lead them +argumentatively and reasonably—for they are very reasonable, if you will +discuss a matter with them—to more considerate and wise conclusions. + +This is a disagreeable intrusion! Here is a man with his throat cut, +dashing towards me as I lie awake! A recollection of an old story of a +kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter night to Hampstead, +when London was much smaller and the road lonesome, suddenly encountered +such a figure rushing past him, and presently two keepers from a madhouse +in pursuit. A very unpleasant creature indeed, to come into my mind +unbidden, as I lie awake. + +—The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the balloons. Why +did the bleeding man start out of them? Never mind; if I inquire, he +will be back again. The balloons. This particular public have +inherently a great pleasure in the contemplation of physical difficulties +overcome; mainly, as I take it, because the lives of a large majority of +them are exceedingly monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle +against continual difficulties, and further still, because anything in +the form of accidental injury, or any kind of illness or disability is so +very serious in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox of +mine. Take the case of a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody supposes +that the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of laughter when the +baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all diverted by such an +occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent workman in the gallery, who +is transported beyond the ignorant present by the delight with which he +sees a stout gentleman pushed out of a two pair of stairs window, to be +slandered by the suspicion that he would be in the least entertained by +such a spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It always +appears to me that the secret of this enjoyment lies in the temporary +superiority to the common hazards and mischances of life; in seeing +casualties, attended when they really occur with bodily and mental +suffering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very rough sort of poetry +without the least harm being done to any one—the pretence of distress in +a pantomime being so broadly humorous as to be no pretence at all. Much +as in the comic fiction I can understand the mother with a very +vulnerable baby at home, greatly relishing the invulnerable baby on the +stage, so in the Cremorne reality I can understand the mason who is +always liable to fall off a scaffold in his working jacket and to be +carried to the hospital, having an infinite admiration of the radiant +personage in spangles who goes into the clouds upon a bull, or upside +down, and who, he takes it for granted—not reflecting upon the thing—has, +by uncommon skill and dexterity, conquered such mischances as those to +which he and his acquaintance are continually exposed. + +I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, with its +ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes hanging up, and the water +dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other swollen saturated +something in the corner, like a heap of crushed over-ripe figs that I +have seen in Italy! And this detestable Morgue comes back again at the +head of a procession of forgotten ghost stories. This will never do. I +must think of something else as I lie awake; or, like that sagacious +animal in the United States who recognised the colonel who was such a +dead shot, I am a gone ’Coon. What shall I think of? The late brutal +assaults. Very good subject. The late brutal assaults. + +(Though whether, supposing I should see, here before me as I lie awake, +the awful phantom described in one of those ghost stories, who, with a +head-dress of shroud, was always seen looking in through a certain glass +door at a certain dead hour—whether, in such a case it would be the least +consolation to me to know on philosophical grounds that it was merely my +imagination, is a question I can’t help asking myself by the way.) + +The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of +advocating the revival of whipping for those crimes. It is a natural and +generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of inconceivable +brutality, but I doubt the whipping panacea gravely. Not in the least +regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in far lower estimation than +a mad wolf, but in consideration for the general tone and feeling, which +is very much improved since the whipping times. It is bad for a people +to be familiarised with such punishments. When the whip went out of +Bridewell, and ceased to be flourished at the carts tail and at the +whipping-post, it began to fade out of madhouses, and workhouses, and +schools and families, and to give place to a better system everywhere, +than cruel driving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be +inadequately punished, to revive, in any aspect, what, in so many +aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very +contagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set of +bounds. Utterly abolish punishment by fine—a barbarous device, quite as +much out of date as wager by battle, but particularly connected in the +vulgar mind with this class of offence—at least quadruple the term of +imprisonment for aggravated assaults—and above all let us, in such cases, +have no Pet Prisoning, vain glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats, +but hard work, and one unchanging and uncompromising dietary of bread and +water, well or ill; and we shall do much better than by going down into +the dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments of the rack, and +the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from the public roads, and +the weights that pressed men to death in the cells of Newgate. + +I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake so long +that the very dead began to wake too, and to crowd into my thoughts most +sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake no more, but to get up +and go out for a night walk—which resolution was an acceptable relief to +me, as I dare say it may prove now to a great many more. + + + + +THE GHOST OF ART + + +I AM a bachelor, residing in rather a dreary set of chambers in the +Temple. They are situated in a square court of high houses, which would +be a complete well, but for the want of water and the absence of a +bucket. I live at the top of the house, among the tiles and sparrows. +Like the little man in the nursery-story, I live by myself, and all the +bread and cheese I get—which is not much—I put upon a shelf. I need +scarcely add, perhaps, that I am in love, and that the father of my +charming Julia objects to our union. + +I mention these little particulars as I might deliver a letter of +introduction. The reader is now acquainted with me, and perhaps will +condescend to listen to my narrative. + +I am naturally of a dreamy turn of mind; and my abundant leisure—for I am +called to the Bar—coupled with much lonely listening to the twittering of +sparrows, and the pattering of rain, has encouraged that disposition. In +my ‘top set’ I hear the wind howl on a winter night, when the man on the +ground floor believes it is perfectly still weather. The dim lamps with +which our Honourable Society (supposed to be as yet unconscious of the +new discovery called Gas) make the horrors of the staircase visible, +deepen the gloom which generally settles on my soul when I go home at +night. + +I am in the Law, but not of it. I can’t exactly make out what it means. +I sit in Westminster Hall sometimes (in character) from ten to four; and +when I go out of Court, I don’t know whether I am standing on my wig or +my boots. + +It appears to me (I mention this in confidence) as if there were too much +talk and too much law—as if some grains of truth were started overboard +into a tempestuous sea of chaff. + +All this may make me mystical. Still, I am confident that what I am +going to describe myself as having seen and heard, I actually did see and +hear. + +It is necessary that I should observe that I have a great delight in +pictures. I am no painter myself, but I have studied pictures and +written about them. I have seen all the most famous pictures in the +world; my education and reading have been sufficiently general to possess +me beforehand with a knowledge of most of the subjects to which a Painter +is likely to have recourse; and, although I might be in some doubt as to +the rightful fashion of the scabbard of King Lear’s sword, for instance, +I think I should know King Lear tolerably well, if I happened to meet +with him. + +I go to all the Modern Exhibitions every season, and of course I revere +the Royal Academy. I stand by its forty Academical articles almost as +firmly as I stand by the thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England. +I am convinced that in neither case could there be, by any rightful +possibility, one article more or less. + +It is now exactly three years—three years ago, this very month—since I +went from Westminster to the Temple, one Thursday afternoon, in a cheap +steamboat. The sky was black, when I imprudently walked on board. It +began to thunder and lighten immediately afterwards, and the rain poured +down in torrents. The deck seeming to smoke with the wet, I went below; +but so many passengers were there, smoking too, that I came up again, and +buttoning my pea-coat, and standing in the shadow of the paddle-box, +stood as upright as I could, and made the best of it. + +It was at this moment that I first beheld the terrible Being, who is the +subject of my present recollections. + +Standing against the funnel, apparently with the intention of drying +himself by the heat as fast as he got wet, was a shabby man in threadbare +black, and with his hands in his pockets, who fascinated me from the +memorable instant when I caught his eye. + +Where had I caught that eye before? Who was he? Why did I connect him, +all at once, with the Vicar of Wakefield, Alfred the Great, Gil Blas, +Charles the Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the Fairy Queen, Tom Jones, +the Decameron of Boccaccio, Tam O’Shanter, the Marriage of the Doge of +Venice with the Adriatic, and the Great Plague of London? Why, when he +bent one leg, and placed one hand upon the back of the seat near him, did +my mind associate him wildly with the words, ‘Number one hundred and +forty-two, Portrait of a gentleman’? Could it be that I was going mad? + +I looked at him again, and now I could have taken my affidavit that he +belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield’s family. Whether he was the Vicar, +or Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire, or a conglomeration of all +four, I knew not; but I was impelled to seize him by the throat, and +charge him with being, in some fell way, connected with the Primrose +blood. He looked up at the rain, and then—oh Heaven!—he became Saint +John. He folded his arms, resigning himself to the weather, and I was +frantically inclined to address him as the Spectator, and firmly demand +to know what he had done with Sir Roger de Coverley. + +The frightful suspicion that I was becoming deranged, returned upon me +with redoubled force. Meantime, this awful stranger, inexplicably linked +to my distress, stood drying himself at the funnel; and ever, as the +steam rose from his clothes, diffusing a mist around him, I saw through +the ghostly medium all the people I have mentioned, and a score more, +sacred and profane. + +I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as it +thundered and lightened, to grapple with this man, or demon, and plunge +him over the side. But, I constrained myself—I know not how—to speak to +him, and in a pause of the storm, I crossed the deck, and said: + +‘What are you?’ + +He replied, hoarsely, ‘A Model.’ + +‘A what?’ said I. + +‘A Model,’ he replied. ‘I sets to the profession for a bob a-hour.’ +(All through this narrative I give his own words, which are indelibly +imprinted on my memory.) + +The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight of the +restoration of my confidence in my own sanity, I cannot describe. I +should have fallen on his neck, but for the consciousness of being +observed by the man at the wheel. + +‘You then,’ said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that I wrung the +rain out of his coat-cuff, ‘are the gentleman whom I have so frequently +contemplated, in connection with a high-backed chair with a red cushion, +and a table with twisted legs.’ + +‘I am that Model,’ he rejoined moodily, ‘and I wish I was anything else.’ + +‘Say not so,’ I returned. ‘I have seen you in the society of many +beautiful young women;’ as in truth I had, and always (I now remember) in +the act of making the most of his legs. + +‘No doubt,’ said he. ‘And you’ve seen me along with warses of flowers, +and any number of table-kivers, and antique cabinets, and warious +gammon.’ + +‘Sir?’ said I. + +‘And warious gammon,’ he repeated, in a louder voice. ‘You might have +seen me in armour, too, if you had looked sharp. Blessed if I ha’n’t +stood in half the suits of armour as ever came out of Pratt’s shop: and +sat, for weeks together, a-eating nothing, out of half the gold and +silver dishes as has ever been lent for the purpose out of Storrses, and +Mortimerses, or Garrardses, and Davenportseseses.’ + +Excited, as it appeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he would never +have found an end for the last word. But, at length it rolled sullenly +away with the thunder. + +‘Pardon me,’ said I, ‘you are a well-favoured, well-made man, and +yet—forgive me—I find, on examining my mind, that I associate you +with—that my recollection indistinctly makes you, in short—excuse me—a +kind of powerful monster.’ + +‘It would be a wonder if it didn’t,’ he said. ‘Do you know what my +points are?’ + +‘No,’ said I. + +‘My throat and my legs,’ said he. ‘When I don’t set for a head, I mostly +sets for a throat and a pair of legs. Now, granted you was a painter, +and was to work at my throat for a week together, I suppose you’d see a +lot of lumps and bumps there, that would never be there at all, if you +looked at me, complete, instead of only my throat. Wouldn’t you?’ + +‘Probably,’ said I, surveying him. + +‘Why, it stands to reason,’ said the Model. ‘Work another week at my +legs, and it’ll be the same thing. You’ll make ’em out as knotty and as +knobby, at last, as if they was the trunks of two old trees. Then, take +and stick my legs and throat on to another man’s body, and you’ll make a +reg’lar monster. And that’s the way the public gets their reg’lar +monsters, every first Monday in May, when the Royal Academy Exhibition +opens.’ + +‘You are a critic,’ said I, with an air of deference. + +‘I’m in an uncommon ill humour, if that’s it,’ rejoined the Model, with +great indignation. ‘As if it warn’t bad enough for a bob a-hour, for a +man to be mixing himself up with that there jolly old furniter that one +‘ud think the public know’d the wery nails in by this time—or to be +putting on greasy old ‘ats and cloaks, and playing tambourines in the Bay +o’ Naples, with Wesuvius a smokin’ according to pattern in the +background, and the wines a bearing wonderful in the middle distance—or +to be unpolitely kicking up his legs among a lot o’ gals, with no reason +whatever in his mind but to show ’em—as if this warn’t bad enough, I’m to +go and be thrown out of employment too!’ + +‘Surely no!’ said I. + +‘Surely yes,’ said the indignant Model. ‘BUT I’LL GROW ONE.’ + +The gloomy and threatening manner in which he muttered the last words, +can never be effaced from my remembrance. My blood ran cold. + +I asked of myself, what was it that this desperate Being was resolved to +grow. My breast made no response. + +I ventured to implore him to explain his meaning. With a scornful laugh, +he uttered this dark prophecy: + +‘I’LL GROW ONE. AND, MARK MY WORDS, IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!’ + +We parted in the storm, after I had forced half-a-crown on his +acceptance, with a trembling hand. I conclude that something +supernatural happened to the steamboat, as it bore his reeking figure +down the river; but it never got into the papers. + +Two years elapsed, during which I followed my profession without any +vicissitudes; never holding so much as a motion, of course. At the +expiration of that period, I found myself making my way home to the +Temple, one night, in precisely such another storm of thunder and +lightning as that by which I had been overtaken on board the +steamboat—except that this storm, bursting over the town at midnight, was +rendered much more awful by the darkness and the hour. + +As I turned into my court, I really thought a thunderbolt would fall, and +plough the pavement up. Every brick and stone in the place seemed to +have an echo of its own for the thunder. The waterspouts were +overcharged, and the rain came tearing down from the house-tops as if +they had been mountain-tops. + +Mrs. Parkins, my laundress—wife of Parkins the porter, then newly dead of +a dropsy—had particular instructions to place a bedroom candle and a +match under the staircase lamp on my landing, in order that I might light +my candle there, whenever I came home. Mrs. Parkins invariably +disregarding all instructions, they were never there. Thus it happened +that on this occasion I groped my way into my sitting-room to find the +candle, and came out to light it. + +What were my emotions when, underneath the staircase lamp, shining with +wet as if he had never been dry since our last meeting, stood the +mysterious Being whom I had encountered on the steamboat in a +thunderstorm, two years before! His prediction rushed upon my mind, and +I turned faint. + +‘I said I’d do it,’ he observed, in a hollow voice, ‘and I have done it. +May I come in?’ + +‘Misguided creature, what have you done?’ I returned. + +‘I’ll let you know,’ was his reply, ‘if you’ll let me in.’ + +Could it be murder that he had done? And had he been so successful that +he wanted to do it again, at my expense? + +I hesitated. + +‘May I come in?’ said he. + +I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could command, and +he followed me into my chambers. There, I saw that the lower part of his +face was tied up, in what is commonly called a Belcher handkerchief. He +slowly removed this bandage, and exposed to view a long dark beard, +curling over his upper lip, twisting about the corners of his mouth, and +hanging down upon his breast. + +‘What is this?’ I exclaimed involuntarily, ‘and what have you become?’ + +‘I am the Ghost of Art!’ said he. + +The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunder-storm at +midnight, was appalling in the last degree. More dead than alive, I +surveyed him in silence. + +‘The German taste came up,’ said he, ‘and threw me out of bread. I am +ready for the taste now.’ + +He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded his arms, and +said, + +‘Severity!’ + +I shuddered. It was so severe. + +He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning both hands on the +staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs. Parkins had left among my books, said: + +‘Benevolence.’ + +I stood transfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the beard. +The man might have left his face alone, or had no face. + +The beard did everything. + +He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of his head +threw up his beard at the chin. + +‘That’s death!’ said he. + +He got off my table and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his beard a +little awry; at the same time making it stick out before him. + +‘Adoration, or a vow of vengeance,’ he observed. + +He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulky with the +upper part of his beard. + +‘Romantic character,’ said he. + +He looked sideways out of his beard, as if it were an ivy-bush. +‘Jealousy,’ said he. He gave it an ingenious twist in the air, and +informed me that he was carousing. He made it shaggy with his +fingers—and it was Despair; lank—and it was avarice: tossed it all kinds +of ways—and it was rage. The beard did everything. + +‘I am the Ghost of Art,’ said he. ‘Two bob a-day now, and more when it’s +longer! Hair’s the true expression. There is no other. I SAID I’D GROW +IT, AND I’VE GROWN IT, AND IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!’ + +He may have tumbled down-stairs in the dark, but he never walked down or +ran down. I looked over the banisters, and I was alone with the thunder. + +Need I add more of my terrific fate? IT HAS haunted me ever since. It +glares upon me from the walls of the Royal Academy, (except when MACLISE +subdues it to his genius,) it fills my soul with terror at the British +Institution, it lures young artists on to their destruction. Go where I +will, the Ghost of Art, eternally working the passions in hair, and +expressing everything by beard, pursues me. The prediction is +accomplished, and the victim has no rest. + + + + +OUT OF TOWN + + +SITTING, on a bright September morning, among my books and papers at my +open window on the cliff overhanging the sea-beach, I have the sky and +ocean framed before me like a beautiful picture. A beautiful picture, +but with such movement in it, such changes of light upon the sails of +ships and wake of steamboats, such dazzling gleams of silver far out at +sea, such fresh touches on the crisp wave-tops as they break and roll +towards me—a picture with such music in the billowy rush upon the +shingle, the blowing of morning wind through the corn-sheaves where the +farmers’ waggons are busy, the singing of the larks, and the distant +voices of children at play—such charms of sight and sound as all the +Galleries on earth can but poorly suggest. + +So dreamy is the murmur of the sea below my window, that I may have been +here, for anything I know, one hundred years. Not that I have grown old, +for, daily on the neighbouring downs and grassy hill-sides, I find that I +can still in reason walk any distance, jump over anything, and climb up +anywhere; but, that the sound of the ocean seems to have become so +customary to my musings, and other realities seem so to have gone aboard +ship and floated away over the horizon, that, for aught I will undertake +to the contrary, I am the enchanted son of the King my father, shut up in +a tower on the sea-shore, for protection against an old she-goblin who +insisted on being my godmother, and who foresaw at the font—wonderful +creature!—that I should get into a scrape before I was twenty-one. I +remember to have been in a City (my Royal parent’s dominions, I suppose), +and apparently not long ago either, that was in the dreariest condition. +The principal inhabitants had all been changed into old newspapers, and +in that form were preserving their window-blinds from dust, and wrapping +all their smaller household gods in curl-papers. I walked through gloomy +streets where every house was shut up and newspapered, and where my +solitary footsteps echoed on the deserted pavements. In the public rides +there were no carriages, no horses, no animated existence, but a few +sleepy policemen, and a few adventurous boys taking advantage of the +devastation to swarm up the lamp-posts. In the Westward streets there +was no traffic; in the Westward shops, no business. The water-patterns +which the ’Prentices had trickled out on the pavements early in the +morning, remained uneffaced by human feet. At the corners of mews, +Cochin-China fowls stalked gaunt and savage; nobody being left in the +deserted city (as it appeared to me), to feed them. Public Houses, where +splendid footmen swinging their legs over gorgeous hammer-cloths beside +wigged coachmen were wont to regale, were silent, and the unused pewter +pots shone, too bright for business, on the shelves. I beheld a Punch’s +Show leaning against a wall near Park Lane, as if it had fainted. It was +deserted, and there were none to heed its desolation. In Belgrave Square +I met the last man—an ostler—sitting on a post in a ragged red waistcoat, +eating straw, and mildewing away. + +If I recollect the name of the little town, on whose shore this sea is +murmuring—but I am not just now, as I have premised, to be relied upon +for anything—it is Pavilionstone. Within a quarter of a century, it was +a little fishing town, and they do say, that the time was, when it was a +little smuggling town. I have heard that it was rather famous in the +hollands and brandy way, and that coevally with that reputation the +lamplighter’s was considered a bad life at the Assurance Offices. It was +observed that if he were not particular about lighting up, he lived in +peace; but that, if he made the best of the oil-lamps in the steep and +narrow streets, he usually fell over the cliff at an early age. Now, gas +and electricity run to the very water’s edge, and the South-Eastern +Railway Company screech at us in the dead of night. + +But, the old little fishing and smuggling town remains, and is so +tempting a place for the latter purpose, that I think of going out some +night next week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat trousers, and +running an empty tub, as a kind of archæological pursuit. Let nobody +with corns come to Pavilionstone, for there are breakneck flights of +ragged steps, connecting the principal streets by back-ways, which will +cripple that visitor in half an hour. These are the ways by which, when +I run that tub, I shall escape. I shall make a Thermopylæ of the corner +of one of them, defend it with my cutlass against the coast-guard until +my brave companions have sheered off, then dive into the darkness, and +regain my Susan’s arms. In connection with these breakneck steps I +observe some wooden cottages, with tumble-down out-houses, and back-yards +three feet square, adorned with garlands of dried fish, in one of which +(though the General Board of Health might object) my Susan dwells. + +The South-Eastern Company have brought Pavilionstone into such vogue, +with their tidal trains and splendid steam-packets, that a new +Pavilionstone is rising up. I am, myself, of New Pavilionstone. We are +a little mortary and limey at present, but we are getting on capitally. +Indeed, we were getting on so fast, at one time, that we rather overdid +it, and built a street of shops, the business of which may be expected to +arrive in about ten years. We are sensibly laid out in general; and with +a little care and pains (by no means wanting, so far), shall become a +very pretty place. We ought to be, for our situation is delightful, our +air is delicious, and our breezy hills and downs, carpeted with wild +thyme, and decorated with millions of wild flowers, are, on the faith of +a pedestrian, perfect. In New Pavilionstone we are a little too much +addicted to small windows with more bricks in them than glass, and we are +not over-fanciful in the way of decorative architecture, and we get +unexpected sea-views through cracks in the street doors; on the whole, +however, we are very snug and comfortable, and well accommodated. But +the Home Secretary (if there be such an officer) cannot too soon shut up +the burial-ground of the old parish church. It is in the midst of us, +and Pavilionstone will get no good of it, if it be too long left alone. + +The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel. A dozen years ago, going +over to Paris by South-Eastern Tidal Steamer, you used to be dropped upon +the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Station (not a junction +then), at eleven o’clock on a dark winter’s night, in a roaring wind; and +in the howling wilderness outside the station, was a short omnibus which +brought you up by the forehead the instant you got in at the door; and +nobody cared about you, and you were alone in the world. You bumped over +infinite chalk, until you were turned out at a strange building which had +just left off being a barn without having quite begun to be a house, +where nobody expected your coming, or knew what to do with you when you +were come, and where you were usually blown about, until you happened to +be blown against the cold beef, and finally into bed. At five in the +morning you were blown out of bed, and after a dreary breakfast, with +crumpled company, in the midst of confusion, were hustled on board a +steamboat and lay wretched on deck until you saw France lunging and +surging at you with great vehemence over the bowsprit. + +Now, you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner, an +irresponsible agent, made over in trust to the South-Eastern Company, +until you get out of the railway-carriage at high-water mark. If you are +crossing by the boat at once, you have nothing to do but walk on board +and be happy there if you can—I can’t. If you are going to our Great +Pavilionstone Hotel, the sprightliest porters under the sun, whose +cheerful looks are a pleasant welcome, shoulder your luggage, drive it +off in vans, bowl it away in trucks, and enjoy themselves in playing +athletic games with it. If you are for public life at our great +Pavilionstone Hotel, you walk into that establishment as if it were your +club; and find ready for you, your news-room, dining-room, smoking-room, +billiard-room, music-room, public breakfast, public dinner twice a-day +(one plain, one gorgeous), hot baths and cold baths. If you want to be +bored, there are plenty of bores always ready for you, and from Saturday +to Monday in particular, you can be bored (if you like it) through and +through. Should you want to be private at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, +say but the word, look at the list of charges, choose your floor, name +your figure—there you are, established in your castle, by the day, week, +month, or year, innocent of all comers or goers, unless you have my fancy +for walking early in the morning down the groves of boots and shoes, +which so regularly flourish at all the chamber-doors before breakfast, +that it seems to me as if nobody ever got up or took them in. Are you +going across the Alps, and would you like to air your Italian at our +Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Talk to the Manager—always conversational, +accomplished, and polite. Do you want to be aided, abetted, comforted, +or advised, at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Send for the good +landlord, and he is your friend. Should you, or any one belonging to +you, ever be taken ill at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not +soon forget him or his kind wife. And when you pay your bill at our +Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not be put out of humour by anything +you find in it. + +A thoroughly good inn, in the days of coaching and posting, was a noble +place. But no such inn would have been equal to the reception of four or +five hundred people, all of them wet through, and half of them dead sick, +every day in the year. This is where we shine, in our Pavilionstone +Hotel. Again—who, coming and going, pitching and tossing, boating and +training, hurrying in, and flying out, could ever have calculated the +fees to be paid at an old-fashioned house? In our Pavilionstone Hotel +vocabulary, there is no such word as fee. Everything is done for you; +every service is provided at a fixed and reasonable charge; all the +prices are hung up in all the rooms; and you can make out your own bill +beforehand, as well as the book-keeper. + +In the case of your being a pictorial artist, desirous of studying at +small expense the physiognomies and beards of different nations, come, on +receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find all the nations of the +earth, and all the styles of shaving and not shaving, hair cutting and +hair letting alone, for ever flowing through our hotel. Couriers you +shall see by hundreds; fat leathern bags for five-franc pieces, closing +with violent snaps, like discharges of fire-arms, by thousands; more +luggage in a morning than, fifty years ago, all Europe saw in a week. +Looking at trains, steamboats, sick travellers, and luggage, is our great +Pavilionstone recreation. We are not strong in other public amusements. +We have a Literary and Scientific Institution, and we have a Working +Men’s Institution—may it hold many gipsy holidays in summer fields, with +the kettle boiling, the band of music playing, and the people dancing; +and may I be on the hill-side, looking on with pleasure at a wholesome +sight too rare in England!—and we have two or three churches, and more +chapels than I have yet added up. But public amusements are scarce with +us. If a poor theatrical manager comes with his company to give us, in a +loft, Mary Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills, we don’t care much for +him—starve him out, in fact. We take more kindly to wax-work, especially +if it moves; in which case it keeps much clearer of the second +commandment than when it is still. Cooke’s Circus (Mr. Cooke is my +friend, and always leaves a good name behind him) gives us only a night +in passing through. Nor does the travelling menagerie think us worth a +longer visit. It gave us a look-in the other day, bringing with it the +residentiary van with the stained glass windows, which Her Majesty kept +ready-made at Windsor Castle, until she found a suitable opportunity of +submitting it for the proprietor’s acceptance. I brought away five +wonderments from this exhibition. I have wondered ever since, Whether +the beasts ever do get used to those small places of confinement; Whether +the monkeys have that very horrible flavour in their free state; Whether +wild animals have a natural ear for time and tune, and therefore every +four-footed creature began to howl in despair when the band began to +play; What the giraffe does with his neck when his cart is shut up; and, +Whether the elephant feels ashamed of himself when he is brought out of +his den to stand on his head in the presence of the whole Collection. + +We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone, as indeed I have implied already +in my mention of tidal trains. At low water, we are a heap of mud, with +an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big boots always shovel +and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable to say. At that time, all +the stranded fishing-boats turn over on their sides, as if they were dead +marine monsters; the colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate in +the mud; the steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke +more, and their red paddles never turn again; the green sea-slime and +weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high +tides never more to flow; the flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little +wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun. And here I may +observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, that when it is lighted at +night,—red and green,—it looks so like a medical man’s, that several +distracted husbands have at various times been found, on occasions of +premature domestic anxiety, going round and round it, trying to find the +Nightbell. + +But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour begins +to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before the water +comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little shallow waves +creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes at the mastheads +wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the fishing-boats get into +good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag, the +steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and carriages dangle in the air, +stray passengers and luggage appear. Now, the shipping is afloat, and +comes up buoyantly, to look at the wharf. Now, the carts that have come +down for coals, load away as hard as they can load. Now, the steamer +smokes immensely, and occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a +vaporous whale-greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide +and the breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you want +to see how the ladies hold their hats on, with a stay, passing over the +broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now, everything in +the harbour splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the Down Tidal Train is +telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how you know), that two +hundred and eighty-seven people are coming. Now, the fishing-boats that +have been out, sail in at the top of the tide. Now, the bell goes, and +the locomotive hisses and shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and +the two hundred and eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not +only a tide of water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage—all +tumbling and flowing and bouncing about together. Now, after infinite +bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all delighted +when she rolls as if she would roll her funnel out, and all are +disappointed when she don’t. Now, the other steamer is coming in, and +the Custom House prepares, and the wharf-labourers assemble, and the +hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel Porters come rattling down with van +and truck, eager to begin more Olympic games with more luggage. And this +is the way in which we go on, down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if +you want to live a life of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe +sweet air which will send you to sleep at a moment’s notice at any period +of the day or night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to +scamper about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of all or +any of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone. + + + + +OUT OF THE SEASON + + +IT fell to my lot, this last bleak Spring, to find myself in a +watering-place out of the Season. A vicious north-east squall blew me +into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three days, +resolved to be exceedingly busy. + +On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at the sea, +and staring the Foreign Militia out of countenance. Having disposed of +these important engagements, I sat down at one of the two windows of my +room, intent on doing something desperate in the way of literary +composition, and writing a chapter of unheard-of excellence—with which +the present essay has no connexion. + +It is a remarkable quality in a watering-place out of the season, that +everything in it, will and must be looked at. I had no previous +suspicion of this fatal truth but, the moment I sat down to write, I +began to perceive it. I had scarcely fallen into my most promising +attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink, when I found the clock upon the +pier—a red-faced clock with a white rim—importuning me in a highly +vexatious manner to consult my watch, and see how I was off for Greenwich +time. Having no intention of making a voyage or taking an observation, I +had not the least need of Greenwich time, and could have put up with +watering-place time as a sufficiently accurate article. The pier-clock, +however, persisting, I felt it necessary to lay down my pen, compare my +watch with him, and fall into a grave solicitude about half-seconds. I +had taken up my pen again, and was about to commence that valuable +chapter, when a Custom-house cutter under the window requested that I +would hold a naval review of her, immediately. + +It was impossible, under the circumstances, for any mental resolution, +merely human, to dismiss the Custom-house cutter, because the shadow of +her topmast fell upon my paper, and the vane played on the masterly blank +chapter. I was therefore under the necessity of going to the other +window; sitting astride of the chair there, like Napoleon bivouacking in +the print; and inspecting the cutter as she lay, all that day, in the way +of my chapter, O! She was rigged to carry a quantity of canvas, but her +hull was so very small that four giants aboard of her (three men and a +boy) who were vigilantly scraping at her, all together, inspired me with +a terror lest they should scrape her away. A fifth giant, who appeared +to consider himself ‘below’—as indeed he was, from the waist +downwards—meditated, in such close proximity with the little gusty +chimney-pipe, that he seemed to be smoking it. Several boys looked on +from the wharf, and, when the gigantic attention appeared to be fully +occupied, one or other of these would furtively swing himself in mid-air +over the Custom-house cutter, by means of a line pendant from her +rigging, like a young spirit of the storm. Presently, a sixth hand +brought down two little water-casks; presently afterwards, a truck came, +and delivered a hamper. I was now under an obligation to consider that +the cutter was going on a cruise, and to wonder where she was going, and +when she was going, and why she was going, and at what date she might be +expected back, and who commanded her? With these pressing questions I +was fully occupied when the Packet, making ready to go across, and +blowing off her spare steam, roared, ‘Look at me!’ + +It became a positive duty to look at the Packet preparing to go across; +aboard of which, the people newly come down by the rail-road were +hurrying in a great fluster. The crew had got their tarry overalls +on—and one knew what that meant—not to mention the white basins, ranged +in neat little piles of a dozen each, behind the door of the after-cabin. +One lady as I looked, one resigning and far-seeing woman, took her basin +from the store of crockery, as she might have taken a refreshment-ticket, +laid herself down on deck with that utensil at her ear, muffled her feet +in one shawl, solemnly covered her countenance after the antique manner +with another, and on the completion of these preparations appeared by the +strength of her volition to become insensible. The mail-bags (O that I +myself had the sea-legs of a mail-bag!) were tumbled aboard; the Packet +left off roaring, warped out, and made at the white line upon the bar. +One dip, one roll, one break of the sea over her bows, and Moore’s +Almanack or the sage Raphael could not have told me more of the state of +things aboard, than I knew. + +The famous chapter was all but begun now, and would have been quite +begun, but for the wind. It was blowing stiffly from the east, and it +rumbled in the chimney and shook the house. That was not much; but, +looking out into the wind’s grey eye for inspiration, I laid down my pen +again to make the remark to myself, how emphatically everything by the +sea declares that it has a great concern in the state of the wind. The +trees blown all one way; the defences of the harbour reared highest and +strongest against the raging point; the shingle flung up on the beach +from the same direction; the number of arrows pointed at the common +enemy; the sea tumbling in and rushing towards them as if it were +inflamed by the sight. This put it in my head that I really ought to go +out and take a walk in the wind; so, I gave up the magnificent chapter +for that day, entirely persuading myself that I was under a moral +obligation to have a blow. + +I had a good one, and that on the high road—the very high road—on the top +of the cliffs, where I met the stage-coach with all the outsides holding +their hats on and themselves too, and overtook a flock of sheep with the +wool about their necks blown into such great ruffs that they looked like +fleecy owls. The wind played upon the lighthouse as if it were a great +whistle, the spray was driven over the sea in a cloud of haze, the ships +rolled and pitched heavily, and at intervals long slants and flaws of +light made mountain-steeps of communication between the ocean and the +sky. A walk of ten miles brought me to a seaside town without a cliff, +which, like the town I had come from, was out of the season too. Half of +the houses were shut up; half of the other half were to let; the town +might have done as much business as it was doing then, if it had been at +the bottom of the sea. Nobody seemed to flourish save the attorney; his +clerk’s pen was going in the bow-window of his wooden house; his brass +door-plate alone was free from salt, and had been polished up that +morning. On the beach, among the rough buggers and capstans, groups of +storm-beaten boatmen, like a sort of marine monsters, watched under the +lee of those objects, or stood leaning forward against the wind, looking +out through battered spy-glasses. The parlour bell in the Admiral Benbow +had grown so flat with being out of the season, that neither could I hear +it ring when I pulled the handle for lunch, nor could the young woman in +black stockings and strong shoes, who acted as waiter out of the season, +until it had been tinkled three times. + +Admiral Benbow’s cheese was out of the season, but his home-made bread +was good, and his beer was perfect. Deluded by some earlier spring day +which had been warm and sunny, the Admiral had cleared the firing out of +his parlour stove, and had put some flower-pots in—which was amiable and +hopeful in the Admiral, but not judicious: the room being, at that +present visiting, transcendantly cold. I therefore took the liberty of +peeping out across a little stone passage into the Admiral’s kitchen, +and, seeing a high settle with its back towards me drawn out in front of +the Admiral’s kitchen fire, I strolled in, bread and cheese in hand, +munching and looking about. One landsman and two boatmen were seated on +the settle, smoking pipes and drinking beer out of thick pint crockery +mugs—mugs peculiar to such places, with parti-coloured rings round them, +and ornaments between the rings like frayed-out roots. The landsman was +relating his experience, as yet only three nights old, of a fearful +running-down case in the Channel, and therein presented to my imagination +a sound of music that it will not soon forget. + +‘At that identical moment of time,’ said he (he was a prosy man by +nature, who rose with his subject), ‘the night being light and calm, but +with a grey mist upon the water that didn’t seem to spread for more than +two or three mile, I was walking up and down the wooden causeway next the +pier, off where it happened, along with a friend of mine, which his name +is Mr. Clocker. Mr. Clocker is a grocer over yonder.’ (From the +direction in which he pointed the bowl of his pipe, I might have judged +Mr. Clocker to be a merman, established in the grocery trade in +five-and-twenty fathoms of water.) ‘We were smoking our pipes, and +walking up and down the causeway, talking of one thing and talking of +another. We were quite alone there, except that a few hovellers’ (the +Kentish name for ‘long-shore boatmen like his companions) ‘were hanging +about their lugs, waiting while the tide made, as hovellers will.’ (One +of the two boatmen, thoughtfully regarding me, shut up one eye; this I +understood to mean: first, that he took me into the conversation: +secondly, that he confirmed the proposition: thirdly, that he announced +himself as a hoveller.) ‘All of a sudden Mr. Clocker and me stood rooted +to the spot, by hearing a sound come through the stillness, right over +the sea, _like a great sorrowful flute or Æolian harp_. We didn’t in the +least know what it was, and judge of our surprise when we saw the +hovellers, to a man, leap into the boats and tear about to hoist sail and +get off, as if they had every one of ’em gone, in a moment, raving mad! +But _they_ knew it was the cry of distress from the sinking emigrant +ship.’ + +When I got back to my watering-place out of the season, and had done my +twenty miles in good style, I found that the celebrated Black Mesmerist +intended favouring the public that evening in the Hall of the Muses, +which he had engaged for the purpose. After a good dinner, seated by the +fire in an easy chair, I began to waver in a design I had formed of +waiting on the Black Mesmerist, and to incline towards the expediency of +remaining where I was. Indeed a point of gallantry was involved in my +doing so, inasmuch as I had not left France alone, but had come from the +prisons of St. Pélagie with my distinguished and unfortunate friend +Madame Roland (in two volumes which I bought for two francs each, at the +book-stall in the Place de la Concorde, Paris, at the corner of the Rue +Royale). Deciding to pass the evening tête-à-tête with Madame Roland, I +derived, as I always do, great pleasure from that spiritual woman’s +society, and the charms of her brave soul and engaging conversation. I +must confess that if she had only some more faults, only a few more +passionate failings of any kind, I might love her better; but I am +content to believe that the deficiency is in me, and not in her. We +spent some sadly interesting hours together on this occasion, and she +told me again of her cruel discharge from the Abbaye, and of her being +re-arrested before her free feet had sprung lightly up half-a-dozen steps +of her own staircase, and carried off to the prison which she only left +for the guillotine. + +Madame Roland and I took leave of one another before mid-night, and I +went to bed full of vast intentions for next day, in connexion with the +unparalleled chapter. To hear the foreign mail-steamers coming in at +dawn of day, and to know that I was not aboard or obliged to get up, was +very comfortable; so, I rose for the chapter in great force. + +I had advanced so far as to sit down at my window again on my second +morning, and to write the first half-line of the chapter and strike it +out, not liking it, when my conscience reproached me with not having +surveyed the watering-place out of the season, after all, yesterday, but +with having gone straight out of it at the rate of four miles and a half +an hour. Obviously the best amends that I could make for this remissness +was to go and look at it without another moment’s delay. So—altogether +as a matter of duty—I gave up the magnificent chapter for another day, +and sauntered out with my hands in my pockets. + +All the houses and lodgings ever let to visitors, were to let that +morning. It seemed to have snowed bills with To Let upon them. This put +me upon thinking what the owners of all those apartments did, out of the +season; how they employed their time, and occupied their minds. They +could not be always going to the Methodist chapels, of which I passed one +every other minute. They must have some other recreation. Whether they +pretended to take one another’s lodgings, and opened one another’s +tea-caddies in fun? Whether they cut slices off their own beef and +mutton, and made believe that it belonged to somebody else? Whether they +played little dramas of life, as children do, and said, ‘I ought to come +and look at your apartments, and you ought to ask two guineas a-week too +much, and then I ought to say I must have the rest of the day to think of +it, and then you ought to say that another lady and gentleman with no +children in family had made an offer very close to your own terms, and +you had passed your word to give them a positive answer in half an hour, +and indeed were just going to take the bill down when you heard the +knock, and then I ought to take them, you know?’ Twenty such +speculations engaged my thoughts. Then, after passing, still clinging to +the walls, defaced rags of the bills of last year’s Circus, I came to a +back field near a timber-yard where the Circus itself had been, and where +there was yet a sort of monkish tonsure on the grass, indicating the spot +where the young lady had gone round upon her pet steed Firefly in her +daring flight. Turning into the town again, I came among the shops, and +they were emphatically out of the season. The chemist had no boxes of +ginger-beer powders, no beautifying sea-side soaps and washes, no +attractive scents; nothing but his great goggle-eyed red bottles, looking +as if the winds of winter and the drift of the salt-sea had inflamed +them. The grocers’ hot pickles, Harvey’s Sauce, Doctor Kitchener’s Zest, +Anchovy Paste, Dundee Marmalade, and the whole stock of luxurious helps +to appetite, were hybernating somewhere underground. The china-shop had +no trifles from anywhere. The Bazaar had given in altogether, and +presented a notice on the shutters that this establishment would re-open +at Whitsuntide, and that the proprietor in the meantime might be heard of +at Wild Lodge, East Cliff. At the Sea-bathing Establishment, a row of +neat little wooden houses seven or eight feet high, I saw the proprietor +in bed in the shower-bath. As to the bathing-machines, they were (how +they got there, is not for me to say) at the top of a hill at least a +mile and a half off. The library, which I had never seen otherwise than +wide open, was tight shut; and two peevish bald old gentlemen seemed to +be hermetically sealed up inside, eternally reading the paper. That +wonderful mystery, the music-shop, carried it off as usual (except that +it had more cabinet pianos in stock), as if season or no season were all +one to it. It made the same prodigious display of bright brazen +wind-instruments, horribly twisted, worth, as I should conceive, some +thousands of pounds, and which it is utterly impossible that anybody in +any season can ever play or want to play. It had five triangles in the +window, six pairs of castanets, and three harps; likewise every polka +with a coloured frontispiece that ever was published; from the original +one where a smooth male and female Pole of high rank are coming at the +observer with their arms a-kimbo, to the Ratcatcher’s Daughter. +Astonishing establishment, amazing enigma! Three other shops were pretty +much out of the season, what they were used to be in it. First, the shop +where they sell the sailors’ watches, which had still the old collection +of enormous timekeepers, apparently designed to break a fall from the +masthead: with places to wind them up, like fire-plugs. Secondly, the +shop where they sell the sailors’ clothing, which displayed the old +sou’-westers, and the old oily suits, and the old pea-jackets, and the +old one sea-chest, with its handles like a pair of rope ear-rings. +Thirdly, the unchangeable shop for the sale of literature that has been +left behind. Here, Dr. Faustus was still going down to very red and +yellow perdition, under the superintendence of three green personages of +a scaly humour, with excrescential serpents growing out of their +blade-bones. Here, the Golden Dreamer, and the Norwood Fortune Teller, +were still on sale at sixpence each, with instructions for making the +dumb cake, and reading destinies in tea-cups, and with a picture of a +young woman with a high waist lying on a sofa in an attitude so +uncomfortable as almost to account for her dreaming at one and the same +time of a conflagration, a shipwreck, an earthquake, a skeleton, a +church-porch, lightning, funerals performed, and a young man in a bright +blue coat and canary pantaloons. Here, were Little Warblers and +Fairburn’s Comic Songsters. Here, too, were ballads on the old ballad +paper and in the old confusion of types; with an old man in a cocked hat, +and an arm-chair, for the illustration to Will Watch the bold Smuggler; +and the Friar of Orders Grey, represented by a little girl in a hoop, +with a ship in the distance. All these as of yore, when they were +infinite delights to me! + +It took me so long fully to relish these many enjoyments, that I had not +more than an hour before bedtime to devote to Madame Roland. We got on +admirably together on the subject of her convent education, and I rose +next morning with the full conviction that the day for the great chapter +was at last arrived. + +It had fallen calm, however, in the night, and as I sat at breakfast I +blushed to remember that I had not yet been on the Downs. I a walker, +and not yet on the Downs! Really, on so quiet and bright a morning this +must be set right. As an essential part of the Whole Duty of Man, +therefore, I left the chapter to itself—for the present—and went on the +Downs. They were wonderfully green and beautiful, and gave me a good +deal to do. When I had done with the free air and the view, I had to go +down into the valley and look after the hops (which I know nothing +about), and to be equally solicitous as to the cherry orchards. Then I +took it on myself to cross-examine a tramping family in black (mother +alleged, I have no doubt by herself in person, to have died last week), +and to accompany eighteenpence which produced a great effect, with moral +admonitions which produced none at all. Finally, it was late in the +afternoon before I got back to the unprecedented chapter, and then I +determined that it was out of the season, as the place was, and put it +away. + +I went at night to the benefit of Mrs. B. Wedgington at the Theatre, who +had placarded the town with the admonition, ‘DON’T FORGET IT!’ I made +the house, according to my calculation, four and ninepence to begin with, +and it may have warmed up, in the course of the evening, to half a +sovereign. There was nothing to offend any one,—the good Mr. Baines of +Leeds excepted. Mrs. B. Wedgington sang to a grand piano. Mr. B. +Wedgington did the like, and also took off his coat, tucked up his +trousers, and danced in clogs. Master B. Wedgington, aged ten months, +was nursed by a shivering young person in the boxes, and the eye of Mrs. +B. Wedgington wandered that way more than once. Peace be with all the +Wedgingtons from A. to Z. May they find themselves in the Season +somewhere! + + + + +A POOR MAN’S TALE OF A PATENT + + +I AM not used to writing for print. What working-man, that never labours +less (some Mondays, and Christmas Time and Easter Time excepted) than +twelve or fourteen hours a day, is? But I have been asked to put down, +plain, what I have got to say; and so I take pen-and-ink, and do it to +the best of my power, hoping defects will find excuse. + +I was born nigh London, but have worked in a shop at Birmingham (what you +would call Manufactories, we call Shops), almost ever since I was out of +my time. I served my apprenticeship at Deptford, nigh where I was born, +and I am a smith by trade. My name is John. I have been called ‘Old +John’ ever since I was nineteen year of age, on account of not having +much hair. I am fifty-six year of age at the present time, and I don’t +find myself with more hair, nor yet with less, to signify, than at +nineteen year of age aforesaid. + +I have been married five and thirty year, come next April. I was married +on All Fools’ Day. Let them laugh that will. I won a good wife that +day, and it was as sensible a day to me as ever I had. + +We have had a matter of ten children, six whereof are living. My eldest +son is engineer in the Italian steam-packet ‘Mezzo Giorno, plying between +Marseilles and Naples, and calling at Genoa, Leghorn, and Civita +Vecchia.’ He was a good workman. He invented a many useful little +things that brought him in—nothing. I have two sons doing well at +Sydney, New South Wales—single, when last heard from. One of my sons +(James) went wild and for a soldier, where he was shot in India, living +six weeks in hospital with a musket-ball lodged in his shoulder-blade, +which he wrote with his own hand. He was the best looking. One of my +two daughters (Mary) is comfortable in her circumstances, but water on +the chest. The other (Charlotte), her husband run away from her in the +basest manner, and she and her three children live with us. The +youngest, six year old, has a turn for mechanics. + +I am not a Chartist, and I never was. I don’t mean to say but what I see +a good many public points to complain of, still I don’t think that’s the +way to set them right. If I did think so, I should be a Chartist. But I +don’t think so, and I am not a Chartist. I read the paper, and hear +discussion, at what we call ‘a parlour,’ in Birmingham, and I know many +good men and workmen who are Chartists. Note. Not Physical force. + +It won’t be took as boastful in me, if I make the remark (for I can’t put +down what I have got to say, without putting that down before going any +further), that I have always been of an ingenious turn. I once got +twenty pound by a screw, and it’s in use now. I have been twenty year, +off and on, completing an Invention and perfecting it. I perfected of +it, last Christmas Eve at ten o’clock at night. Me and my wife stood and +let some tears fall over the Model, when it was done and I brought her in +to take a look at it. + +A friend of mine, by the name of William Butcher, is a Chartist. +Moderate. He is a good speaker. He is very animated. I have often +heard him deliver that what is, at every turn, in the way of us +working-men, is, that too many places have been made, in the course of +time, to provide for people that never ought to have been provided for; +and that we have to obey forms and to pay fees to support those places +when we shouldn’t ought. ‘True,’ (delivers William Butcher), ‘all the +public has to do this, but it falls heaviest on the working-man, because +he has least to spare; and likewise because impediments shouldn’t be put +in his way, when he wants redress of wrong or furtherance of right.’ +Note. I have wrote down those words from William Butcher’s own mouth. +W. B. delivering them fresh for the aforesaid purpose. + +Now, to my Model again. There it was, perfected of, on Christmas Eve, +gone nigh a year, at ten o’clock at night. All the money I could spare I +had laid out upon the Model; and when times was bad, or my daughter +Charlotte’s children sickly, or both, it had stood still, months at a +spell. I had pulled it to pieces, and made it over again with +improvements, I don’t know how often. There it stood, at last, a +perfected Model as aforesaid. + +William Butcher and me had a long talk, Christmas Day, respecting of the +Model. William is very sensible. But sometimes cranky. William said, +‘What will you do with it, John?’ I said, ‘Patent it.’ William said, +‘How patent it, John?’ I said, ‘By taking out a Patent.’ William then +delivered that the law of Patent was a cruel wrong. William said, ‘John, +if you make your invention public, before you get a Patent, any one may +rob you of the fruits of your hard work. You are put in a cleft stick, +John. Either you must drive a bargain very much against yourself, by +getting a party to come forward beforehand with the great expenses of the +Patent; or, you must be put about, from post to pillar, among so many +parties, trying to make a better bargain for yourself, and showing your +invention, that your invention will be took from you over your head.’ I +said, ‘William Butcher, are you cranky? You are sometimes cranky.’ +William said, ‘No, John, I tell you the truth;’ which he then delivered +more at length. I said to W. B. I would Patent the invention myself. + +My wife’s brother, George Bury of West Bromwich (his wife unfortunately +took to drinking, made away with everything, and seventeen times +committed to Birmingham Jail before happy release in every point of +view), left my wife, his sister, when he died, a legacy of one hundred +and twenty-eight pound ten, Bank of England Stocks. Me and my wife never +broke into that money yet. Note. We might come to be old and past our +work. We now agreed to Patent the invention. We said we would make a +hole in it—I mean in the aforesaid money—and Patent the invention. +William Butcher wrote me a letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T. J. is a +carpenter, six foot four in height, and plays quoits well. He lives in +Chelsea, London, by the church. I got leave from the shop, to be took on +again when I come back. I am a good workman. Not a Teetotaller; but +never drunk. When the Christmas holidays were over, I went up to London +by the Parliamentary Train, and hired a lodging for a week with Thomas +Joy. He is married. He has one son gone to sea. + +Thomas Joy delivered (from a book he had) that the first step to be took, +in Patenting the invention, was to prepare a petition unto Queen +Victoria. William Butcher had delivered similar, and drawn it up. Note. +William is a ready writer. A declaration before a Master in Chancery was +to be added to it. That, we likewise drew up. After a deal of trouble I +found out a Master, in Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, nigh Temple +Bar, where I made the declaration, and paid eighteen-pence. I was told +to take the declaration and petition to the Home Office, in Whitehall, +where I left it to be signed by the Home Secretary (after I had found the +office out), and where I paid two pound, two, and sixpence. In six days +he signed it, and I was told to take it to the Attorney-General’s +chambers, and leave it there for a report. I did so, and paid four +pound, four. Note. Nobody all through, ever thankful for their money, +but all uncivil. + + [Picture: A poor man’s tale of a patent] + +My lodging at Thomas Joy’s was now hired for another week, whereof five +days were gone. The Attorney-General made what they called a +Report-of-course (my invention being, as William Butcher had delivered +before starting, unopposed), and I was sent back with it to the Home +Office. They made a Copy of it, which was called a Warrant. For this +warrant, I paid seven pound, thirteen, and six. It was sent to the +Queen, to sign. The Queen sent it back, signed. The Home Secretary +signed it again. The gentleman throwed it at me when I called, and said, +‘Now take it to the Patent Office in Lincoln’s Inn.’ I was then in my +third week at Thomas Joy’s living very sparing, on account of fees. I +found myself losing heart. + +At the Patent Office in Lincoln’s Inn, they made ‘a draft of the Queen’s +bill,’ of my invention, and a ‘docket of the bill.’ I paid five pound, +ten, and six, for this. They ‘engrossed two copies of the bill; one for +the Signet Office, and one for the Privy-Seal Office.’ I paid one pound, +seven, and six, for this. Stamp duty over and above, three pound. The +Engrossing Clerk of the same office engrossed the Queen’s bill for +signature. I paid him one pound, one. Stamp-duty, again, one pound, +ten. I was next to take the Queen’s bill to the Attorney-General again, +and get it signed again. I took it, and paid five pound more. I fetched +it away, and took it to the Home Secretary again. He sent it to the +Queen again. She signed it again. I paid seven pound, thirteen, and +six, more, for this. I had been over a month at Thomas Joy’s. I was +quite wore out, patience and pocket. + +Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it went on, to William Butcher. +William Butcher delivered it again to three Birmingham Parlours, from +which it got to all the other Parlours, and was took, as I have been told +since, right through all the shops in the North of England. Note. +William Butcher delivered, at his Parlour, in a speech, that it was a +Patent way of making Chartists. + +But I hadn’t nigh done yet. The Queen’s bill was to be took to the +Signet Office in Somerset House, Strand—where the stamp shop is. The +Clerk of the Signet made ‘a Signet bill for the Lord Keeper of the Privy +Seal.’ I paid him four pound, seven. The Clerk of the Lord Keeper of +the Privy Seal made ‘a Privy-Seal bill for the Lord Chancellor.’ I paid +him, four pound, two. The Privy-Seal bill was handed over to the Clerk +of the Patents, who engrossed the aforesaid. I paid him five pound, +seventeen, and eight; at the same time, I paid Stamp-duty for the Patent, +in one lump, thirty pound. I next paid for ‘boxes for the Patent,’ nine +and sixpence. Note. Thomas Joy would have made the same at a profit for +eighteen-pence. I next paid ‘fees to the Deputy, the Lord Chancellor’s +Purse-bearer,’ two pound, two. I next paid ‘fees to the Clerk of the +Hanapar,’ seven pound, thirteen. I next paid ‘fees to the Deputy Clerk +of the Hanaper,’ ten shillings. I next paid, to the Lord Chancellor +again, one pound, eleven, and six. Last of all, I paid ‘fees to the +Deputy Sealer, and Deputy Chaff-wax,’ ten shillings and sixpence. I had +lodged at Thomas Joy’s over six weeks, and the unopposed Patent for my +invention, for England only, had cost me ninety-six pound, seven, and +eightpence. If I had taken it out for the United Kingdom, it would have +cost me more than three hundred pound. + +Now, teaching had not come up but very limited when I was young. So much +the worse for me you’ll say. I say the same. William Butcher is twenty +year younger than me. He knows a hundred year more. If William Butcher +had wanted to Patent an invention, he might have been sharper than myself +when hustled backwards and forwards among all those offices, though I +doubt if so patient. Note. William being sometimes cranky, and consider +porters, messengers, and clerks. + +Thereby I say nothing of my being tired of my life, while I was Patenting +my invention. But I put this: Is it reasonable to make a man feel as if, +in inventing an ingenious improvement meant to do good, he had done +something wrong? How else can a man feel, when he is met by such +difficulties at every turn? All inventors taking out a Patent MUST feel +so. And look at the expense. How hard on me, and how hard on the +country if there’s any merit in me (and my invention is took up now, I am +thankful to say, and doing well), to put me to all that expense before I +can move a finger! Make the addition yourself, and it’ll come to +ninety-six pound, seven, and eightpence. No more, and no less. + +What can I say against William Butcher, about places? Look at the Home +Secretary, the Attorney-General, the Patent Office, the Engrossing Clerk, +the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal, the Clerk of the Patents, the Lord +Chancellor’s Purse-bearer, the Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of +the Hanaper, the Deputy Sealer, and the Deputy Chaff-wax. No man in +England could get a Patent for an Indian-rubber band, or an iron-hoop, +without feeing all of them. Some of them, over and over again. I went +through thirty-five stages. I began with the Queen upon the Throne. I +ended with the Deputy Chaff-wax. Note. I should like to see the Deputy +Chaff-wax. Is it a man, or what is it? + +What I had to tell, I have told. I have wrote it down. I hope it’s +plain. Not so much in the handwriting (though nothing to boast of +there), as in the sense of it. I will now conclude with Thomas Joy. +Thomas said to me, when we parted, ‘John, if the laws of this country +were as honest as they ought to be, you would have come to +London—registered an exact description and drawing of your invention—paid +half-a-crown or so for doing of it—and therein and thereby have got your +Patent.’ + +My opinion is the same as Thomas Joy. Further. In William Butcher’s +delivering ‘that the whole gang of Hanapers and Chaff-waxes must be done +away with, and that England has been chaffed and waxed sufficient,’ I +agree. + + + + +THE NOBLE SAVAGE + + +TO come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the least +belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a prodigious nuisance, and an +enormous superstition. His calling rum fire-water, and me a pale face, +wholly fail to reconcile me to him. I don’t care what he calls me. I +call him a savage, and I call a savage a something highly desirable to be +civilised off the face of the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take +to be the lowest form of civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, +clucking, stamping, jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me, +whether he sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees +through the lobes of his ears, or bird’s feathers in his head; whether he +flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the +breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip down by great weights, or +blackens his teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red and the +other blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs his body with +fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to whichsoever of these +agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage—cruel, false, thievish, +murderous; addicted more or less to grease, entrails, and beastly +customs; a wild animal with the questionable gift of boasting; a +conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous humbug. + +Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people will talk about him, +as they talk about the good old times; how they will regret his +disappearance, in the course of this world’s development, from such and +such lands where his absence is a blessed relief and an indispensable +preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of any influence that +can exalt humanity; how, even with the evidence of himself before them, +they will either be determined to believe, or will suffer themselves to +be persuaded into believing, that he is something which their five senses +tell them he is not. + +There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with his Ojibbeway Indians. +Mr. Catlin was an energetic, earnest man, who had lived among more tribes +of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who had written a picturesque +and glowing book about them. With his party of Indians squatting and +spitting on the table before him, or dancing their miserable jigs after +their own dreary manner, he called, in all good faith, upon his civilised +audience to take notice of their symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, +and the exquisite expression of their pantomime; and his civilised +audience, in all good faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as mere +animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in the scale and very +poorly formed; and as men and women possessing any power of truthful +dramatic expression by means of action, they were no better than the +chorus at an Italian Opera in England—and would have been worse if such a +thing were possible. + +Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers on +natural history found him out long ago. BUFFON knew what he was, and +showed why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his women, and how it +happens (Heaven be praised!) that his race is spare in numbers. For +evidence of the quality of his moral nature, pass himself for a moment +and refer to his ‘faithful dog.’ Has he ever improved a dog, or attached +a dog, since his nobility first ran wild in woods, and was brought down +(at a very long shot) by POPE? Or does the animal that is the friend of +man, always degenerate in his low society? + +It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the new thing; +it is the whimpering over him with maudlin admiration, and the affecting +to regret him, and the drawing of any comparison of advantage between the +blemishes of civilisation and the tenor of his swinish life. There may +have been a change now and then in those diseased absurdities, but there +is none in him. + +Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the two women who have +been exhibited about England for some years. Are the majority of +persons—who remember the horrid little leader of that party in his +festering bundle of hides, with his filth and his antipathy to water, and +his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shaded by his brutal hand, and +his cry of ‘Qu-u-u-u-aaa!’ (Bosjesman for something desperately insulting +I have no doubt)—conscious of an affectionate yearning towards that noble +savage, or is it idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest, abominate, and +abjure him? I have no reserve on this subject, and will frankly state +that, setting aside that stage of the entertainment when he counterfeited +the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his head on his hand +and shaking his left leg—at which time I think it would have been +justifiable homicide to slay him—I have never seen that group sleeping, +smoking, and expectorating round their brazier, but I have sincerely +desired that something might happen to the charcoal smouldering therein, +which would cause the immediate suffocation of the whole of the noble +strangers. + +There is at present a party of Zulu Kaffirs exhibiting at the St. +George’s Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London. These noble savages are +represented in a most agreeable manner; they are seen in an elegant +theatre, fitted with appropriate scenery of great beauty, and they are +described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture, delivered with a +modesty which is quite a pattern to all similar exponents. Though +extremely ugly, they are much better shaped than such of their +predecessors as I have referred to; and they are rather picturesque to +the eye, though far from odoriferous to the nose. What a visitor left to +his own interpretings and imaginings might suppose these noblemen to be +about, when they give vent to that pantomimic expression which is quite +settled to be the natural gift of the noble savage, I cannot possibly +conceive; for it is so much too luminous for my personal civilisation +that it conveys no idea to my mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, +and raving, remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire +uniformity. But let us—with the interpreter’s assistance, of which I for +one stand so much in need—see what the noble savage does in Zulu +Kaffirland. + +The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits his +life and limbs without a murmur or question, and whose whole life is +passed chin deep in a lake of blood; but who, after killing incessantly, +is in his turn killed by his relations and friends, the moment a grey +hair appears on his head. All the noble savage’s wars with his +fellow-savages (and he takes no pleasure in anything else) are wars of +extermination—which is the best thing I know of him, and the most +comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He has no moral feelings of +any kind, sort, or description; and his ‘mission’ may be summed up as +simply diabolical. + +The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of course, +of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife he appears before the kennel of +the gentleman whom he has selected for his father-in-law, attended by a +party of male friends of a very strong flavour, who screech and whistle +and stamp an offer of so many cows for the young lady’s hand. The chosen +father-in-law—also supported by a high-flavoured party of male +friends—screeches, whistles, and yells (being seated on the ground, he +can’t stamp) that there never was such a daughter in the market as his +daughter, and that he must have six more cows. The son-in-law and his +select circle of backers screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, that +they will give three more cows. The father-in-law (an old deluder, +overpaid at the beginning) accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. +The whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic +convulsions, and screeching, whistling, stamping, and yelling +together—and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose charms are +not to be thought of without a shudder)—the noble savage is considered +married, and his friends make demoniacal leaps at him by way of +congratulation. + +When the noble savage finds himself a little unwell, and mentions the +circumstance to his friends, it is immediately perceived that he is under +the influence of witchcraft. A learned personage, called an Imyanger or +Witch Doctor, is immediately sent for to Nooker the Umtargartie, or smell +out the witch. The male inhabitants of the kraal being seated on the +ground, the learned doctor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears, and +administers a dance of a most terrific nature, during the exhibition of +which remedy he incessantly gnashes his teeth, and howls:—‘I am the +original physician to Nooker the Umtargartie. Yow yow yow! No connexion +with any other establishment. Till till till! All other Umtargarties +are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo! but I perceive here a genuine and +real Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh! in whose blood I, the original +Imyanger and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo! will wash these bear’s claws of +mine. O yow yow yow!’ All this time the learned physician is looking +out among the attentive faces for some unfortunate man who owes him a +cow, or who has given him any small offence, or against whom, without +offence, he has conceived a spite. Him he never fails to Nooker as the +Umtargartie, and he is instantly killed. In the absence of such an +individual, the usual practice is to Nooker the quietest and most +gentlemanly person in company. But the nookering is invariably followed +on the spot by the butchering. + +Some of the noble savages in whom Mr. Catlin was so strongly interested, +and the diminution of whose numbers, by rum and smallpox, greatly +affected him, had a custom not unlike this, though much more appalling +and disgusting in its odious details. + +The women being at work in the fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and the +noble savage being asleep in the shade, the chief has sometimes the +condescension to come forth, and lighten the labour by looking at it. On +these occasions, he seats himself in his own savage chair, and is +attended by his shield-bearer: who holds over his head a shield of +cowhide—in shape like an immense mussel shell—fearfully and wonderfully, +after the manner of a theatrical supernumerary. But lest the great man +should forget his greatness in the contemplation of the humble works of +agriculture, there suddenly rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose, +called a Praiser. This literary gentleman wears a leopard’s head over +his own, and a dress of tigers’ tails; he has the appearance of having +come express on his hind legs from the Zoological Gardens; and he +incontinently strikes up the chief’s praises, plunging and tearing all +the while. There is a frantic wickedness in this brute’s manner of +worrying the air, and gnashing out, ‘O what a delightful chief he is! O +what a delicious quantity of blood he sheds! O how majestically he laps +it up! O how charmingly cruel he is! O how he tears the flesh of his +enemies and crunches the bones! O how like the tiger and the leopard and +the wolf and the bear he is! O, row row row row, how fond I am of him!’ +which might tempt the Society of Friends to charge at a hand-gallop into +the Swartz-Kop location and exterminate the whole kraal. + +When war is afoot among the noble savages—which is always—the chief holds +a council to ascertain whether it is the opinion of his brothers and +friends in general that the enemy shall be exterminated. On this +occasion, after the performance of an Umsebeuza, or war song,—which is +exactly like all the other songs,—the chief makes a speech to his +brothers and friends, arranged in single file. No particular order is +observed during the delivery of this address, but every gentleman who +finds himself excited by the subject, instead of crying ‘Hear, hear!’ as +is the custom with us, darts from the rank and tramples out the life, or +crushes the skull, or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or breaks +the limbs, or performs a whirlwind of atrocities on the body, of an +imaginary enemy. Several gentlemen becoming thus excited at once, and +pounding away without the least regard to the orator, that illustrious +person is rather in the position of an orator in an Irish House of +Commons. But, several of these scenes of savage life bear a strong +generic resemblance to an Irish election, and I think would be extremely +well received and understood at Cork. + +In all these ceremonies the noble savage holds forth to the utmost +possible extent about himself; from which (to turn him to some civilised +account) we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of the most +offensive and contemptible littlenesses a civilised man can exhibit, so +it is really incompatible with the interchange of ideas; inasmuch as if +we all talked about ourselves we should soon have no listeners, and must +be all yelling and screeching at once on our own separate accounts: +making society hideous. It is my opinion that if we retained in us +anything of the noble savage, we could not get rid of it too soon. But +the fact is clearly otherwise. Upon the wife and dowry question, +substituting coin for cows, we have assuredly nothing of the Zulu Kaffir +left. The endurance of despotism is one great distinguishing mark of a +savage always. The improving world has quite got the better of that too. +In like manner, Paris is a civilised city, and the Théâtre Français a +highly civilised theatre; and we shall never hear, and never have heard +in these later days (of course) of the Praiser there. No, no, civilised +poets have better work to do. As to Nookering Umtargarties, there are no +pretended Umtargarties in Europe, and no European powers to Nooker them; +that would be mere spydom, subordination, small malice, superstition, and +false pretence. And as to private Umtargarties, are we not in the year +eighteen hundred and fifty-three, with spirits rapping at our doors? + +To conclude as I began. My position is, that if we have anything to +learn from the Noble Savage, it is what to avoid. His virtues are a +fable; his happiness is a delusion; his nobility, nonsense. + +We have no greater justification for being cruel to the miserable object, +than for being cruel to a WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE or an ISAAC NEWTON; but he +passes away before an immeasurably better and higher power than ever ran +wild in any earthly woods, and the world will be all the better when his +place knows him no more. + + + + +A FLIGHT + + +WHEN Don Diego de—I forget his name—the inventor of the last new Flying +Machines, price so many francs for ladies, so many more for +gentlemen—when Don Diego, by permission of Deputy Chaff-wax and his noble +band, shall have taken out a Patent for the Queen’s dominions, and shall +have opened a commodious Warehouse in an airy situation; and when all +persons of any gentility will keep at least a pair of wings, and be seen +skimming about in every direction; I shall take a flight to Paris (as I +soar round the world) in a cheap and independent manner. At present, my +reliance is on the South-Eastern Railway Company, in whose Express Train +here I sit, at eight of the clock on a very hot morning, under the very +hot roof of the Terminus at London Bridge, in danger of being ‘forced’ +like a cucumber or a melon, or a pine-apple. And talking of pine-apples, +I suppose there never were so many pine-apples in a Train as there appear +to be in this Train. + +Whew! The hot-house air is faint with pine-apples. Every French citizen +or citizeness is carrying pine-apples home. The compact little +Enchantress in the corner of my carriage (French actress, to whom I +yielded up my heart under the auspices of that brave child, ‘MEAT-CHELL,’ +at the St. James’s Theatre the night before last) has a pine-apple in her +lap. Compact Enchantress’s friend, confidante, mother, mystery, Heaven +knows what, has two pine-apples in her lap, and a bundle of them under +the seat. Tobacco-smoky Frenchman in Algerine wrapper, with peaked hood +behind, who might be Abd-el-Kader dyed rifle-green, and who seems to be +dressed entirely in dirt and braid, carries pine-apples in a covered +basket. Tall, grave, melancholy Frenchman, with black Vandyke beard, and +hair close-cropped, with expansive chest to waistcoat, and compressive +waist to coat: saturnine as to his pantaloons, calm as to his feminine +boots, precious as to his jewellery, smooth and white as to his linen: +dark-eyed, high-foreheaded, hawk-nosed—got up, one thinks, like Lucifer +or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel, transformed into a highly genteel +Parisian—has the green end of a pine-apple sticking out of his neat +valise. + +Whew! If I were to be kept here long, under this forcing-frame, I wonder +what would become of me—whether I should be forced into a giant, or +should sprout or blow into some other phenomenon! Compact Enchantress is +not ruffled by the heat—she is always composed, always compact. O look +at her little ribbons, frills, and edges, at her shawl, at her gloves, at +her hair, at her bracelets, at her bonnet, at everything about her! How +is it accomplished? What does she do to be so neat? How is it that +every trifle she wears belongs to her, and cannot choose but be a part of +her? And even Mystery, look at _her_! A model. Mystery is not young, +not pretty, though still of an average candle-light passability; but she +does such miracles in her own behalf, that, one of these days, when she +dies, they’ll be amazed to find an old woman in her bed, distantly like +her. She was an actress once, I shouldn’t wonder, and had a Mystery +attendant on herself. Perhaps, Compact Enchantress will live to be a +Mystery, and to wait with a shawl at the side-scenes, and to sit opposite +to Mademoiselle in railway carriages, and smile and talk subserviently, +as Mystery does now. That’s hard to believe! + +Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is full. First Englishman, in the +monied interest—flushed, highly respectable—Stock Exchange, perhaps—City, +certainly. Faculties of second Englishman entirely absorbed in hurry. +Plunges into the carriage, blind. Calls out of window concerning his +luggage, deaf. Suffocates himself under pillows of great-coats, for no +reason, and in a demented manner. Will receive no assurance from any +porter whatsoever. Is stout and hot, and wipes his head, and makes +himself hotter by breathing so hard. Is totally incredulous respecting +assurance of Collected Guard, that ‘there’s no hurry.’ No hurry! And a +flight to Paris in eleven hours! + +It is all one to me in this drowsy corner, hurry or no hurry. Until Don +Diego shall send home my wings, my flight is with the South-Eastern +Company. I can fly with the South-Eastern, more lazily, at all events, +than in the upper air. I have but to sit here thinking as idly as I +please, and be whisked away. I am not accountable to anybody for the +idleness of my thoughts in such an idle summer flight; my flight is +provided for by the South-Eastern and is no business of mine. + +The bell! With all my heart. It does not require me to do so much as +even to flap my wings. Something snorts for me, something shrieks for +me, something proclaims to everything else that it had better keep out of +my way,—and away I go. + +Ah! The fresh air is pleasant after the forcing-frame, though it does +blow over these interminable streets, and scatter the smoke of this vast +wilderness of chimneys. Here we are—no, I mean there we were, for it has +darted far into the rear—in Bermondsey where the tanners live. Flash! +The distant shipping in the Thames is gone. Whirr! The little streets +of new brick and red tile, with here and there a flagstaff growing like a +tall weed out of the scarlet beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open sewer +and ditch for the promotion of the public health, have been fired off in +a volley. Whizz! Dust-heaps, market-gardens, and waste grounds. +Rattle! New Cross Station. Shock! There we were at Croydon. +Bur-r-r-r! The tunnel. + +I wonder why it is that when I shut my eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel +as if I were going at an Express pace the other way. I am clearly going +back to London now. Compact Enchantress must have forgotten something, +and reversed the engine. No! After long darkness, pale fitful streaks +of light appear. I am still flying on for Folkestone. The streaks grow +stronger—become continuous—become the ghost of day—become the living +day—became I mean—the tunnel is miles and miles away, and here I fly +through sunlight, all among the harvest and the Kentish hops. + +There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying. I wonder where it was, and +when it was, that we exploded, blew into space somehow, a Parliamentary +Train, with a crowd of heads and faces looking at us out of cages, and +some hats waving. Monied Interest says it was at Reigate Station. +Expounds to Mystery how Reigate Station is so many miles from London, +which Mystery again develops to Compact Enchantress. There might be +neither a Reigate nor a London for me, as I fly away among the Kentish +hops and harvest. What do _I_ care? + +Bang! We have let another Station off, and fly away regardless. +Everything is flying. The hop-gardens turn gracefully towards me, +presenting regular avenues of hops in rapid flight, then whirl away. So +do the pools and rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in full bloom delicious +to the sight and smell, corn-sheaves, cherry-orchards, apple-orchards, +reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields that taper off into little +angular corners, cottages, gardens, now and then a church. Bang, bang! +A double-barrelled Station! Now a wood, now a bridge, now a landscape, +now a cutting, now a—Bang! a single-barrelled Station—there was a +cricket-match somewhere with two white tents, and then four flying cows, +then turnips—now the wires of the electric telegraph are all alive, and +spin, and blurr their edges, and go up and down, and make the intervals +between each other most irregular: contracting and expanding in the +strangest manner. Now we slacken. With a screwing, and a grinding, and +a smell of water thrown on ashes, now we stop! + +Demented Traveller, who has been for two or three minutes watchful, +clutches his great-coats, plunges at the door, rattles it, cries ‘Hi!’ +eager to embark on board of impossible packets, far inland. Collected +Guard appears. ‘Are you for Tunbridge, sir?’ ‘Tunbridge? No. Paris.’ +‘Plenty of time, sir. No hurry. Five minutes here, sir, for +refreshment.’ I am so blest (anticipating Zamiel, by half a second) as +to procure a glass of water for Compact Enchantress. + +Who would suppose we had been flying at such a rate, and shall take wing +again directly? Refreshment-room full, platform full, porter with +watering-pot deliberately cooling a hot wheel, another porter with equal +deliberation helping the rest of the wheels bountifully to ice cream. +Monied Interest and I re-entering the carriage first, and being there +alone, he intimates to me that the French are ‘no go’ as a Nation. I ask +why? He says, that Reign of Terror of theirs was quite enough. I +ventured to inquire whether he remembers anything that preceded said +Reign of Terror? He says not particularly. ‘Because,’ I remark, ‘the +harvest that is reaped, has sometimes been sown.’ Monied Interest +repeats, as quite enough for him, that the French are revolutionary,—‘and +always at it.’ + +Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped in by Zamiel (whom the stars +confound!), gives us her charming little side-box look, and smites me to +the core. Mystery eating sponge-cake. Pine-apple atmosphere faintly +tinged with suspicions of sherry. Demented Traveller flits past the +carriage, looking for it. Is blind with agitation, and can’t see it. +Seems singled out by Destiny to be the only unhappy creature in the +flight, who has any cause to hurry himself. Is nearly left behind. Is +seized by Collected Guard after the Train is in motion, and bundled in. +Still, has lingering suspicions that there must be a boat in the +neighbourhood, and will look wildly out of window for it. + +Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop-gardens, reapers, gleaners, +apple-orchards, cherry-orchards, Stations single and double-barrelled, +Ashford. Compact Enchantress (constantly talking to Mystery, in an +exquisite manner) gives a little scream; a sound that seems to come from +high up in her precious little head; from behind her bright little +eyebrows. ‘Great Heaven, my pine-apple! My Angel! It is lost!’ +Mystery is desolated. A search made. It is not lost. Zamiel finds it. +I curse him (flying) in the Persian manner. May his face be turned +upside down, and jackasses sit upon his uncle’s grave! + +Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed Down-land with flapping crows +flying over it whom we soon outfly, now the Sea, now Folkestone at a +quarter after ten. ‘Tickets ready, gentlemen!’ Demented dashes at the +door. ‘For Paris, sir? No hurry.’ + +Not the least. We are dropped slowly down to the Port, and sidle to and +fro (the whole Train) before the insensible Royal George Hotel, for some +ten minutes. The Royal George takes no more heed of us than its namesake +under water at Spithead, or under earth at Windsor, does. The Royal +George’s dog lies winking and blinking at us, without taking the trouble +to sit up; and the Royal George’s ‘wedding party’ at the open window (who +seem, I must say, rather tired of bliss) don’t bestow a solitary glance +upon us, flying thus to Paris in eleven hours. The first gentleman in +Folkestone is evidently used up, on this subject. + +Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Conceives that every man’s hand is against +him, and exerting itself to prevent his getting to Paris. Refuses +consolation. Rattles door. Sees smoke on the horizon, and ‘knows’ it’s +the boat gone without him. Monied Interest resentfully explains that +_he_ is going to Paris too. Demented signifies, that if Monied Interest +chooses to be left behind, he don’t. + +‘Refreshments in the Waiting-Room, ladies and gentlemen. No hurry, +ladies and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry whatever!’ + +Twenty minutes’ pause, by Folkestone clock, for looking at Enchantress +while she eats a sandwich, and at Mystery while she eats of everything +there that is eatable, from pork-pie, sausage, jam, and gooseberries, to +lumps of sugar. All this time, there is a very waterfall of luggage, +with a spray of dust, tumbling slantwise from the pier into the +steamboat. All this time, Demented (who has no business with it) watches +it with starting eyes, fiercely requiring to be shown his luggage. When +it at last concludes the cataract, he rushes hotly to refresh—is shouted +after, pursued, jostled, brought back, pitched into the departing steamer +upside down, and caught by mariners disgracefully. + +A lovely harvest-day, a cloudless sky, a tranquil sea. The piston-rods +of the engines so regularly coming up from below, to look (as well they +may) at the bright weather, and so regularly almost knocking their iron +heads against the cross beam of the skylight, and never doing it! +Another Parisian actress is on board, attended by another Mystery. +Compact Enchantress greets her sister artist—Oh, the Compact One’s pretty +teeth!—and Mystery greets Mystery. _My_ Mystery soon ceases to be +conversational—is taken poorly, in a word, having lunched too +miscellaneously—and goes below. The remaining Mystery then smiles upon +the sister artists (who, I am afraid, wouldn’t greatly mind stabbing each +other), and is upon the whole ravished. + +And now I find that all the French people on board begin to grow, and all +the English people to shrink. The French are nearing home, and shaking +off a disadvantage, whereas we are shaking it on. Zamiel is the same +man, and Abd-el-Kader is the same man, but each seems to come into +possession of an indescribable confidence that departs from us—from +Monied Interest, for instance, and from me. Just what they gain, we +lose. Certain British ‘Gents’ about the steersman, intellectually +nurtured at home on parody of everything and truth of nothing, become +subdued, and in a manner forlorn; and when the steersman tells them (not +exultingly) how he has ‘been upon this station now eight year, and never +see the old town of Bullum yet,’ one of them, with an imbecile reliance +on a reed, asks him what he considers to be the best hotel in Paris? + +Now, I tread upon French ground, and am greeted by the three charming +words, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, painted up (in letters a little too +thin for their height) on the Custom-house wall—also by the sight of +large cocked hats, without which demonstrative head-gear nothing of a +public nature can be done upon this soil. All the rabid Hotel population +of Boulogne howl and shriek outside a distant barrier, frantic to get at +us. Demented, by some unlucky means peculiar to himself, is delivered +over to their fury, and is presently seen struggling in a whirlpool of +Touters—is somehow understood to be going to Paris—is, with infinite +noise, rescued by two cocked hats, and brought into Custom-house bondage +with the rest of us. + +Here, I resign the active duties of life to an eager being, of +preternatural sharpness, with a shelving forehead and a shabby +snuff-coloured coat, who (from the wharf) brought me down with his eye +before the boat came into port. He darts upon my luggage, on the floor +where all the luggage is strewn like a wreck at the bottom of the great +deep; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the property of ‘Monsieur a +traveller unknown;’ pays certain francs for it, to a certain functionary +behind a Pigeon Hole, like a pay-box at a Theatre (the arrangements in +general are on a wholesale scale, half military and half theatrical); and +I suppose I shall find it when I come to Paris—he says I shall. I know +nothing about it, except that I pay him his small fee, and pocket the +ticket he gives me, and sit upon a counter, involved in the general +distraction. + +Railway station. ‘Lunch or dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Plenty of time +for Paris. Plenty of time!’ Large hall, long counter, long strips of +dining-table, bottles of wine, plates of meat, roast chickens, little +loaves of bread, basins of soup, little caraffes of brandy, cakes, and +fruit. Comfortably restored from these resources, I begin to fly again. + +I saw Zamiel (before I took wing) presented to Compact Enchantress and +Sister Artist, by an officer in uniform, with a waist like a wasp’s, and +pantaloons like two balloons. They all got into the next carriage +together, accompanied by the two Mysteries. They laughed. I am alone in +the carriage (for I don’t consider Demented anybody) and alone in the +world. + +Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollard-trees, windmills, fields, +fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and drumming. I wonder where +England is, and when I was there last—about two years ago, I should say. +Flying in and out among these trenches and batteries, skimming the +clattering drawbridges, looking down into the stagnant ditches, I become +a prisoner of state, escaping. I am confined with a comrade in a +fortress. Our room is in an upper story. We have tried to get up the +chimney, but there’s an iron grating across it, imbedded in the masonry. +After months of labour, we have worked the grating loose with the poker, +and can lift it up. We have also made a hook, and twisted our rugs and +blankets into ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chimney, hook our ropes +to the top, descend hand over hand upon the roof of the guard-house far +below, shake the hook loose, watch the opportunity of the sentinels +pacing away, hook again, drop into the ditch, swim across it, creep into +the shelter of the wood. The time is come—a wild and stormy night. We +are up the chimney, we are on the guard-house roof, we are swimming in +the murky ditch, when lo! ‘Qui v’là?’ a bugle, the alarm, a crash! What +is it? Death? No, Amiens. + +More fortifications, more soldiering and drumming, more basins of soup, +more little loaves of bread, more bottles of wine, more caraffes of +brandy, more time for refreshment. Everything good, and everything +ready. Bright, unsubstantial-looking, scenic sort of station. People +waiting. Houses, uniforms, beards, moustaches, some sabots, plenty of +neat women, and a few old-visaged children. Unless it be a delusion born +of my giddy flight, the grown-up people and the children seem to change +places in France. In general, the boys and girls are little old men and +women, and the men and women lively boys and girls. + +Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Monied Interest has come into my +carriage. Says the manner of refreshing is ‘not bad,’ but considers it +French. Admits great dexterity and politeness in the attendants. Thinks +a decimal currency may have something to do with their despatch in +settling accounts, and don’t know but what it’s sensible and convenient. +Adds, however, as a general protest, that they’re a revolutionary +people—and always at it. + +Ramparts, canals, cathedral, river, soldiering and drumming, open +country, river, earthenware manufactures, Creil. Again ten minutes. Not +even Demented in a hurry. Station, a drawing-room with a verandah: like +a planter’s house. Monied Interest considers it a band-box, and not made +to last. Little round tables in it, at one of which the Sister Artists +and attendant Mysteries are established with Wasp and Zamiel, as if they +were going to stay a week. + +Anon, with no more trouble than before, I am flying again, and lazily +wondering as I fly. What has the South-Eastern done with all the +horrible little villages we used to pass through, in the _Diligence_? +What have they done with all the summer dust, with all the winter mud, +with all the dreary avenues of little trees, with all the ramshackle +postyards, with all the beggars (who used to turn out at night with bits +of lighted candle, to look in at the coach windows), with all the +long-tailed horses who were always biting one another, with all the big +postilions in jack-boots—with all the mouldy cafés that we used to stop +at, where a long mildewed table-cloth, set forth with jovial bottles of +vinegar and oil, and with a Siamese arrangement of pepper and salt, was +never wanting? Where are the grass-grown little towns, the wonderful +little market-places all unconscious of markets, the shops that nobody +kept, the streets that nobody trod, the churches that nobody went to, the +bells that nobody rang, the tumble-down old buildings plastered with +many-coloured bills that nobody read? Where are the two-and-twenty weary +hours of long, long day and night journey, sure to be either +insupportably hot or insupportably cold? Where are the pains in my +bones, where are the fidgets in my legs, where is the Frenchman with the +nightcap who never _would_ have the little coupé-window down, and who +always fell upon me when he went to sleep, and always slept all night +snoring onions? + +A voice breaks in with ‘Paris! Here we are!’ + +I have overflown myself, perhaps, but I can’t believe it. I feel as if I +were enchanted or bewitched. It is barely eight o’clock yet—it is +nothing like half-past—when I have had my luggage examined at that +briskest of Custom-houses attached to the station, and am rattling over +the pavement in a hackney-cabriolet. + +Surely, not the pavement of Paris? Yes, I think it is, too. I don’t +know any other place where there are all these high houses, all these +haggard-looking wine shops, all these billiard tables, all these +stocking-makers with flat red or yellow legs of wood for signboard, all +these fuel shops with stacks of billets painted outside, and real billets +sawing in the gutter, all these dirty corners of streets, all these +cabinet pictures over dark doorways representing discreet matrons nursing +babies. And yet this morning—I’ll think of it in a warm-bath. + +Very like a small room that I remember in the Chinese baths upon the +Boulevard, certainly; and, though I see it through the steam, I think +that I might swear to that peculiar hot-linen basket, like a large wicker +hour-glass. When can it have been that I left home? When was it that I +paid ‘through to Paris’ at London Bridge, and discharged myself of all +responsibility, except the preservation of a voucher ruled into three +divisions, of which the first was snipped off at Folkestone, the second +aboard the boat, and the third taken at my journey’s end? It seems to +have been ages ago. Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk. + +The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies, the +elegance, variety, and beauty of their decorations, the number of the +theatres, the brilliant cafés with their windows thrown up high and their +vivacious groups at little tables on the pavement, the light and glitter +of the houses turned as it were inside out, soon convince me that it is +no dream; that I am in Paris, howsoever I got there. I stroll down to +the sparkling Palais Royal, up the Rue de Rivoli, to the Place Vendôme. +As I glance into a print-shop window, Monied Interest, my late travelling +companion, comes upon me, laughing with the highest relish of disdain. +‘Here’s a people!’ he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window and +Napoleon on the column. ‘Only one idea all over Paris! A monomania!’ +Humph! I THINK I have seen Napoleon’s match? There was a statue, when I +came away, at Hyde Park Corner, and another in the City, and a print or +two in the shops. + +I walk up to the Barrière de l’Etoile, sufficiently dazed by my flight to +have a pleasant doubt of the reality of everything about me; of the +lively crowd, the overhanging trees, the performing dogs, the +hobby-horses, the beautiful perspectives of shining lamps: the hundred +and one enclosures, where the singing is, in gleaming orchestras of azure +and gold, and where a star-eyed Houri comes round with a box for +voluntary offerings. So, I pass to my hotel, enchanted; sup, enchanted; +go to bed, enchanted; pushing back this morning (if it really were this +morning) into the remoteness of time, blessing the South-Eastern Company +for realising the Arabian Nights in these prose days, murmuring, as I +wing my idle flight into the land of dreams, ‘No hurry, ladies and +gentlemen, going to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done, that +there really is no hurry!’ + + + + +THE DETECTIVE POLICE + + +WE are not by any means devout believers in the old Bow Street Police. +To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount of humbug about those +worthies. Apart from many of them being men of very indifferent +character, and far too much in the habit of consorting with thieves and +the like, they never lost a public occasion of jobbing and trading in +mystery and making the most of themselves. Continually puffed besides by +incompetent magistrates anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and +hand-in-glove with the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort of +superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly +ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in +their operations, they remain with some people a superstition to the +present day. + +On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the establishment +of the existing Police, is so well chosen and trained, proceeds so +systematically and quietly, does its business in such a workmanlike +manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of +the public, that the public really do not know enough of it, to know a +tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with this conviction, and interested +in the men themselves, we represented to the authorities at Scotland +Yard, that we should be glad, if there were no official objection, to +have some talk with the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission +being given, a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for +a social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at The +Household Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In +consequence of which appointment the party ‘came off,’ which we are about +to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics as it might +for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or disagreeable to +respectable individuals, to touch upon in print, our description is as +exact as we can make it. + +The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of +Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader’s fancy, will best +represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate for a round +table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars arranged upon it; and +the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in between that stately piece of +furniture and the wall. + +It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street are hot +and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the Theatre +opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are constantly +setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and there is a +mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then, deafening us for the +moment, through the open windows. + +Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do not +undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the names here mentioned. +Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector Wield is a +middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a large, moist, knowing eye, a +husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his conversation by the aid of a +corpulent fore-finger, which is constantly in juxtaposition with his eyes +or nose. Inspector Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman—in +appearance not at all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained +schoolmaster, from the Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield +one might have known, perhaps, for what he is—Inspector Stalker, never. + +The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe +that they have brought some sergeants with them. The sergeants are +presented—five in number, Sergeant Dornton, Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant +Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant Straw. We have the whole Detective +Force from Scotland Yard, with one exception. They sit down in a +semi-circle (the two Inspectors at the two ends) at a little distance +from the round table, facing the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a +glance, immediately takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate +sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in +company could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest +hesitation, twenty years hence. + +The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton about fifty years +of age, with a ruddy face and a high sunburnt forehead, has the air of +one who has been a Sergeant in the army—he might have sat to Wilkie for +the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is famous for steadily +pursuing the inductive process, and, from small beginnings, working on +from clue to clue until he bags his man. Sergeant Witchem, shorter and +thicker-set, and marked with the small-pox, has something of a reserved +and thoughtful air, as if he were engaged in deep arithmetical +calculations. He is renowned for his acquaintance with the swell mob. +Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced man with a fresh bright complexion, and a +strange air of simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, +a light-haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at +pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little wiry +Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a door and +ask a series of questions in any mild character you choose to prescribe +to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as innocent as an infant. +They are, one and all, respectable-looking men; of perfectly good +deportment and unusual intelligence; with nothing lounging or slinking in +their manners; with an air of keen observation and quick perception when +addressed; and generally presenting in their faces, traces more or less +marked of habitually leading lives of strong mental excitement. They +have all good eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at +whomsoever they speak to. + +We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very +temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest amateur +reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspector Wield +immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves his right hand, and +says, ‘Regarding the swell mob, sir, I can’t do better than call upon +Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why? I’ll tell you. Sergeant +Witchem is better acquainted with the swell mob than any officer in +London.’ + +Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we turn to +Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen language, goes +into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of his brother officers +are closely interested in attending to what he says, and observing its +effect. Presently they begin to strike in, one or two together, when an +opportunity offers, and the conversation becomes general. But these +brother officers only come in to the assistance of each other—not to the +contradiction—and a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From +the swell mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, +public-house dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out +‘gonophing,’ and other ‘schools.’ It is observable throughout these +revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always exact and +statistical, and that when any question of figures arises, everybody as +by one consent pauses, and looks to him. + +When we have exhausted the various schools of Art—during which discussion +the whole body have remained profoundly attentive, except when some +unusual noise at the Theatre over the way has induced some gentleman to +glance inquiringly towards the window in that direction, behind his next +neighbour’s back—we burrow for information on such points as the +following. Whether there really are any highway robberies in London, or +whether some circumstances not convenient to be mentioned by the +aggrieved party, usually precede the robberies complained of, under that +head, which quite change their character? Certainly the latter, almost +always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are +necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever becomes so +like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be cautious how he +judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or deceptive as such +appearances at first. Whether in a place of public amusement, a thief +knows an officer, and an officer knows a thief—supposing them, +beforehand, strangers to each other—because each recognises in the other, +under all disguise, an inattention to what is going on, and a purpose +that is not the purpose of being entertained? Yes. That’s the way +exactly. Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged +experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or +penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd. Lying is +their habit and their trade; and they would rather lie—even if they +hadn’t an interest in it, and didn’t want to make themselves +agreeable—than tell the truth. + +From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated and +horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within the last +fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery of almost all +of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the murderers, are here, +down to the very last instance. One of our guests gave chase to and +boarded the emigrant ship, in which the murderess last hanged in London +was supposed to have embarked. We learn from him that his errand was not +announced to the passengers, who may have no idea of it to this hour. +That he went below, with the captain, lamp in hand—it being dark, and the +whole steerage abed and sea-sick—and engaged the Mrs. Manning who was on +board, in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small +pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the light. +Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he quietly +re-embarked in the Government steamer along-side, and steamed home again +with the intelligence. + +When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a considerable +time in the discussion, two or three leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant +Witchem, and resume their seat. Sergeant Witchem, leaning forward a +little, and placing a hand on each of his legs, then modestly speaks as +follows: + +‘My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my taking +Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn’t to tell what he has done himself; but +still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as nobody but myself can +tell it, I’ll do it in the best way I can, if it should meet your +approval.’ + +We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we all +compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention. + +‘Tally-ho Thompson,’ says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting his lips +with his brandy-and-water, ‘Tally-ho Thompson was a famous horse-stealer, +couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with a pal that +occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out of a good round +sum of money, under pretence of getting him a situation—the regular old +dodge—and was afterwards in the “Hue and Cry” for a horse—a horse that he +stole down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after Thompson, and I applied +myself, of course, in the first instance, to discovering where he was. +Now, Thompson’s wife lived, along with a little daughter, at Chelsea. +Knowing that Thompson was somewhere in the country, I watched the +house—especially at post-time in the morning—thinking Thompson was pretty +likely to write to her. Sure enough, one morning the postman comes up, +and delivers a letter at Mrs. Thompson’s door. Little girl opens the +door, and takes it in. We’re not always sure of postmen, though the +people at the post-offices are always very obliging. A postman may help +us, or he may not,—just as it happens. However, I go across the road, +and I say to the postman, after he has left the letter, “Good morning! +how are you?” “How are _you_?” says he. “You’ve just delivered a letter +for Mrs. Thompson.” “Yes, I have.” “You didn’t happen to remark what +the post-mark was, perhaps?” “No,” says he, “I didn’t.” “Come,” says I, +“I’ll be plain with you. I’m in a small way of business, and I have +given Thompson credit, and I can’t afford to lose what he owes me. I +know he’s got money, and I know he’s in the country, and if you could +tell me what the post-mark was, I should be very much obliged to you, and +you’d do a service to a tradesman in a small way of business that can’t +afford a loss.” “Well,” he said, “I do assure you that I did not observe +what the post-mark was; all I know is, that there was money in the +letter—I should say a sovereign.” This was enough for me, because of +course I knew that Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable +she’d write to Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt. +So I said “Thankee” to the postman, and I kept on the watch. In the +afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of course I followed her. She +went into a stationer’s shop, and I needn’t say to you that I looked in +at the window. She bought some writing-paper and envelopes, and a pen. +I think to myself, “That’ll do!”—watch her home again—and don’t go away, +you may be sure, knowing that Mrs. Thompson was writing her letter to +Tally-ho, and that the letter would be posted presently. In about an +hour or so, out came the little girl again, with the letter in her hand. +I went up, and said something to the child, whatever it might have been; +but I couldn’t see the direction of the letter, because she held it with +the seal upwards. However, I observed that on the back of the letter +there was what we call a kiss—a drop of wax by the side of the seal—and +again, you understand, that was enough for me. I saw her post the +letter, waited till she was gone, then went into the shop, and asked to +see the Master. When he came out, I told him, “Now, I’m an Officer in +the Detective Force; there’s a letter with a kiss been posted here just +now, for a man that I’m in search of; and what I have to ask of you, is, +that you will let me look at the direction of that letter.” He was very +civil—took a lot of letters from the box in the window—shook ’em out on +the counter with the faces downwards—and there among ’em was the +identical letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post +Office, B—, to be left till called for. Down I went to B— (a hundred and +twenty miles or so) that night. Early next morning I went to the Post +Office; saw the gentleman in charge of that department; told him who I +was; and that my object was to see, and track, the party that should come +for the letter for Mr. Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, “You +shall have every assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the +office; and we’ll take care to let you know when anybody comes for the +letter.” Well, I waited there three days, and began to think that nobody +ever would come. At last the clerk whispered to me, “Here! Detective! +Somebody’s come for the letter!” “Keep him a minute,” said I, and I ran +round to the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the +appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle—stretching the +bridle across the pavement, while he waited at the Post Office Window for +the letter. I began to pat the horse, and that; and I said to the boy, +“Why, this is Mr. Jones’s Mare!” “No. It an’t.” “No?” said I. “She’s +very like Mr. Jones’s Mare!” “She an’t Mr. Jones’s Mare, anyhow,” says +he. “It’s Mr. So and So’s, of the Warwick Arms.” And up he jumped, and +off he went—letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so +quick after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, by +one gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, where +there was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of +brandy-and-water. He came in directly, and handed her the letter. She +casually looked at it, without saying anything, and stuck it up behind +the glass over the chimney-piece. What was to be done next? + +‘I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and-water (looking +pretty sharp at the letter the while), but I couldn’t see my way out of +it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but there had been a +horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it was full. I was obliged to +put up somewhere else, but I came backwards and forwards to the bar for a +couple of days, and there was the letter always behind the glass. At +last I thought I’d write a letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that +would do. So I wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it, +Mr. John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what that would do. +In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched the postman down the +street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached the Warwick Arms. +In he came presently with my letter. “Is there a Mr. John Pigeon staying +here?” “No!—stop a bit though,” says the barmaid; and she took down the +letter behind the glass. “No,” says she, “it’s Thomas, and he is not +staying here. Would you do me a favour, and post this for me, as it is +so wet?” The postman said Yes; she folded it in another envelope, +directed it, and gave it him. He put it in his hat, and away he went. + +‘I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter. It was +addressed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, R—, Northamptonshire, to be +left till called for. Off I started directly for R—; I said the same at +the Post Office there, as I had said at B—; and again I waited three days +before anybody came. At last another chap on horseback came. “Any +letters for Mr. Thomas Pigeon?” “Where do you come from?” “New Inn, +near R—.” He got the letter, and away he went at a canter. + +‘I made my inquiries about the New Inn, near R—, and hearing it was a +solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a couple of +miles from the station, I thought I’d go and have a look at it. I found +it what it had been described, and sauntered in, to look about me. The +landlady was in the bar, and I was trying to get into conversation with +her; asked her how business was, and spoke about the wet weather, and so +on; when I saw, through an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a +sort of parlour, or kitchen; and one of those men, according to the +description I had of him, was Tally-ho Thompson! + +‘I went and sat down among ’em, and tried to make things agreeable; but +they were very shy—wouldn’t talk at all—looked at me, and at one another, +in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned ’em up, and finding +that they were all three bigger men than me, and considering that their +looks were ugly—that it was a lonely place—railroad station two miles +off—and night coming on—thought I couldn’t do better than have a drop of +brandy-and-water to keep my courage up. So I called for my +brandy-and-water; and as I was sitting drinking it by the fire, Thompson +got up and went out. + +‘Now the difficulty of it was, that I wasn’t sure it was Thompson, +because I had never set eyes on him before; and what I had wanted was to +be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it now, but to +follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him talking, outside in the +yard, with the landlady. It turned out afterwards that he was wanted by +a Northampton officer for something else, and that, knowing that officer +to be pock-marked (as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have +observed, I found him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand +upon his shoulder—this way—and said, “Tally-ho Thompson, it’s no use. I +know you. I’m an officer from London, and I take you into custody for +felony!” “That be d-d!” says Tally-ho Thompson. + +‘We went back into the house, and the two friends began to cut up rough, +and their looks didn’t please me at all, I assure you. “Let the man go. +What are you going to do with him?” “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do +with him. I’m going to take him to London to-night, as sure as I’m +alive. I’m not alone here, whatever you may think. You mind your own +business, and keep yourselves to yourselves. It’ll be better for you, +for I know you both very well.” _I_’d never seen or heard of ’em in all +my life, but my bouncing cowed ’em a bit, and they kept off, while +Thompson was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they +might be coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson; so I said +to the landlady, “What men have you got in the house, Missis?” “We +haven’t got no men here,” she says, sulkily. “You have got an ostler, I +suppose?” “Yes, we’ve got an ostler.” “Let me see him.” Presently he +came, and a shaggy-headed young fellow he was. “Now attend to me, young +man,” says I; “I’m a Detective Officer from London. This man’s name is +Thompson. I have taken him into custody for felony. I am going to take +him to the railroad station. I call upon you in the Queen’s name to +assist me; and mind you, my friend, you’ll get yourself into more trouble +than you know of, if you don’t!” You never saw a person open his eyes so +wide. “Now, Thompson, come along!” says I. But when I took out the +handcuffs, Thompson cries, “No! None of that! I won’t stand _them_! +I’ll go along with you quiet, but I won’t bear none of that!” “Tally-ho +Thompson,” I said, “I’m willing to behave as a man to you, if you are +willing to behave as a man to me. Give me your word that you’ll come +peaceably along, and I don’t want to handcuff you.” “I will,” says +Thompson, “but I’ll have a glass of brandy first.” “I don’t care if I’ve +another,” said I. “We’ll have two more, Missis,” said the friends, “and +confound you, Constable, you’ll give your man a drop, won’t you?” I was +agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I took +Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that +night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a defect in the +evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and says +I’m one of the best of men.’ + +This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector +Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his host, and thus +delivers himself: + +‘It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of forging +the Sou’-Western Railway debentures—it was only t’other day—because the +reason why? I’ll tell you. + +‘I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder +there,’—indicating any region on the Surrey side of the river—‘where he +bought second-hand carriages; so after I’d tried in vain to get hold of +him by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that +I’d got a horse and shay to dispose of, and would drive down next day +that he might view the lot, and make an offer—very reasonable it was, I +said—a reg’lar bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine +that’s in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day, +a precious smart turn-out it was—quite a slap-up thing! Down we drove, +accordingly, with a friend (who’s not in the Force himself); and leaving +my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of the horse, we +went to the factory, which was some little way off. In the factory, +there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning ’em up, +it was clear to me that it wouldn’t do to try it on there. They were too +many for us. We must get our man out of doors. “Mr. Fikey at home?” +“No, he ain’t.” “Expected home soon?” “Why, no, not soon.” “Ah! Is +his brother here?” “I’m his brother.” “Oh! well, this is an +ill-conwenience, this is. I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I’d got +a little turn-out to dispose of, and I’ve took the trouble to bring the +turn-out down a’ purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.” “No, he ain’t in +the way. You couldn’t make it convenient to call again, could you?” +“Why, no, I couldn’t. I want to sell; that’s the fact; and I can’t put +it off. Could you find him anywheres?” At first he said No, he +couldn’t, and then he wasn’t sure about it, and then he’d go and try. So +at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft, and presently +down comes my man himself in his shirt-sleeves. + +‘“Well,” he says, “this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of yours.” +“Yes,” I says, “it _is_ rayther a pressing matter, and you’ll find it a +bargain—dirt cheap.” “I ain’t in partickler want of a bargain just now,” +he says, “but where is it?” “Why,” I says, “the turn-out’s just outside. +Come and look at it.” He hasn’t any suspicions, and away we go. And the +first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who +knows no more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along +the road to show his paces. You never saw such a game in your life! + +‘When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a standstill again, +Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge—me too. “There, sir!” +I says. “There’s a neat thing!” “It ain’t a bad style of thing,” he +says. “I believe you,” says I. “And there’s a horse!”—for I saw him +looking at it. “Rising eight!” I says, rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless +you, there ain’t a man in the world knows less of horses than I do, but +I’d heard my friend at the Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I +says, as knowing as possible, “Rising eight.”) “Rising eight, is he?” +says he. “Rising eight,” says I. “Well,” he says, “what do you want for +it?” “Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is +five-and-twenty pound!” “That’s very cheap!” he says, looking at me. +“Ain’t it?” I says. “I told you it was a bargain! Now, without any +higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell, and that’s my +price. Further, I’ll make it easy to you, and take half the money down, +and you can do a bit of stiff {415} for the balance.” + +“Well,” he says again, “that’s very cheap.” “I believe you,” says I; +“get in and try it, and you’ll buy it. Come! take a trial!” + +‘Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to show +him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the public-house window +to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and didn’t know whether it +was him, or wasn’t—because the reason why? I’ll tell you,—on account of +his having shaved his whiskers. “It’s a clever little horse,” he says, +“and trots well; and the shay runs light.” “Not a doubt about it,” I +says. “And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without +wasting any more of your time. The fact is, I’m Inspector Wield, and +you’re my prisoner.” “You don’t mean that?” he says. “I do, indeed.” +“Then burn my body,” says Fikey, “if this ain’t too bad!” + +‘Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. “I hope +you’ll let me have my coat?” he says. “By all means.” “Well, then, +let’s drive to the factory.” “Why, not exactly that, I think,” said I; +“I’ve been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we send for it.” He saw +it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and we drove him up to +London, comfortable.’ + +This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general +proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with +the strange air of simplicity, to tell the ‘Butcher’s Story.’ + +The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange air of +simplicity, began with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling tone of +voice, to relate the Butcher’s Story, thus: + +‘It’s just about six years ago, now, since information was given at +Scotland Yard of there being extensive robberies of lawns and silks going +on, at some wholesale houses in the City. Directions were given for the +business being looked into; and Straw, and Fendall, and me, we were all +in it.’ + +‘When you received your instructions,’ said we, ‘you went away, and held +a sort of Cabinet Council together!’ + +The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, ‘Ye-es. Just so. We turned +it over among ourselves a good deal. It appeared, when we went into it, +that the goods were sold by the receivers extraordinarily cheap—much +cheaper than they could have been if they had been honestly come by. The +receivers were in the trade, and kept capital shops—establishments of the +first respectability—one of ’em at the West End, one down in Westminster. +After a lot of watching and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves, +we found that the job was managed, and the purchases of the stolen goods +made, at a little public-house near Smithfield, down by Saint +Bartholomew’s; where the Warehouse Porters, who were the thieves, took +’em for that purpose, don’t you see? and made appointments to meet the +people that went between themselves and the receivers. This public-house +was principally used by journeymen butchers from the country, out of +place, and in want of situations; so, what did we do, but—ha, ha, ha!—we +agreed that I should be dressed up like a butcher myself, and go and live +there!’ + +Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to bear upon a +purpose, than that which picked out this officer for the part. Nothing +in all creation could have suited him better. Even while he spoke, he +became a greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured, chuckle-headed, unsuspicious, +and confiding young butcher. His very hair seemed to have suet in it, as +he made it smooth upon his head, and his fresh complexion to be +lubricated by large quantities of animal food. + +‘—So I—ha, ha, ha!’ (always with the confiding snigger of the foolish +young butcher) ‘so I dressed myself in the regular way, made up a little +bundle of clothes, and went to the public-house, and asked if I could +have a lodging there? They says, “yes, you can have a lodging here,” and +I got a bedroom, and settled myself down in the tap. There was a number +of people about the place, and coming backwards and forwards to the +house; and first one says, and then another says, “Are you from the +country, young man?” “Yes,” I says, “I am. I’m come out of +Northamptonshire, and I’m quite lonely here, for I don’t know London at +all, and it’s such a mighty big town.” “It _is_ a big town,” they says. +“Oh, it’s a _very_ big town!” I says. “Really and truly I never was in +such a town. It quite confuses of me!” and all that, you know. + +‘When some of the journeymen Butchers that used the house, found that I +wanted a place, they says, “Oh, we’ll get you a place!” And they +actually took me to a sight of places, in Newgate Market, Newport Market, +Clare, Carnaby—I don’t know where all. But the wages was—ha, ha, ha!—was +not sufficient, and I never could suit myself, don’t you see? Some of +the queer frequenters of the house were a little suspicious of me at +first, and I was obliged to be very cautious indeed how I communicated +with Straw or Fendall. Sometimes, when I went out, pretending to stop +and look into the shop windows, and just casting my eye round, I used to +see some of ’em following me; but, being perhaps better accustomed than +they thought for, to that sort of thing, I used to lead ’em on as far as +I thought necessary or convenient—sometimes a long way—and then turn +sharp round, and meet ’em, and say, “Oh, dear, how glad I am to come upon +you so fortunate! This London’s such a place, I’m blowed if I ain’t lost +again!” And then we’d go back all together, to the public-house, and—ha, +ha, ha! and smoke our pipes, don’t you see? + +‘They were very attentive to me, I am sure. It was a common thing, while +I was living there, for some of ’em to take me out, and show me London. +They showed me the Prisons—showed me Newgate—and when they showed me +Newgate, I stops at the place where the Porters pitch their loads, and +says, “Oh dear, is this where they hang the men? Oh Lor!” “That!” they +says, “what a simple cove he is! _That_ ain’t it!” And then, they +pointed out which was it, and I says “Lor!” and they says, “Now you’ll +know it agen, won’t you?” And I said I thought I should if I tried +hard—and I assure you I kept a sharp look out for the City Police when we +were out in this way, for if any of ’em had happened to know me, and had +spoke to me, it would have been all up in a minute. However, by good +luck such a thing never happened, and all went on quiet: though the +difficulties I had in communicating with my brother officers were quite +extraordinary. + +‘The stolen goods that were brought to the public-house by the Warehouse +Porters, were always disposed of in a back parlour. For a long time, I +never could get into this parlour, or see what was done there. As I sat +smoking my pipe, like an innocent young chap, by the tap-room fire, I’d +hear some of the parties to the robbery, as they came in and out, say +softly to the landlord, “Who’s that? What does he do here?” “Bless your +soul,” says the landlord, “he’s only a”—ha, ha, ha!—“he’s only a green +young fellow from the country, as is looking for a butcher’s sitiwation. +Don’t mind him!” So, in course of time, they were so convinced of my +being green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of the +parlour as any of ’em, and I have seen as much as Seventy Pounds’ Worth +of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was stolen from a warehouse +in Friday Street. After the sale the buyers always stood treat—hot +supper, or dinner, or what not—and they’d say on those occasions, “Come +on, Butcher! Put your best leg foremost, young ‘un, and walk into it!” +Which I used to do—and hear, at table, all manner of particulars that it +was very important for us Detectives to know. + +‘This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the public-house all the time, +and never was out of the Butcher’s dress—except in bed. At last, when I +had followed seven of the thieves, and set ’em to rights—that’s an +expression of ours, don’t you see, by which I mean to say that I traced +’em, and found out where the robberies were done, and all about +’em—Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave one another the office, and at a time +agreed upon, a descent was made upon the public-house, and the +apprehensions effected. One of the first things the officers did, was to +collar me—for the parties to the robbery weren’t to suppose yet, that I +was anything but a Butcher—on which the landlord cries out, “Don’t take +him,” he says, “whatever you do! He’s only a poor young chap from the +country, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!” However, they—ha, ha, +ha!—they took me, and pretended to search my bedroom, where nothing was +found but an old fiddle belonging to the landlord, that had got there +somehow or another. But, it entirely changed the landlord’s opinion, for +when it was produced, he says, “My fiddle! The Butcher’s a purloiner! I +give him into custody for the robbery of a musical instrument!” + +‘The man that had stolen the goods in Friday Street was not taken yet. +He had told me, in confidence, that he had his suspicions there was +something wrong (on account of the City Police having captured one of the +party), and that he was going to make himself scarce. I asked him, +“Where do you mean to go, Mr. Shepherdson?” “Why, Butcher,” says he, +“the Setting Moon, in the Commercial Road, is a snug house, and I shall +bang out there for a time. I shall call myself Simpson, which appears to +me to be a modest sort of a name. Perhaps you’ll give us a look in, +Butcher?” “Well,” says I, “I think I will give you a call”—which I fully +intended, don’t you see, because, of course, he was to be taken! I went +over to the Setting Moon next day, with a brother officer, and asked at +the bar for Simpson. They pointed out his room, up-stairs. As we were +going up, he looks down over the banister, and calls out, “Halloa, +Butcher! is that you?” “Yes, it’s me. How do you find yourself?” +“Bobbish,” he says; “but who’s that with you?” “It’s only a young man, +that’s a friend of mine,” I says. “Come along, then,” says he; “any +friend of the Butcher’s is as welcome as the Butcher!” So, I made my +friend acquainted with him, and we took him into custody. + +‘You have no idea, sir, what a sight it was, in Court, when they first +knew that I wasn’t a Butcher, after all! I wasn’t produced at the first +examination, when there was a remand; but I was at the second. And when +I stepped into the box, in full police uniform, and the whole party saw +how they had been done, actually a groan of horror and dismay proceeded +from ’em in the dock! + +‘At the Old Bailey, when their trials came on, Mr. Clarkson was engaged +for the defence, and he couldn’t make out how it was, about the Butcher. +He thought, all along, it was a real Butcher. When the counsel for the +prosecution said, “I will now call before you, gentlemen, the +Police-officer,” meaning myself, Mr. Clarkson says, “Why Police-officer? +Why more Police-officers? I don’t want Police. We have had a great deal +too much of the Police. I want the Butcher!” However, sir, he had the +Butcher and the Police-officer, both in one. Out of seven prisoners +committed for trial, five were found guilty, and some of ’em were +transported. The respectable firm at the West End got a term of +imprisonment; and that’s the Butcher’s Story!’ + +The story done, the chuckle-headed Butcher again resolved himself into +the smooth-faced Detective. But, he was so extremely tickled by their +having taken him about, when he was that Dragon in disguise, to show him +London, that he could not help reverting to that point in his narrative; +and gently repeating with the Butcher snigger, ‘“Oh, dear,” I says, “is +that where they hang the men? Oh, Lor!” “_That_!” says they. “What a +simple cove he is!”’ + +It being now late, and the party very modest in their fear of being too +diffuse, there were some tokens of separation; when Sergeant Dornton, the +soldierly-looking man, said, looking round him with a smile: + +‘Before we break up, sir, perhaps you might have some amusement in +hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet Bag. They are very short; and, I +think, curious.’ + +We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as cordially as Mr. Shepherdson welcomed the +false Butcher at the Setting Moon. Sergeant Dornton proceeded. + +‘In 1847, I was despatched to Chatham, in search of one Mesheck, a Jew. +He had been carrying on, pretty heavily, in the bill-stealing way, +getting acceptances from young men of good connexions (in the army +chiefly), on pretence of discount, and bolting with the same. + +‘Mesheck was off, before I got to Chatham. All I could learn about him +was, that he had gone, probably to London, and had with him—a Carpet Bag. + +‘I came back to town, by the last train from Blackwall, and made +inquiries concerning a Jew passenger with—a Carpet Bag. + +‘The office was shut up, it being the last train. There were only two or +three porters left. Looking after a Jew with a Carpet Bag, on the +Blackwall Railway, which was then the high road to a great Military +Depôt, was worse than looking after a needle in a hayrick. But it +happened that one of these porters had carried, for a certain Jew, to a +certain public-house, a certain—Carpet Bag. + +‘I went to the public-house, but the Jew had only left his luggage there +for a few hours, and had called for it in a cab, and taken it away. I +put such questions there, and to the porter, as I thought prudent, and +got at this description of—the Carpet Bag. + +‘It was a bag which had, on one side of it, worked in worsted, a green +parrot on a stand. A green parrot on a stand was the means by which to +identify that—Carpet Bag. + +‘I traced Mesheck, by means of this green parrot on a stand, to +Cheltenham, to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to the Atlantic Ocean. At +Liverpool he was too many for me. He had gone to the United States, and +I gave up all thoughts of Mesheck, and likewise of his—Carpet Bag. + +‘Many months afterwards—near a year afterwards—there was a bank in +Ireland robbed of seven thousand pounds, by a person of the name of +Doctor Dundey, who escaped to America; from which country some of the +stolen notes came home. He was supposed to have bought a farm in New +Jersey. Under proper management, that estate could be seized and sold, +for the benefit of the parties he had defrauded. I was sent off to +America for this purpose. + +‘I landed at Boston. I went on to New York. I found that he had lately +changed New York paper-money for New Jersey paper money, and had banked +cash in New Brunswick. To take this Doctor Dundey, it was necessary to +entrap him into the State of New York, which required a deal of artifice +and trouble. At one time, he couldn’t be drawn into an appointment. At +another time, he appointed to come to meet me, and a New York officer, on +a pretext I made; and then his children had the measles. At last he +came, per steamboat, and I took him, and lodged him in a New York prison +called the Tombs; which I dare say you know, sir?’ + +Editorial acknowledgment to that effect. + +‘I went to the Tombs, on the morning after his capture, to attend the +examination before the magistrate. I was passing through the +magistrate’s private room, when, happening to look round me to take +notice of the place, as we generally have a habit of doing, I clapped my +eyes, in one corner, on a—Carpet Bag. + +‘What did I see upon that Carpet Bag, if you’ll believe me, but a green +parrot on a stand, as large as life! + +‘“That Carpet Bag, with the representation of a green parrot on a stand,” +said I, “belongs to an English Jew, named Aaron Mesheck, and to no other +man, alive or dead!” + +‘I give you my word the New York Police Officers were doubled up with +surprise. + +‘“How did you ever come to know that?” said they. + +‘“I think I ought to know that green parrot by this time,” said I; “for I +have had as pretty a dance after that bird, at home, as ever I had, in +all my life!”’ + + * * * * * + +‘And was it Mesheck’s?’ we submissively inquired. + +‘Was it, sir? Of course it was! He was in custody for another offence, +in that very identical Tombs, at that very identical time. And, more +than that! Some memoranda, relating to the fraud for which I had vainly +endeavoured to take him, were found to be, at that moment, lying in that +very same individual—Carpet Bag!’ + + * * * * * + +Such are the curious coincidences and such is the peculiar ability, +always sharpening and being improved by practice, and always adapting +itself to every variety of circumstances, and opposing itself to every +new device that perverted ingenuity can invent, for which this important +social branch of the public service is remarkable! For ever on the +watch, with their wits stretched to the utmost, these officers have, from +day to day and year to year, to set themselves against every novelty of +trickery and dexterity that the combined imaginations of all the lawless +rascals in England can devise, and to keep pace with every such invention +that comes out. In the Courts of Justice, the materials of thousands of +such stories as we have narrated—often elevated into the marvellous and +romantic, by the circumstances of the case—are dryly compressed into the +set phrase, ‘in consequence of information I received, I did so and so.’ +Suspicion was to be directed, by careful inference and deduction, upon +the right person; the right person was to be taken, wherever he had gone, +or whatever he was doing to avoid detection: he is taken; there he is at +the bar; that is enough. From information I, the officer, received, I +did it; and, according to the custom in these cases, I say no more. + +These games of chess, played with live pieces, are played before small +audiences, and are chronicled nowhere. The interest of the game supports +the player. Its results are enough for justice. To compare great things +with small, suppose LEVERRIER or ADAMS informing the public that from +information he had received he had discovered a new planet; or COLUMBUS +informing the public of his day that from information he had received he +had discovered a new continent; so the Detectives inform it that they +have discovered a new fraud or an old offender, and the process is +unknown. + +Thus, at midnight, closed the proceedings of our curious and interesting +party. But one other circumstance finally wound up the evening, after +our Detective guests had left us. One of the sharpest among them, and +the officer best acquainted with the Swell Mob, had his pocket picked, +going home! + + + + +THREE ‘DETECTIVE’ ANECDOTES + + +I.—THE PAIR OF GLOVES + + +‘IT’S a singler story, sir,’ said Inspector Wield, of the Detective +Police, who, in company with Sergeants Dornton and Mith, paid us another +twilight visit, one July evening; ‘and I’ve been thinking you might like +to know it. + +‘It’s concerning the murder of the young woman, Eliza Grimwood, some +years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was commonly called The +Countess, because of her handsome appearance and her proud way of +carrying of herself; and when I saw the poor Countess (I had known her +well to speak to), lying dead, with her throat cut, on the floor of her +bedroom, you’ll believe me that a variety of reflections calculated to +make a man rather low in his spirits, came into my head. + +‘That’s neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning after +the murder, and examined the body, and made a general observation of the +bedroom where it was. Turning down the pillow of the bed with my hand, I +found, underneath it, a pair of gloves. A pair of gentleman’s dress +gloves, very dirty; and inside the lining, the letters TR, and a cross. + +‘Well, sir, I took them gloves away, and I showed ’em to the magistrate, +over at Union Hall, before whom the case was. He says, “Wield,” he says, +“there’s no doubt this is a discovery that may lead to something very +important; and what you have got to do, Wield, is, to find out the owner +of these gloves.” + +‘I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it immediately. I +looked at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it was my opinion that they had +been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur and rosin about ’em, you +know, which cleaned gloves usually have, more or less. I took ’em over +to a friend of mine at Kennington, who was in that line, and I put it to +him. “What do you say now? Have these gloves been cleaned?” “These +gloves have been cleaned,” says he. “Have you any idea who cleaned +them?” says I. “Not at all,” says he; “I’ve a very distinct idea who +didn’t clean ’em, and that’s myself. But I’ll tell you what, Wield, +there ain’t above eight or nine reg’lar glove-cleaners in London,”—there +were not, at that time, it seems—“and I think I can give you their +addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did clean ’em.” +Accordingly, he gave me the directions, and I went here, and I went +there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up that man; but, though +they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn’t find the +man, woman, or child, that had cleaned that aforesaid pair of gloves. + +‘What with this person not being at home, and that person being expected +home in the afternoon, and so forth, the inquiry took me three days. On +the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo Bridge from the Surrey +side of the river, quite beat, and very much vexed and disappointed, I +thought I’d have a shilling’s worth of entertainment at the Lyceum +Theatre to freshen myself up. So I went into the Pit, at half-price, and +I sat myself down next to a very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing +I was a stranger (which I thought it just as well to appear to be) he +told me the names of the actors on the stage, and we got into +conversation. When the play was over, we came out together, and I said, +“We’ve been very companionable and agreeable, and perhaps you wouldn’t +object to a drain?” “Well, you’re very good,” says he; “I shouldn’t +object to a drain.” Accordingly, we went to a public-house, near the +Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room up-stairs on the first floor, +and called for a pint of half-and-half, apiece, and a pipe. + +‘Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our half-and-half, and +sat a-talking, very sociably, when the young man says, “You must excuse +me stopping very long,” he says, “because I’m forced to go home in good +time. I must be at work all night.” “At work all night?” says I. “You +ain’t a baker?” “No,” he says, laughing, “I ain’t a baker.” “I thought +not,” says I, “you haven’t the looks of a baker.” “No,” says he, “I’m a +glove-cleaner.” + +‘I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them words +come out of his lips. “You’re a glove-cleaner, are you?” says I. “Yes,” +he says, “I am.” “Then, perhaps,” says I, taking the gloves out of my +pocket, “you can tell me who cleaned this pair of gloves? It’s a rum +story,” I says. “I was dining over at Lambeth, the other day, at a +free-and-easy—quite promiscuous—with a public company—when some +gentleman, he left these gloves behind him! Another gentleman and me, +you see, we laid a wager of a sovereign, that I wouldn’t find out who +they belonged to. I’ve spent as much as seven shillings already, in +trying to discover; but, if you could help me, I’d stand another seven +and welcome. You see there’s TR and a cross, inside.” “_I_ see,” he +says. “Bless you, _I_ know these gloves very well! I’ve seen dozens of +pairs belonging to the same party.” “No?” says I. “Yes,” says he. +“Then you know who cleaned ’em?” says I. “Rather so,” says he. “My +father cleaned ’em.” + +‘“Where does your father live?” says I. “Just round the corner,” says +the young man, “near Exeter Street, here. He’ll tell you who they belong +to, directly.” “Would you come round with me now?” says I. “Certainly,” +says he, “but you needn’t tell my father that you found me at the play, +you know, because he mightn’t like it.” “All right!” We went round to +the place, and there we found an old man in a white apron, with two or +three daughters, all rubbing and cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a +front parlour. “Oh, Father!” says the young man, “here’s a person been +and made a bet about the ownership of a pair of gloves, and I’ve told him +you can settle it.” “Good evening, sir,” says I to the old gentleman. +“Here’s the gloves your son speaks of. Letters TR, you see, and a +cross.” “Oh yes,” he says, “I know these gloves very well; I’ve cleaned +dozens of pairs of ’em. They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great +upholsterer in Cheapside.” “Did you get ’em from Mr. Trinkle, direct,” +says I, “if you’ll excuse my asking the question?” “No,” says he; “Mr. +Trinkle always sends ’em to Mr. Phibbs’s, the haberdasher’s, opposite his +shop, and the haberdasher sends ’em to me.” “Perhaps you wouldn’t object +to a drain?” says I. “Not in the least!” says he. So I took the old +gentleman out, and had a little more talk with him and his son, over a +glass, and we parted excellent friends. + +‘This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Monday morning, I +went to the haberdasher’s shop, opposite Mr. Trinkle’s, the great +upholsterer’s in Cheapside. “Mr. Phibbs in the way?” “My name is +Phibbs.” “Oh! I believe you sent this pair of gloves to be cleaned?” +“Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle over the way. There he is in the +shop!” “Oh! that’s him in the shop, is it? Him in the green coat?” +“The same individual.” “Well, Mr. Phibbs, this is an unpleasant affair; +but the fact is, I am Inspector Wield of the Detective Police, and I +found these gloves under the pillow of the young woman that was murdered +the other day, over in the Waterloo Road!” “Good Heaven!” says he. +“He’s a most respectable young man, and if his father was to hear of it, +it would be the ruin of him!” “I’m very sorry for it,” says I, “but I +must take him into custody.” “Good Heaven!” says Mr. Phibbs, again; “can +nothing be done?” “Nothing,” says I. “Will you allow me to call him +over here,” says he, “that his father may not see it done?” “I don’t +object to that,” says I; “but unfortunately, Mr. Phibbs, I can’t allow of +any communication between you. If any was attempted, I should have to +interfere directly. Perhaps you’ll beckon him over here?” Mr. Phibbs +went to the door and beckoned, and the young fellow came across the +street directly; a smart, brisk young fellow. + +‘“Good morning, sir,” says I. “Good morning, sir,” says he. “Would you +allow me to inquire, sir,” says I, “if you ever had any acquaintance with +a party of the name of Grimwood?” “Grimwood! Grimwood!” says he. “No!” +“You know the Waterloo Road?” “Oh! of course I know the Waterloo Road!” +“Happen to have heard of a young woman being murdered there?” “Yes, I +read it in the paper, and very sorry I was to read it.” “Here’s a pair +of gloves belonging to you, that I found under her pillow the morning +afterwards!” + +‘He was in a dreadful state, sir; a dreadful state I “Mr. Wield,” he +says, “upon my solemn oath I never was there. I never so much as saw +her, to my knowledge, in my life!” “I am very sorry,” says I. “To tell +you the truth; I don’t think you are the murderer, but I must take you to +Union Hall in a cab. However, I think it’s a case of that sort, that, at +present, at all events, the magistrate will hear it in private.” + +‘A private examination took place, and then it came out that this young +man was acquainted with a cousin of the unfortunate Eliza Grimwood, and +that, calling to see this cousin a day or two before the murder, he left +these gloves upon the table. Who should come in, shortly afterwards, but +Eliza Grimwood! “Whose gloves are these?” she says, taking ’em up. +“Those are Mr. Trinkle’s gloves,” says her cousin. “Oh!” says she, “they +are very dirty, and of no use to him, I am sure. I shall take ’em away +for my girl to clean the stoves with.” And she put ’em in her pocket. +The girl had used ’em to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left +’em lying on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere; +and her mistress, looking round to see that the room was tidy, had caught +’em up and put ’em under the pillow where I found ’em. + +That’s the story, sir.’ + + + +II.—THE ARTFUL TOUCH + + +‘One of the most beautiful things that ever was done, perhaps,’ said +Inspector Wield, emphasising the adjective, as preparing us to expect +dexterity or ingenuity rather than strong interest, ‘was a move of +Sergeant Witchem’s. It was a lovely idea! + +‘Witchem and me were down at Epsom one Derby Day, waiting at the station +for the Swell Mob. As I mentioned, when we were talking about these +things before, we are ready at the station when there’s races, or an +Agricultural Show, or a Chancellor sworn in for an university, or Jenny +Lind, or anything of that sort; and as the Swell Mob come down, we send +’em back again by the next train. But some of the Swell Mob, on the +occasion of this Derby that I refer to, so far kidded us as to hire a +horse and shay; start away from London by Whitechapel, and miles round; +come into Epsom from the opposite direction; and go to work, right and +left, on the course, while we were waiting for ’em at the Rail. That, +however, ain’t the point of what I’m going to tell you. + +‘While Witchem and me were waiting at the station, there comes up one Mr. +Tatt; a gentleman formerly in the public line, quite an amateur Detective +in his way, and very much respected. “Halloa, Charley Wield,” he says. +“What are you doing here? On the look out for some of your old friends?” +“Yes, the old move, Mr. Tatt.” “Come along,” he says, “you and Witchem, +and have a glass of sherry.” “We can’t stir from the place,” says I, +“till the next train comes in; but after that, we will with pleasure.” +Mr. Tatt waits, and the train comes in, and then Witchem and me go off +with him to the Hotel. Mr. Tatt he’s got up quite regardless of expense, +for the occasion; and in his shirt-front there’s a beautiful diamond +prop, cost him fifteen or twenty pound—a very handsome pin indeed. We +drink our sherry at the bar, and have had our three or four glasses, when +Witchem cries suddenly, “Look out, Mr. Wield! stand fast!” and a dash is +made into the place by the Swell Mob—four of ’em—that have come down as I +tell you, and in a moment Mr. Tatt’s prop is gone! Witchem, he cuts ’em +off at the door, I lay about me as hard as I can, Mr. Tatt shows fight +like a good ‘un, and there we are, all down together, heads and heels, +knocking about on the floor of the bar—perhaps you never see such a scene +of confusion! However, we stick to our men (Mr. Tatt being as good as +any officer), and we take ’em all, and carry ’em off to the station.’ +The station’s full of people, who have been took on the course; and it’s +a precious piece of work to get ’em secured. However, we do it at last, +and we search ’em; but nothing’s found upon ’em, and they’re locked up; +and a pretty state of heat we are in by that time, I assure you! + +‘I was very blank over it, myself, to think that the prop had been passed +away; and I said to Witchem, when we had set ’em to rights, and were +cooling ourselves along with Mr. Tatt, “we don’t take much by _this_ +move, anyway, for nothing’s found upon ’em, and it’s only the +braggadocia, {426} after all.” “What do you mean, Mr. Wield?” says +Witchem. “Here’s the diamond pin!” and in the palm of his hand there it +was, safe and sound! “Why, in the name of wonder,” says me and Mr. Tatt, +in astonishment, “how did you come by that?” “I’ll tell you how I come +by it,” says he. “I saw which of ’em took it; and when we were all down +on the floor together, knocking about, I just gave him a little touch on +the back of his hand, as I knew his pal would; and he thought it WAS his +pal; and gave it me!” It was beautiful, beau-ti-ful! + +‘Even that was hardly the best of the case, for that chap was tried at +the Quarter Sessions at Guildford. You know what Quarter Sessions are, +sir. Well, if you’ll believe me, while them slow justices were looking +over the Acts of Parliament, to see what they could do to him, I’m blowed +if he didn’t cut out of the dock before their faces! He cut out of the +dock, sir, then and there; swam across a river; and got up into a tree to +dry himself. In the tree he was took—an old woman having seen him climb +up—and Witchem’s artful touch transported him!’ + + + +III.—THE SOFA + + +‘What young men will do, sometimes, to ruin themselves and break their +friends’ hearts,’ said Sergeant Dornton, ‘it’s surprising! I had a case +at Saint Blank’s Hospital which was of this sort. A bad case, indeed, +with a bad end! + +‘The Secretary, and the House-Surgeon, and the Treasurer, of Saint +Blank’s Hospital, came to Scotland Yard to give information of numerous +robberies having been committed on the students. The students could +leave nothing in the pockets of their great-coats, while the great-coats +were hanging at the hospital, but it was almost certain to be stolen. +Property of various descriptions was constantly being lost; and the +gentlemen were naturally uneasy about it, and anxious, for the credit of +the institution, that the thief or thieves should be discovered. The +case was entrusted to me, and I went to the hospital. + +‘“Now, gentlemen,” said I, after we had talked it over; “I understand +this property is usually lost from one room.” + +‘Yes, they said. It was. + +‘“I should wish, if you please,” said I, “to see the room.” + +‘It was a good-sized bare room down-stairs, with a few tables and forms +in it, and a row of pegs, all round, for hats and coats. + +‘“Next, gentlemen,” said I, “do you suspect anybody?” + +‘Yes, they said. They did suspect somebody. They were sorry to say, +they suspected one of the porters. + +‘“I should like,” said I, “to have that man pointed out to me, and to +have a little time to look after him.” + +‘He was pointed out, and I looked after him, and then I went back to the +hospital, and said, “Now, gentlemen, it’s not the porter. He’s, +unfortunately for himself, a little too fond of drink, but he’s nothing +worse. My suspicion is, that these robberies are committed by one of the +students; and if you’ll put me a sofa into that room where the pegs +are—as there’s no closet—I think I shall be able to detect the thief. I +wish the sofa, if you please, to be covered with chintz, or something of +that sort, so that I may lie on my chest, underneath it, without being +seen.” + +‘The sofa was provided, and next day at eleven o’clock, before any of the +students came, I went there, with those gentlemen, to get underneath it. +It turned out to be one of those old-fashioned sofas with a great +cross-beam at the bottom, that would have broken my back in no time if I +could ever have got below it. We had quite a job to break all this away +in the time; however, I fell to work, and they fell to work, and we broke +it out, and made a clear place for me. I got under the sofa, lay down on +my chest, took out my knife, and made a convenient hole in the chintz to +look through. It was then settled between me and the gentlemen that when +the students were all up in the wards, one of the gentlemen should come +in, and hang up a great-coat on one of the pegs. And that that +great-coat should have, in one of the pockets, a pocket-book containing +marked money. + +‘After I had been there some time, the students began to drop into the +room, by ones, and twos, and threes, and to talk about all sorts of +things, little thinking there was anybody under the sofa—and then to go +up-stairs. At last there came in one who remained until he was alone in +the room by himself. A tallish, good-looking young man of one or two and +twenty, with a light whisker. He went to a particular hat-peg, took off +a good hat that was hanging there, tried it on, hung his own hat in its +place, and hung that hat on another peg, nearly opposite to me. I then +felt quite certain that he was the thief, and would come back by-and-by. + +‘When they were all up-stairs, the gentleman came in with the great-coat. +I showed him where to hang it, so that I might have a good view of it; +and he went away; and I lay under the sofa on my chest, for a couple of +hours or so, waiting. + +‘At last, the same young man came down. He walked across the room, +whistling—stopped and listened—took another walk and whistled—stopped +again, and listened—then began to go regularly round the pegs, feeling in +the pockets of all the coats. When he came to the great-coat, and felt +the pocket-book, he was so eager and so hurried that he broke the strap +in tearing it open. As he began to put the money in his pocket, I +crawled out from under the sofa, and his eyes met mine. + + [Picture: Dective story. The Sofa] + +‘My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale at that +time, my health not being good; and looked as long as a horse’s. Besides +which, there was a great draught of air from the door, underneath the +sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my head; so what I looked like, +altogether, I don’t know. He turned blue—literally blue—when he saw me +crawling out, and I couldn’t feel surprised at it. + +‘“I am an officer of the Detective Police,” said I, “and have been lying +here, since you first came in this morning. I regret, for the sake of +yourself and your friends, that you should have done what you have; but +this case is complete. You have the pocket-book in your hand and the +money upon you; and I must take you into custody!” + +‘It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on his trial +he pleaded guilty. How or when he got the means I don’t know; but while +he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself in Newgate.’ + + * * * * * + +We inquired of this officer, on the conclusion of the foregoing anecdote, +whether the time appeared long, or short, when he lay in that constrained +position under the sofa? + +‘Why, you see, sir,’ he replied, ‘if he hadn’t come in, the first time, +and I had not been quite sure he was the thief, and would return, the +time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I being dead certain of my +man, the time seemed pretty short.’ + + + + +ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD + + +HOW goes the night? Saint Giles’s clock is striking nine. The weather +is dull and wet, and the long lines of street lamps are blurred, as if we +saw them through tears. A damp wind blows and rakes the pieman’s fire +out, when he opens the door of his little furnace, carrying away an eddy +of sparks. + +Saint Giles’s clock strikes nine. We are punctual. Where is Inspector +Field? Assistant Commissioner of Police is already here, enwrapped in +oil-skin cloak, and standing in the shadow of Saint Giles’s steeple. +Detective Sergeant, weary of speaking French all day to foreigners +unpacking at the Great Exhibition, is already here. Where is Inspector +Field? + +Inspector Field is, to-night, the guardian genius of the British Museum. +He is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on every corner of its solitary +galleries, before he reports ‘all right.’ Suspicious of the Elgin +marbles, and not to be done by cat-faced Egyptian giants with their hands +upon their knees, Inspector Field, sagacious, vigilant, lamp in hand, +throwing monstrous shadows on the walls and ceilings, passes through the +spacious rooms. If a mummy trembled in an atom of its dusty covering, +Inspector Field would say, ‘Come out of that, Tom Green. I know you!’ +If the smallest ‘Gonoph’ about town were crouching at the bottom of a +classic bath, Inspector Field would nose him with a finer scent than the +ogre’s, when adventurous Jack lay trembling in his kitchen copper. But +all is quiet, and Inspector Field goes warily on, making little outward +show of attending to anything in particular, just recognising the +Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance, and wondering, perhaps, how the +detectives did it in the days before the Flood. + +Will Inspector Field be long about this work? He may be half-an-hour +longer. He sends his compliments by Police Constable, and proposes that +we meet at St. Giles’s Station House, across the road. Good. It were as +well to stand by the fire, there, as in the shadow of Saint Giles’s +steeple. + +Anything doing here to-night? Not much. We are very quiet. A lost boy, +extremely calm and small, sitting by the fire, whom we now confide to a +constable to take home, for the child says that if you show him Newgate +Street, he can show you where he lives—a raving drunken woman in the +cells, who has screeched her voice away, and has hardly power enough left +to declare, even with the passionate help of her feet and arms, that she +is the daughter of a British officer, and, strike her blind and dead, but +she’ll write a letter to the Queen! but who is soothed with a drink of +water—in another cell, a quiet woman with a child at her breast, for +begging—in another, her husband in a smock-frock, with a basket of +watercresses—in another, a pickpocket—in another, a meek tremulous old +pauper man who has been out for a holiday ‘and has took but a little +drop, but it has overcome him after so many months in the house’—and +that’s all as yet. Presently, a sensation at the Station House door. +Mr. Field, gentlemen! + +Inspector Field comes in, wiping his forehead, for he is of a burly +figure, and has come fast from the ores and metals of the deep mines of +the earth, and from the Parrot Gods of the South Sea Islands, and from +the birds and beetles of the tropics, and from the Arts of Greece and +Rome, and from the Sculptures of Nineveh, and from the traces of an elder +world, when these were not. Is Rogers ready? Rogers is ready, strapped +and great-coated, with a flaming eye in the middle of his waist, like a +deformed Cyclops. Lead on, Rogers, to Rats’ Castle! + +How many people may there be in London, who, if we had brought them +deviously and blindfold, to this street, fifty paces from the Station +House, and within call of Saint Giles’s church, would know it for a not +remote part of the city in which their lives are passed? How many, who +amidst this compound of sickening smells, these heaps of filth, these +tumbling houses, with all their vile contents, animate, and inanimate, +slimily overflowing into the black road, would believe that they breathe +_this_ air? How much Red Tape may there be, that could look round on the +faces which now hem us in—for our appearance here has caused a rush from +all points to a common centre—the lowering foreheads, the sallow cheeks, +the brutal eyes, the matted hair, the infected, vermin-haunted heaps of +rags—and say, ‘I have thought of this. I have not dismissed the thing. +I have neither blustered it away, nor frozen it away, nor tied it up and +put it away, nor smoothly said pooh, pooh! to it when it has been shown +to me?’ + +This is not what Rogers wants to know, however. What Rogers wants to +know, is, whether you _will_ clear the way here, some of you, or whether +you won’t; because if you don’t do it right on end, he’ll lock you up! +‘What! _You_ are there, are you, Bob Miles? You haven’t had enough of +it yet, haven’t you? You want three months more, do you? Come away from +that gentleman! What are you creeping round there for?’ + +‘What am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers?’ says Bob Miles, appearing, +villainous, at the end of a lane of light, made by the lantern. + +‘I’ll let you know pretty quick, if you don’t hook it. WILL you hook +it?’ + +A sycophantic murmur rises from the crowd. ‘Hook it, Bob, when Mr. +Rogers and Mr. Field tells you! Why don’t you hook it, when you are told +to?’ + +The most importunate of the voices strikes familiarly on Mr. Rogers’s +ear. He suddenly turns his lantern on the owner. + +‘What! _You_ are there, are you, Mister Click? You hook it too—come!’ + +‘What for?’ says Mr. Click, discomfited. + +‘You hook it, will you!’ says Mr. Rogers with stern emphasis. + +Both Click and Miles _do_ ‘hook it,’ without another word, or, in plainer +English, sneak away. + +‘Close up there, my men!’ says Inspector Field to two constables on duty +who have followed. ‘Keep together, gentlemen; we are going down here. +Heads!’ + +Saint Giles’s church strikes half-past ten. We stoop low, and creep down +a precipitous flight of steps into a dark close cellar. There is a fire. +There is a long deal table. There are benches. The cellar is full of +company, chiefly very young men in various conditions of dirt and +raggedness. Some are eating supper. There are no girls or women +present. Welcome to Rats’ Castle, gentlemen, and to this company of +noted thieves! + +‘Well, my lads! How are you, my lads? What have you been doing to-day? +Here’s some company come to see you, my lads!—_There’s_ a plate of +beefsteak, sir, for the supper of a fine young man! And there’s a mouth +for a steak, sir! Why, I should be too proud of such a mouth as that, if +I had it myself! Stand up and show it, sir! Take off your cap. There’s +a fine young man for a nice little party, sir! An’t he?’ + +Inspector Field is the bustling speaker. Inspector Field’s eye is the +roving eye that searches every corner of the cellar as he talks. +Inspector Field’s hand is the well-known hand that has collared half the +people here, and motioned their brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, male +and female friends, inexorably to New South Wales. Yet Inspector Field +stands in this den, the Sultan of the place. Every thief here cowers +before him, like a schoolboy before his schoolmaster. All watch him, all +answer when addressed, all laugh at his jokes, all seek to propitiate +him. This cellar company alone—to say nothing of the crowd surrounding +the entrance from the street above, and making the steps shine with +eyes—is strong enough to murder us all, and willing enough to do it; but, +let Inspector Field have a mind to pick out one thief here, and take him; +let him produce that ghostly truncheon from his pocket, and say, with his +business-air, ‘My lad, I want you!’ and all Rats’ Castle shall be +stricken with paralysis, and not a finger move against him, as he fits +the handcuffs on! + +Where’s the Earl of Warwick?—Here he is, Mr. Field! Here’s the Earl of +Warwick, Mr. Field!—O there you are, my Lord. Come for’ard. There’s a +chest, sir, not to have a clean shirt on. An’t it? Take your hat off, +my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed if I was you—and an Earl, too—to show +myself to a gentleman with my hat on!—The Earl of Warwick laughs and +uncovers. All the company laugh. One pickpocket, especially, laughs +with great enthusiasm. O what a jolly game it is, when Mr. Field comes +down—and don’t want nobody! + +So, you are here, too, are you, you tall, grey, soldierly-looking, grave +man, standing by the fire?—Yes, sir. Good evening, Mr. Field!—Let us +see. You lived servant to a nobleman once?—Yes, Mr. Field.—And what is +it you do now; I forget?—Well, Mr. Field, I job about as well as I can. +I left my employment on account of delicate health. The family is still +kind to me. Mr. Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind to me when I am hard +up. Likewise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a trifle from them +occasionally, and rub on as well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr. Field’s eye +rolls enjoyingly, for this man is a notorious begging-letter writer.—Good +night, my lads!—Good night, Mr. Field, and thank’ee, sir! + +Clear the street here, half a thousand of you! Cut it, Mrs. Stalker—none +of that—we don’t want you! Rogers of the flaming eye, lead on to the +tramps’ lodging-house! + +A dream of baleful faces attends to the door. Now, stand back all of +you! In the rear Detective Sergeant plants himself, composedly +whistling, with his strong right arm across the narrow passage. Mrs. +Stalker, I am something’d that need not be written here, if you won’t get +yourself into trouble, in about half a minute, if I see that face of +yours again! + +Saint Giles’s church clock, striking eleven, hums through our hand from +the dilapidated door of a dark outhouse as we open it, and are stricken +back by the pestilent breath that issues from within. Rogers to the +front with the light, and let us look! + +Ten, twenty, thirty—who can count them! Men, women, children, for the +most part naked, heaped upon the floor like maggots in a cheese! Ho! In +that dark corner yonder! Does anybody lie there? Me sir, Irish me, a +widder, with six children. And yonder? Me sir, Irish me, with me wife +and eight poor babes. And to the left there? Me sir, Irish me, along +with two more Irish boys as is me friends. And to the right there? Me +sir and the Murphy fam’ly, numbering five blessed souls. And what’s +this, coiling, now, about my foot? Another Irish me, pitifully in want +of shaving, whom I have awakened from sleep—and across my other foot lies +his wife—and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their three eldest—and +their three youngest are at present squeezed between the open door and +the wall. And why is there no one on that little mat before the sullen +fire? Because O’Donovan, with his wife and daughter, is not come in from +selling Lucifers! Nor on the bit of sacking in the nearest corner? Bad +luck! Because that Irish family is late to-night, a-cadging in the +streets! + +They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of them sit up, +to stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming eye, there is a +spectral figure rising, unshrouded, from a grave of rags. Who is the +landlord here?—I am, Mr. Field! says a bundle of ribs and parchment +against the wall, scratching itself.—Will you spend this money fairly, in +the morning, to buy coffee for ’em all?—Yes, sir, I will!—O he’ll do it, +sir, he’ll do it fair. He’s honest! cry the spectres. And with thanks +and Good Night sink into their graves again. + +Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets, and our other new streets, never +heeding, never asking, where the wretches whom we clear out, crowd. With +such scenes at our doors, with all the plagues of Egypt tied up with bits +of cobweb in kennels so near our homes, we timorously make our Nuisance +Bills and Boards of Health, nonentities, and think to keep away the +Wolves of Crime and Filth, by our electioneering ducking to little +vestrymen and our gentlemanly handling of Red Tape! + +Intelligence of the coffee-money has got abroad. The yard is full, and +Rogers of the flaming eye is beleaguered with entreaties to show other +Lodging Houses. Mine next! Mine! Mine! Rogers, military, obdurate, +stiff-necked, immovable, replies not, but leads away; all falling back +before him. Inspector Field follows. Detective Sergeant, with his +barrier of arm across the little passage, deliberately waits to close the +procession. He sees behind him, without any effort, and exceedingly +disturbs one individual far in the rear by coolly calling out, ‘It won’t +do, Mr. Michael! Don’t try it!’ + +After council holden in the street, we enter other lodging-houses, +public-houses, many lairs and holes; all noisome and offensive; none so +filthy and so crowded as where Irish are. In one, The Ethiopian party +are expected home presently—were in Oxford Street when last heard +of—shall be fetched, for our delight, within ten minutes. In another, +one of the two or three Professors who drew Napoleon Buonaparte and a +couple of mackerel, on the pavement and then let the work of art out to a +speculator, is refreshing after his labours. In another, the vested +interest of the profitable nuisance has been in one family for a hundred +years, and the landlord drives in comfortably from the country to his +snug little stew in town. In all, Inspector Field is received with +warmth. Coiners and smashers droop before him; pickpockets defer to him; +the gentle sex (not very gentle here) smile upon him. Half-drunken hags +check themselves in the midst of pots of beer, or pints of gin, to drink +to Mr. Field, and pressingly to ask the honour of his finishing the +draught. One beldame in rusty black has such admiration for him, that +she runs a whole street’s length to shake him by the hand; tumbling into +a heap of mud by the way, and still pressing her attentions when her very +form has ceased to be distinguishable through it. Before the power of +the law, the power of superior sense—for common thieves are fools beside +these men—and the power of a perfect mastery of their character, the +garrison of Rats’ Castle and the adjacent Fortresses make but a skulking +show indeed when reviewed by Inspector Field. + +Saint Giles’s clock says it will be midnight in half-an-hour, and +Inspector Field says we must hurry to the Old Mint in the Borough. The +cab-driver is low-spirited, and has a solemn sense of his responsibility. +Now, what’s your fare, my lad?—O you know, Inspector Field, what’s the +good of asking me! + +Say, Parker, strapped and great-coated, and waiting in dim Borough +doorway by appointment, to replace the trusty Rogers whom we left deep in +Saint Giles’s, are you ready? Ready, Inspector Field, and at a motion of +my wrist behold my flaming eye. + +This narrow street, sir, is the chief part of the Old Mint, full of low +lodging-houses, as you see by the transparent canvas-lamps and blinds, +announcing beds for travellers! But it is greatly changed, friend Field, +from my former knowledge of it; it is infinitely quieter and more subdued +than when I was here last, some seven years ago? O yes! Inspector +Haynes, a first-rate man, is on this station now and plays the Devil with +them! + +Well, my lads! How are you to-night, my lads? Playing cards here, eh? +Who wins?—Why, Mr. Field, I, the sulky gentleman with the damp flat +side-curls, rubbing my bleared eye with the end of my neckerchief which +is like a dirty eel-skin, am losing just at present, but I suppose I must +take my pipe out of my mouth, and be submissive to _you_—I hope I see you +well, Mr. Field?—Aye, all right, my lad. Deputy, who have you got +up-stairs? Be pleased to show the rooms! + +Why Deputy, Inspector Field can’t say. He only knows that the man who +takes care of the beds and lodgers is always called so. Steady, O +Deputy, with the flaring candle in the blacking-bottle, for this is a +slushy back-yard, and the wooden staircase outside the house creaks and +has holes in it. + +Again, in these confined intolerable rooms, burrowed out like the holes +of rats or the nests of insect-vermin, but fuller of intolerable smells, +are crowds of sleepers, each on his foul truckle-bed coiled up beneath a +rug. Holloa here! Come! Let us see you! Show your face! Pilot Parker +goes from bed to bed and turns their slumbering heads towards us, as a +salesman might turn sheep. Some wake up with an execration and a +threat.—What! who spoke? O! If it’s the accursed glaring eye that fixes +me, go where I will, I am helpless. Here! I sit up to be looked at. Is +it me you want? Not you, lie down again! and I lie down, with a woful +growl. + +Whenever the turning lane of light becomes stationary for a moment, some +sleeper appears at the end of it, submits himself to be scrutinised, and +fades away into the darkness. + +There should be strange dreams here, Deputy. They sleep sound enough, +says Deputy, taking the candle out of the blacking-bottle, snuffing it +with his fingers, throwing the snuff into the bottle, and corking it up +with the candle; that’s all _I_ know. What is the inscription, Deputy, +on all the discoloured sheets? A precaution against loss of linen. +Deputy turns down the rug of an unoccupied bed and discloses it. STOP +THIEF! + +To lie at night, wrapped in the legend of my slinking life; to take the +cry that pursues me, waking, to my breast in sleep; to have it staring at +me, and clamouring for me, as soon as consciousness returns; to have it +for my first-foot on New-Year’s day, my Valentine, my Birthday salute, my +Christmas greeting, my parting with the old year. STOP THIEF! + +And to know that I _must_ be stopped, come what will. To know that I am +no match for this individual energy and keenness, or this organised and +steady system! Come across the street, here, and, entering by a little +shop and yard, examine these intricate passages and doors, contrived for +escape, flapping and counter-flapping, like the lids of the conjurer’s +boxes. But what avail they? Who gets in by a nod, and shows their +secret working to us? Inspector Field. + +Don’t forget the old Farm House, Parker! Parker is not the man to forget +it. We are going there, now. It is the old Manor-House of these parts, +and stood in the country once. Then, perhaps, there was something, which +was not the beastly street, to see from the shattered low fronts of the +overhanging wooden houses we are passing under—shut up now, pasted over +with bills about the literature and drama of the Mint, and mouldering +away. This long paved yard was a paddock or a garden once, or a court in +front of the Farm House. Perchance, with a dovecot in the centre, and +fowls peeking about—with fair elm trees, then, where discoloured +chimney-stacks and gables are now—noisy, then, with rooks which have +yielded to a different sort of rookery. It’s likelier than not, +Inspector Field thinks, as we turn into the common kitchen, which is in +the yard, and many paces from the house. + +Well, my lads and lasses, how are you all? Where’s Blackey, who has +stood near London Bridge these five-and-twenty years, with a painted skin +to represent disease?—Here he is, Mr. Field!—How are you, Blackey?—Jolly, +sa! Not playing the fiddle to-night, Blackey?—Not a night, sa! A sharp, +smiling youth, the wit of the kitchen, interposes. He an’t musical +to-night, sir. I’ve been giving him a moral lecture; I’ve been a talking +to him about his latter end, you see. A good many of these are my +pupils, sir. This here young man (smoothing down the hair of one near +him, reading a Sunday paper) is a pupil of mine. I’m a teaching of him +to read, sir. He’s a promising cove, sir. He’s a smith, he is, and gets +his living by the sweat of the brow, sir. So do I, myself, sir. This +young woman is my sister, Mr. Field. _She’s_ getting on very well too. +I’ve a deal of trouble with ’em, sir, but I’m richly rewarded, now I see +’em all a doing so well, and growing up so creditable. That’s a great +comfort, that is, an’t it, sir?—In the midst of the kitchen (the whole +kitchen is in ecstasies with this impromptu ‘chaff’) sits a young, +modest, gentle-looking creature, with a beautiful child in her lap. She +seems to belong to the company, but is so strangely unlike it. She has +such a pretty, quiet face and voice, and is so proud to hear the child +admired—thinks you would hardly believe that he is only nine months old! +Is she as bad as the rest, I wonder? Inspectorial experience does not +engender a belief contrariwise, but prompts the answer, Not a ha’porth of +difference! + +There is a piano going in the old Farm House as we approach. It stops. +Landlady appears. Has no objections, Mr. Field, to gentlemen being +brought, but wishes it were at earlier hours, the lodgers complaining of +ill-conwenience. Inspector Field is polite and soothing—knows his woman +and the sex. Deputy (a girl in this case) shows the way up a heavy, +broad old staircase, kept very clean, into clean rooms where many +sleepers are, and where painted panels of an older time look strangely on +the truckle beds. The sight of whitewash and the smell of soap—two +things we seem by this time to have parted from in infancy—make the old +Farm House a phenomenon, and connect themselves with the so curiously +misplaced picture of the pretty mother and child long after we have left +it,—long after we have left, besides, the neighbouring nook with +something of a rustic flavour in it yet, where once, beneath a low wooden +colonnade still standing as of yore, the eminent Jack Sheppard +condescended to regale himself, and where, now, two old bachelor brothers +in broad hats (who are whispered in the Mint to have made a compact long +ago that if either should ever marry, he must forfeit his share of the +joint property) still keep a sequestered tavern, and sit o’ nights +smoking pipes in the bar, among ancient bottles and glasses, as our eyes +behold them. + +How goes the night now? Saint George of Southwark answers with twelve +blows upon his bell. Parker, good night, for Williams is already waiting +over in the region of Ratcliffe Highway, to show the houses where the +sailors dance. + +I should like to know where Inspector Field was born. In Ratcliffe +Highway, I would have answered with confidence, but for his being equally +at home wherever we go. _He_ does not trouble his head as I do, about +the river at night. _He_ does not care for its creeping, black and +silent, on our right there, rushing through sluice-gates, lapping at +piles and posts and iron rings, hiding strange things in its mud, running +away with suicides and accidentally drowned bodies faster than midnight +funeral should, and acquiring such various experience between its cradle +and its grave. It has no mystery for him. Is there not the Thames +Police! + +Accordingly, Williams leads the way. We are a little late, for some of +the houses are already closing. No matter. You show us plenty. All the +landlords know Inspector Field. All pass him, freely and +good-humouredly, wheresoever he wants to go. So thoroughly are all these +houses open to him and our local guide, that, granting that sailors must +be entertained in their own way—as I suppose they must, and have a right +to be—I hardly know how such places could be better regulated. Not that +I call the company very select, or the dancing very graceful—even so +graceful as that of the German Sugar Bakers, whose assembly, by the +Minories, we stopped to visit—but there is watchful maintenance of order +in every house, and swift expulsion where need is. Even in the midst of +drunkenness, both of the lethargic kind and the lively, there is sharp +landlord supervision, and pockets are in less peril than out of doors. +These houses show, singularly, how much of the picturesque and romantic +there truly is in the sailor, requiring to be especially addressed. All +the songs (sung in a hailstorm of halfpence, which are pitched at the +singer without the least tenderness for the time or tune—mostly from +great rolls of copper carried for the purpose—and which he occasionally +dodges like shot as they fly near his head) are of the sentimental sea +sort. All the rooms are decorated with nautical subjects. Wrecks, +engagements, ships on fire, ships passing lighthouses on iron-bound +coasts, ships blowing up, ships going down, ships running ashore, men +lying out upon the main-yard in a gale of wind, sailors and ships in +every variety of peril, constitute the illustrations of fact. Nothing +can be done in the fanciful way, without a thumping boy upon a scaly +dolphin. + +How goes the night now? Past one. Black and Green are waiting in +Whitechapel to unveil the mysteries of Wentworth Street. Williams, the +best of friends must part. Adieu! + +Are not Black and Green ready at the appointed place? O yes! They glide +out of shadow as we stop. Imperturbable Black opens the cab-door; +Imperturbable Green takes a mental note of the driver. Both Green and +Black then open each his flaming eye, and marshal us the way that we are +going. + +The lodging-house we want is hidden in a maze of streets and courts. It +is fast shut. We knock at the door, and stand hushed looking up for a +light at one or other of the begrimed old lattice windows in its ugly +front, when another constable comes up—supposes that we want ‘to see the +school.’ Detective Sergeant meanwhile has got over a rail, opened a +gate, dropped down an area, overcome some other little obstacles, and +tapped at a window. Now returns. The landlord will send a deputy +immediately. + +Deputy is heard to stumble out of bed. Deputy lights a candle, draws +back a bolt or two, and appears at the door. Deputy is a shivering shirt +and trousers by no means clean, a yawning face, a shock head much +confused externally and internally. We want to look for some one. You +may go up with the light, and take ’em all, if you like, says Deputy, +resigning it, and sitting down upon a bench in the kitchen with his ten +fingers sleepily twisting in his hair. + +Halloa here! Now then! Show yourselves. That’ll do. It’s not you. +Don’t disturb yourself any more! So on, through a labyrinth of airless +rooms, each man responding, like a wild beast, to the keeper who has +tamed him, and who goes into his cage. What, you haven’t found him, +then? says Deputy, when we came down. A woman mysteriously sitting up +all night in the dark by the smouldering ashes of the kitchen fire, says +it’s only tramps and cadgers here; it’s gonophs over the way. A man +mysteriously walking about the kitchen all night in the dark, bids her +hold her tongue. We come out. Deputy fastens the door and goes to bed +again. + +Black and Green, you know Bark, lodging-house keeper and receiver of +stolen goods?—O yes, Inspector Field.—Go to Bark’s next. + +Bark sleeps in an inner wooden hutch, near his street door. As we parley +on the step with Bark’s Deputy, Bark growls in his bed. We enter, and +Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a red villain and a wrathful, with a +sanguine throat that looks very much as if it were expressly made for +hanging, as he stretches it out, in pale defiance, over the half-door of +his hutch. Bark’s parts of speech are of an awful sort—principally +adjectives. I won’t, says Bark, have no adjective police and adjective +strangers in my adjective premises! I won’t, by adjective and +substantive! Give me my trousers, and I’ll send the whole adjective +police to adjective and substantive! Give me, says Bark, my adjective +trousers! I’ll put an adjective knife in the whole bileing of ’em. I’ll +punch their adjective heads. I’ll rip up their adjective substantives. +Give me my adjective trousers! says Bark, and I’ll spile the bileing of +’em! + +Now, Bark, what’s the use of this? Here’s Black and Green, Detective +Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You know we will come in.—I know you +won’t! says Bark. Somebody give me my adjective trousers! Bark’s +trousers seem difficult to find. He calls for them as Hercules might for +his club. Give me my adjective trousers! says Bark, and I’ll spile the +bileing of ’em! + +Inspector Field holds that it’s all one whether Bark likes the visit or +don’t like it. He, Inspector Field, is an Inspector of the Detective +Police, Detective Sergeant is Detective Sergeant, Black and Green are +constables in uniform. Don’t you be a fool, Bark, or you know it will be +the worse for you.—I don’t care, says Bark. Give me my adjective +trousers! + +At two o’clock in the morning, we descend into Bark’s low kitchen, +leaving Bark to foam at the mouth above, and Imperturbable Black and +Green to look at him. Bark’s kitchen is crammed full of thieves, holding +a conversazione there by lamp-light. It is by far the most dangerous +assembly we have seen yet. Stimulated by the ravings of Bark, above, +their looks are sullen, but not a man speaks. We ascend again. Bark has +got his trousers, and is in a state of madness in the passage with his +back against a door that shuts off the upper staircase. We observe, in +other respects, a ferocious individuality in Bark. Instead of ‘STOP +THIEF!’ on his linen, he prints ‘STOLEN FROM Bark’s!’ + +Now, Bark, we are going up-stairs!—No, you ain’t!—You refuse admission to +the Police, do you, Bark?—Yes, I do! I refuse it to all the adjective +police, and to all the adjective substantives. If the adjective coves in +the kitchen was men, they’d come up now, and do for you! Shut me that +there door! says Bark, and suddenly we are enclosed in the passage. +They’d come up and do for you! cries Bark, and waits. Not a sound in the +kitchen! They’d come up and do for you! cries Bark again, and waits. +Not a sound in the kitchen! We are shut up, half-a-dozen of us, in +Bark’s house in the innermost recesses of the worst part of London, in +the dead of the night—the house is crammed with notorious robbers and +ruffians—and not a man stirs. No, Bark. They know the weight of the +law, and they know Inspector Field and Co. too well. + +We leave bully Bark to subside at leisure out of his passion and his +trousers, and, I dare say, to be inconveniently reminded of this little +brush before long. Black and Green do ordinary duty here, and look +serious. + +As to White, who waits on Holborn Hill to show the courts that are eaten +out of Rotten Gray’s Inn, Lane, where other lodging-houses are, and where +(in one blind alley) the Thieves’ Kitchen and Seminary for the teaching +of the art to children is, the night has so worn away, being now + + almost at odds with morning, which is which, + +that they are quiet, and no light shines through the chinks in the +shutters. As undistinctive Death will come here, one day, sleep comes +now. The wicked cease from troubling sometimes, even in this life. + + + + +DOWN WITH THE TIDE + + +A VERY dark night it was, and bitter cold; the east wind blowing bleak, +and bringing with it stinging particles from marsh, and moor, and +fen—from the Great Desert and Old Egypt, may be. Some of the component +parts of the sharp-edged vapour that came flying up the Thames at London +might be mummy-dust, dry atoms from the Temple at Jerusalem, camels’ +foot-prints, crocodiles’ hatching-places, loosened grains of expression +from the visages of blunt-nosed sphynxes, waifs and strays from caravans +of turbaned merchants, vegetation from jungles, frozen snow from the +Himalayas. O! It was very, very dark upon the Thames, and it was +bitter, bitter cold. + +‘And yet,’ said the voice within the great pea-coat at my side, ‘you’ll +have seen a good many rivers, too, I dare say?’ + +‘Truly,’ said I, ‘when I come to think of it, not a few. From the +Niagara, downward to the mountain rivers of Italy, which are like the +national spirit—very tame, or chafing suddenly and bursting bounds, only +to dwindle away again. The Moselle, and the Rhine, and the Rhone; and +the Seine, and the Saone; and the St. Lawrence, Mississippi, and Ohio; +and the Tiber, the Po, and the Arno; and the—’ + +Peacoat coughing as if he had had enough of that, I said no more. I +could have carried the catalogue on to a teasing length, though, if I had +been in the cruel mind. + +‘And after all,’ said he, ‘this looks so dismal?’ + +‘So awful,’ I returned, ‘at night. The Seine at Paris is very gloomy +too, at such a time, and is probably the scene of far more crime and +greater wickedness; but this river looks so broad and vast, so murky and +silent, seems such an image of death in the midst of the great city’s +life, that—’ + +That Peacoat coughed again. He _could not_ stand my holding forth. + +We were in a four-oared Thames Police Galley, lying on our oars in the +deep shadow of Southwark Bridge—under the corner arch on the Surrey +side—having come down with the tide from Vauxhall. We were fain to hold +on pretty tight, though close in shore, for the river was swollen and the +tide running down very strong. We were watching certain water-rats of +human growth, and lay in the deep shade as quiet as mice; our light +hidden and our scraps of conversation carried on in whispers. Above us, +the massive iron girders of the arch were faintly visible, and below us +its ponderous shadow seemed to sink down to the bottom of the stream. + +We had been lying here some half an hour. With our backs to the wind, it +is true; but the wind being in a determined temper blew straight through +us, and would not take the trouble to go round. I would have boarded a +fireship to get into action, and mildly suggested as much to my friend +Pea. + +‘No doubt,’ says he as patiently as possible; ‘but shore-going tactics +wouldn’t do with us. River-thieves can always get rid of stolen property +in a moment by dropping it overboard. We want to take them with the +property, so we lurk about and come out upon ’em sharp. If they see us +or hear us, over it goes.’ + +Pea’s wisdom being indisputable, there was nothing for it but to sit +there and be blown through, for another half-hour. The water-rats +thinking it wise to abscond at the end of that time without commission of +felony, we shot out, disappointed, with the tide. + +‘Grim they look, don’t they?’ said Pea, seeing me glance over my shoulder +at the lights upon the bridge, and downward at their long crooked +reflections in the river. + +‘Very,’ said I, ‘and make one think with a shudder of Suicides. What a +night for a dreadful leap from that parapet!’ + +‘Aye, but Waterloo’s the favourite bridge for making holes in the water +from,’ returned Pea. ‘By the bye—avast pulling, lads!—would you like to +speak to Waterloo on the subject?’ + +My face confessing a surprised desire to have some friendly conversation +with Waterloo Bridge, and my friend Pea being the most obliging of men, +we put about, pulled out of the force of the stream, and in place of +going at great speed with the tide, began to strive against it, close in +shore again. Every colour but black seemed to have departed from the +world. The air was black, the water was black, the barges and hulks were +black, the piles were black, the buildings were black, the shadows were +only a deeper shade of black upon a black ground. Here and there, a coal +fire in an iron cresset blazed upon a wharf; but, one knew that it too +had been black a little while ago, and would be black again soon. +Uncomfortable rushes of water suggestive of gurgling and drowning, +ghostly rattlings of iron chains, dismal clankings of discordant engines, +formed the music that accompanied the dip of our oars and their rattling +in the rowlocks. Even the noises had a black sound to me—as the trumpet +sounded red to the blind man. + +Our dexterous boat’s crew made nothing of the tide, and pulled us +gallantly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here Pea and I disembarked, passed +under the black stone archway, and climbed the steep stone steps. Within +a few feet of their summit, Pea presented me to Waterloo (or an eminent +toll-taker representing that structure), muffled up to the eyes in a +thick shawl, and amply great-coated and fur-capped. + +Waterloo received us with cordiality, and observed of the night that it +was ‘a Searcher.’ He had been originally called the Strand Bridge, he +informed us, but had received his present name at the suggestion of the +proprietors, when Parliament had resolved to vote three hundred thousand +pound for the erection of a monument in honour of the victory. +Parliament took the hint (said Waterloo, with the least flavour of +misanthropy) and saved the money. Of course the late Duke of Wellington +was the first passenger, and of course he paid his penny, and of course a +noble lord preserved it evermore. The treadle and index at the +toll-house (a most ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible), +were invented by Mr. Lethbridge, then property-man at Drury Lane Theatre. + +Was it suicide, we wanted to know about? said Waterloo. Ha! Well, he +had seen a good deal of that work, he did assure us. He had prevented +some. Why, one day a woman, poorish looking, came in between the hatch, +slapped down a penny, and wanted to go on without the change! Waterloo +suspected this, and says to his mate, ‘give an eye to the gate,’ and +bolted after her. She had got to the third seat between the piers, and +was on the parapet just a going over, when he caught her and gave her in +charge. At the police office next morning, she said it was along of +trouble and a bad husband. + +‘Likely enough,’ observed Waterloo to Pea and myself, as he adjusted his +chin in his shawl. ‘There’s a deal of trouble about, you see—and bad +husbands too!’ + +Another time, a young woman at twelve o’clock in the open day, got +through, darted along; and, before Waterloo could come near her, jumped +upon the parapet, and shot herself over sideways. Alarm given, watermen +put off, lucky escape.—Clothes buoyed her up. + +‘This is where it is,’ said Waterloo. ‘If people jump off straight +forwards from the middle of the parapet of the bays of the bridge, they +are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor things; that’s what +they are; they dash themselves upon the buttress of the bridge. But you +jump off,’ said Waterloo to me, putting his fore-finger in a button-hole +of my great-coat; ‘you jump off from the side of the bay, and you’ll +tumble, true, into the stream under the arch. What you have got to do, +is to mind how you jump in! There was poor Tom Steele from Dublin. +Didn’t dive! Bless you, didn’t dive at all! Fell down so flat into the +water, that he broke his breast-bone, and lived two days!’ + +I asked Waterloo if there were a favourite side of his bridge for this +dreadful purpose? He reflected, and thought yes, there was. He should +say the Surrey side. + +Three decent-looking men went through one day, soberly and quietly, and +went on abreast for about a dozen yards: when the middle one, he sung +out, all of a sudden, ‘Here goes, Jack!’ and was over in a minute. + +Body found? Well. Waterloo didn’t rightly recollect about that. They +were compositors, _they_ were. + +He considered it astonishing how quick people were! Why, there was a cab +came up one Boxing-night, with a young woman in it, who looked, according +to Waterloo’s opinion of her, a little the worse for liquor; very +handsome she was too—very handsome. She stopped the cab at the gate, and +said she’d pay the cabman then, which she did, though there was a little +hankering about the fare, because at first she didn’t seem quite to know +where she wanted to be drove to. However, she paid the man, and the toll +too, and looking Waterloo in the face (he thought she knew him, don’t you +see!) said, ‘I’ll finish it somehow!’ Well, the cab went off, leaving +Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was going on at full +speed the young woman jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered, ran along +the bridge pavement a little way, passing several people, and jumped over +from the second opening. At the inquest it was giv’ in evidence that she +had been quarrelling at the Hero of Waterloo, and it was brought in +jealousy. (One of the results of Waterloo’s experience was, that there +was a deal of jealousy about.) + +‘Do we ever get madmen?’ said Waterloo, in answer to an inquiry of mine. +‘Well, we _do_ get madmen. Yes, we have had one or two; escaped from +‘Sylums, I suppose. One hadn’t a halfpenny; and because I wouldn’t let +him through, he went back a little way, stooped down, took a run, and +butted at the hatch like a ram. He smashed his hat rarely, but his head +didn’t seem no worse—in my opinion on account of his being wrong in it +afore. Sometimes people haven’t got a halfpenny. If they are really +tired and poor we give ’em one and let ’em through. Other people will +leave things—pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I have taken cravats and +gloves, pocket-knives, tooth-picks, studs, shirt-pins, rings (generally +from young gents, early in the morning), but handkerchiefs is the general +thing.’ + +‘Regular customers?’ said Waterloo. ‘Lord, yes! We have regular +customers. One, such a worn-out, used-up old file as you can scarcely +picter, comes from the Surrey side as regular as ten o’clock at night +comes; and goes over, _I_ think, to some flash house on the Middlesex +side. He comes back, he does, as reg’lar as the clock strikes three in +the morning, and then can hardly drag one of his old legs after the +other. He always turns down the water-stairs, comes up again, and then +goes on down the Waterloo Road. He always does the same thing, and never +varies a minute. Does it every night—even Sundays.’ + +I asked Waterloo if he had given his mind to the possibility of this +particular customer going down the water-stairs at three o’clock some +morning, and never coming up again? He didn’t think that of him, he +replied. In fact, it was Waterloo’s opinion, founded on his observation +of that file, that he know’d a trick worth two of it. + +‘There’s another queer old customer,’ said Waterloo, ‘comes over, as +punctual as the almanack, at eleven o’clock on the sixth of January, at +eleven o’clock on the fifth of April, at eleven o’clock on the sixth of +July, at eleven o’clock on the tenth of October. Drives a shaggy little, +rough pony, in a sort of a rattle-trap arm-chair sort of a thing. White +hair he has, and white whiskers, and muffles himself up with all manner +of shawls. He comes back again the same afternoon, and we never see more +of him for three months. He is a captain in the navy—retired—wery +old—wery odd—and served with Lord Nelson. He is particular about drawing +his pension at Somerset House afore the clock strikes twelve every +quarter. I have heerd say that he thinks it wouldn’t be according to the +Act of Parliament, if he didn’t draw it afore twelve.’ + +Having related these anecdotes in a natural manner, which was the best +warranty in the world for their genuine nature, our friend Waterloo was +sinking deep into his shawl again, as having exhausted his communicative +powers and taken in enough east wind, when my other friend Pea in a +moment brought him to the surface by asking whether he had not been +occasionally the subject of assault and battery in the execution of his +duty? Waterloo recovering his spirits, instantly dashed into a new +branch of his subject. We learnt how ‘both these teeth’—here he pointed +to the places where two front teeth were not—were knocked out by an ugly +customer who one night made a dash at him (Waterloo) while his (the ugly +customer’s) pal and coadjutor made a dash at the toll-taking apron where +the money-pockets were; how Waterloo, letting the teeth go (to Blazes, he +observed indefinitely), grappled with the apron-seizer, permitting the +ugly one to run away; and how he saved the bank, and captured his man, +and consigned him to fine and imprisonment. Also how, on another night, +‘a Cove’ laid hold of Waterloo, then presiding at the horse-gate of his +bridge, and threw him unceremoniously over his knee, having first cut his +head open with his whip. How Waterloo ‘got right,’ and started after the +Cove all down the Waterloo Road, through Stamford Street, and round to +the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove ‘cut into’ a public-house. +How Waterloo cut in too; but how an aider and abettor of the Cove’s, who +happened to be taking a promiscuous drain at the bar, stopped Waterloo; +and the Cove cut out again, ran across the road down Holland Street, and +where not, and into a beer-shop. How Waterloo breaking away from his +detainer was close upon the Cove’s heels, attended by no end of people, +who, seeing him running with the blood streaming down his face, thought +something worse was ‘up,’ and roared Fire! and Murder! on the hopeful +chance of the matter in hand being one or both. How the Cove was +ignominiously taken, in a shed where he had run to hide, and how at the +Police Court they at first wanted to make a sessions job of it; but +eventually Waterloo was allowed to be ‘spoke to,’ and the Cove made it +square with Waterloo by paying his doctor’s bill (W. was laid up for a +week) and giving him ‘Three, ten.’ Likewise we learnt what we had +faintly suspected before, that your sporting amateur on the Derby day, +albeit a captain, can be—‘if he be,’ as Captain Bobadil observes, ‘so +generously minded’—anything but a man of honour and a gentleman; not +sufficiently gratifying his nice sense of humour by the witty scattering +of flour and rotten eggs on obtuse civilians, but requiring the further +excitement of ‘bilking the toll,’ and ‘Pitching into’ Waterloo, and +‘cutting him about the head with his whip;’ finally being, when called +upon to answer for the assault, what Waterloo described as ‘Minus,’ or, +as I humbly conceived it, not to be found. Likewise did Waterloo inform +us, in reply to my inquiries, admiringly and deferentially preferred +through my friend Pea, that the takings at the Bridge had more than +doubled in amount, since the reduction of the toll one half. And being +asked if the aforesaid takings included much bad money, Waterloo +responded, with a look far deeper than the deepest part of the river, he +should think not!—and so retired into his shawl for the rest of the +night. + +Then did Pea and I once more embark in our four-oared galley, and glide +swiftly down the river with the tide. And while the shrewd East rasped +and notched us, as with jagged razors, did my friend Pea impart to me +confidences of interest relating to the Thames Police; we, between +whiles, finding ‘duty boats’ hanging in dark corners under banks, like +weeds—our own was a ‘supervision boat’—and they, as they reported ‘all +right!’ flashing their hidden light on us, and we flashing ours on them. +These duty boats had one sitter in each: an Inspector: and were rowed +‘Ran-dan,’ which—for the information of those who never graduated, as I +was once proud to do, under a fireman-waterman and winner of Kean’s Prize +Wherry: who, in the course of his tuition, took hundreds of gallons of +rum and egg (at my expense) at the various houses of note above and below +bridge; not by any means because he liked it, but to cure a weakness in +his liver, for which the faculty had particularly recommended it—may be +explained as rowed by three men, two pulling an oar each, and one a pair +of sculls. + +Thus, floating down our black highway, sullenly frowned upon by the +knitted brows of Blackfriars, Southwark, and London, each in his lowering +turn, I was shown by my friend Pea that there are, in the Thames Police +Force, whose district extends from Battersea to Barking Creek, +ninety-eight men, eight duty boats, and two supervision boats; and that +these go about so silently, and lie in wait in such dark places, and so +seem to be nowhere, and so may be anywhere, that they have gradually +become a police of prevention, keeping the river almost clear of any +great crimes, even while the increased vigilance on shore has made it +much harder than of yore to live by ‘thieving’ in the streets. And as to +the various kinds of water-thieves, said my friend Pea, there were the +Tier-rangers, who silently dropped alongside the tiers of shipping in the +Pool, by night, and who, going to the companion-head, listened for two +snores—snore number one, the skipper’s; snore number two, the +mate’s—mates and skippers always snoring great guns, and being dead sure +to be hard at it if they had turned in and were asleep. Hearing the +double fire, down went the Rangers into the skippers’ cabins; groped for +the skippers’ inexpressibles, which it was the custom of those gentlemen +to shake off, watch, money, braces, boots, and all together, on the +floor; and therewith made off as silently as might be. Then there were +the Lumpers, or labourers employed to unload vessels. They wore loose +canvas jackets with a broad hem in the bottom, turned inside, so as to +form a large circular pocket in which they could conceal, like clowns in +pantomimes, packages of surprising sizes. A great deal of property was +stolen in this manner (Pea confided to me) from steamers; first, because +steamers carry a larger number of small packages than other ships; next, +because of the extreme rapidity with which they are obliged to be unladen +for their return voyages. The Lumpers dispose of their booty easily to +marine store dealers, and the only remedy to be suggested is that marine +store shops should be licensed, and thus brought under the eye of the +police as rigidly as public-houses. Lumpers also smuggle goods ashore +for the crews of vessels. The smuggling of tobacco is so considerable, +that it is well worth the while of the sellers of smuggled tobacco to use +hydraulic presses, to squeeze a single pound into a package small enough +to be contained in an ordinary pocket. Next, said my friend Pea, there +were the Truckers—less thieves than smugglers, whose business it was to +land more considerable parcels of goods than the Lumpers could manage. +They sometimes sold articles of grocery and so forth, to the crews, in +order to cloak their real calling, and get aboard without suspicion. +Many of them had boats of their own, and made money. Besides these, +there were the Dredgermen, who, under pretence of dredging up coals and +such like from the bottom of the river, hung about barges and other +undecked craft, and when they saw an opportunity, threw any property they +could lay their hands on overboard: in order slyly to dredge it up when +the vessel was gone. Sometimes, they dexterously used their dredges to +whip away anything that might lie within reach. Some of them were mighty +neat at this, and the accomplishment was called dry dredging. Then, +there was a vast deal of property, such as copper nails, sheathing, +hardwood, &c., habitually brought away by shipwrights and other workmen +from their employers’ yards, and disposed of to marine store dealers, +many of whom escaped detection through hard swearing, and their +extraordinary artful ways of accounting for the possession of stolen +property. Likewise, there were special-pleading practitioners, for whom +barges ‘drifted away of their own selves’—they having no hand in it, +except first cutting them loose, and afterwards plundering +them—innocents, meaning no harm, who had the misfortune to observe those +foundlings wandering about the Thames. + +We were now going in and out, with little noise and great nicety, among +the tiers of shipping, whose many hulls, lying close together, rose out +of the water like black streets. Here and there, a Scotch, an Irish, or +a foreign steamer, getting up her steam as the tide made, looked, with +her great chimney and high sides, like a quiet factory among the common +buildings. Now, the streets opened into clearer spaces, now contracted +into alleys; but the tiers were so like houses, in the dark, that I could +almost have believed myself in the narrower bye-ways of Venice. +Everything was wonderfully still; for, it wanted full three hours of +flood, and nothing seemed awake but a dog here and there. + +So we took no Tier-rangers captive, nor any Lumpers, nor Truckers, nor +Dredgermen, nor other evil-disposed person or persons; but went ashore at +Wapping, where the old Thames Police office is now a station-house, and +where the old Court, with its cabin windows looking on the river, is a +quaint charge room: with nothing worse in it usually than a stuffed cat +in a glass case, and a portrait, pleasant to behold, of a rare old Thames +Police officer, Mr. Superintendent Evans, now succeeded by his son. We +looked over the charge books, admirably kept, and found the prevention so +good that there were not five hundred entries (including drunken and +disorderly) in a whole year. Then, we looked into the store-room; where +there was an oakum smell, and a nautical seasoning of dreadnought +clothing, rope yarn, boat-hooks, sculls and oars, spare stretchers, +rudders, pistols, cutlasses, and the like. Then, into the cell, aired +high up in the wooden wall through an opening like a kitchen plate-rack: +wherein there was a drunken man, not at all warm, and very wishful to +know if it were morning yet. Then, into a better sort of watch and ward +room, where there was a squadron of stone bottles drawn up, ready to be +filled with hot water and applied to any unfortunate creature who might +be brought in apparently drowned. Finally, we shook hands with our +worthy friend Pea, and ran all the way to Tower Hill, under strong Police +suspicion occasionally, before we got warm. + + + + +A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE + + +ON a certain Sunday, I formed one of the congregation assembled in the +chapel of a large metropolitan Workhouse. With the exception of the +clergyman and clerk, and a very few officials, there were none but +paupers present. The children sat in the galleries; the women in the +body of the chapel, and in one of the side aisles; the men in the +remaining aisle. The service was decorously performed, though the sermon +might have been much better adapted to the comprehension and to the +circumstances of the hearers. The usual supplications were offered, with +more than the usual significancy in such a place, for the fatherless +children and widows, for all sick persons and young children, for all +that were desolate and oppressed, for the comforting and helping of the +weak-hearted, for the raising-up of them that had fallen; for all that +were in danger, necessity, and tribulation. The prayers of the +congregation were desired ‘for several persons in the various wards +dangerously ill;’ and others who were recovering returned their thanks to +Heaven. + +Among this congregation, were some evil-looking young women, and +beetle-browed young men; but not many—perhaps that kind of characters +kept away. Generally, the faces (those of the children excepted) were +depressed and subdued, and wanted colour. Aged people were there, in +every variety. Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, stupid, deaf, lame; +vacantly winking in the gleams of sun that now and then crept in through +the open doors, from the paved yard; shading their listening ears, or +blinking eyes, with their withered hands; poring over their books, +leering at nothing, going to sleep, crouching and drooping in corners. +There were weird old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet and cloak +without, continually wiping their eyes with dirty dusters of +pocket-handkerchiefs; and there were ugly old crones, both male and +female, with a ghastly kind of contentment upon them which was not at all +comforting to see. Upon the whole, it was the dragon, Pauperism, in a +very weak and impotent condition; toothless, fangless, drawing his breath +heavily enough, and hardly worth chaining up. + +When the service was over, I walked with the humane and conscientious +gentleman whose duty it was to take that walk, that Sunday morning, +through the little world of poverty enclosed within the workhouse walls. +It was inhabited by a population of some fifteen hundred or two thousand +paupers, ranging from the infant newly born or not yet come into the +pauper world, to the old man dying on his bed. + +In a room opening from a squalid yard, where a number of listless women +were lounging to and fro, trying to get warm in the ineffectual sunshine +of the tardy May morning—in the ‘Itch Ward,’ not to compromise the +truth—a woman such as HOGARTH has often drawn, was hurriedly getting on +her gown before a dusty fire. She was the nurse, or wardswoman, of that +insalubrious department—herself a pauper—flabby, raw-boned, +untidy—unpromising and coarse of aspect as need be. But, on being spoken +to about the patients whom she had in charge, she turned round, with her +shabby gown half on, half off, and fell a crying with all her might. Not +for show, not querulously, not in any mawkish sentiment, but in the deep +grief and affliction of her heart; turning away her dishevelled head: +sobbing most bitterly, wringing her hands, and letting fall abundance of +great tears, that choked her utterance. What was the matter with the +nurse of the itch-ward? Oh, ‘the dropped child’ was dead! Oh, the child +that was found in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had died +an hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this cloth! +The dear, the pretty dear! + +The dropped child seemed too small and poor a thing for Death to be in +earnest with, but Death had taken it; and already its diminutive form was +neatly washed, composed, and stretched as if in sleep upon a box. I +thought I heard a voice from Heaven saying, It shall be well for thee, O +nurse of the itch-ward, when some less gentle pauper does those offices +to thy cold form, that such as the dropped child are the angels who +behold my Father’s face! + +In another room, were several ugly old women crouching, witch-like, round +a hearth, and chattering and nodding, after the manner of the monkeys. +‘All well here? And enough to eat?’ A general chattering and chuckling; +at last an answer from a volunteer. ‘Oh yes, gentleman! Bless you, +gentleman! Lord bless the Parish of St. So-and-So! It feed the hungry, +sir, and give drink to the thusty, and it warm them which is cold, so it +do, and good luck to the parish of St. So-and-So, and thankee, +gentleman!’ Elsewhere, a party of pauper nurses were at dinner. ‘How do +you get on?’ ‘Oh pretty well, sir! We works hard, and we lives +hard—like the sodgers!’ + +In another room, a kind of purgatory or place of transition, six or eight +noisy madwomen were gathered together, under the superintendence of one +sane attendant. Among them was a girl of two or three and twenty, very +prettily dressed, of most respectable appearance and good manners, who +had been brought in from the house where she had lived as domestic +servant (having, I suppose, no friends), on account of being subject to +epileptic fits, and requiring to be removed under the influence of a very +bad one. She was by no means of the same stuff, or the same breeding, or +the same experience, or in the same state of mind, as those by whom she +was surrounded; and she pathetically complained that the daily +association and the nightly noise made her worse, and was driving her +mad—which was perfectly evident. The case was noted for inquiry and +redress, but she said she had already been there for some weeks. + +If this girl had stolen her mistress’s watch, I do not hesitate to say +she would have been infinitely better off. We have come to this absurd, +this dangerous, this monstrous pass, that the dishonest felon is, in +respect of cleanliness, order, diet, and accommodation, better provided +for, and taken care of, than the honest pauper. + +And this conveys no special imputation on the workhouse of the parish of +St. So-and-So, where, on the contrary, I saw many things to commend. It +was very agreeable, recollecting that most infamous and atrocious +enormity committed at Tooting—an enormity which, a hundred years hence, +will still be vividly remembered in the bye-ways of English life, and +which has done more to engender a gloomy discontent and suspicion among +many thousands of the people than all the Chartist leaders could have +done in all their lives—to find the pauper children in this workhouse +looking robust and well, and apparently the objects of very great care. +In the Infant School—a large, light, airy room at the top of the +building—the little creatures, being at dinner, and eating their potatoes +heartily, were not cowed by the presence of strange visitors, but +stretched out their small hands to be shaken, with a very pleasant +confidence. And it was comfortable to see two mangy pauper +rocking-horses rampant in a corner. In the girls’ school, where the +dinner was also in progress, everything bore a cheerful and healthy +aspect. The meal was over, in the boys’ school, by the time of our +arrival there, and the room was not yet quite rearranged; but the boys +were roaming unrestrained about a large and airy yard, as any other +schoolboys might have done. Some of them had been drawing large ships +upon the schoolroom wall; and if they had a mast with shrouds and stays +set up for practice (as they have in the Middlesex House of Correction), +it would be so much the better. At present, if a boy should feel a +strong impulse upon him to learn the art of going aloft, he could only +gratify it, I presume, as the men and women paupers gratify their +aspirations after better board and lodging, by smashing as many workhouse +windows as possible, and being promoted to prison. + +In one place, the Newgate of the Workhouse, a company of boys and youths +were locked up in a yard alone; their day-room being a kind of kennel +where the casual poor used formerly to be littered down at night. Divers +of them had been there some long time. ‘Are they never going away?’ was +the natural inquiry. ‘Most of them are crippled, in some form or other,’ +said the Wardsman, ‘and not fit for anything.’ They slunk about, like +dispirited wolves or hyænas; and made a pounce at their food when it was +served out, much as those animals do. The big-headed idiot shuffling his +feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a more agreeable +object everyway. + +Groves of babies in arms; groves of mothers and other sick women in bed; +groves of lunatics; jungles of men in stone-paved down-stairs day-rooms, +waiting for their dinners; longer and longer groves of old people, in +up-stairs Infirmary wards, wearing out life, God knows how—this was the +scenery through which the walk lay, for two hours. In some of these +latter chambers, there were pictures stuck against the wall, and a neat +display of crockery and pewter on a kind of sideboard; now and then it +was a treat to see a plant or two; in almost every ward there was a cat. + +In all of these Long Walks of aged and infirm, some old people were +bedridden, and had been for a long time; some were sitting on their beds +half-naked; some dying in their beds; some out of bed, and sitting at a +table near the fire. A sullen or lethargic indifference to what was +asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but warmth and food, a moody +absence of complaint as being of no use, a dogged silence and resentful +desire to be left alone again, I thought were generally apparent. On our +walking into the midst of one of these dreary perspectives of old men, +nearly the following little dialogue took place, the nurse not being +immediately at hand: + +‘All well here?’ + +No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap sitting among others on a form at +the table, eating out of a tin porringer, pushes back his cap a little to +look at us, claps it down on his forehead again with the palm of his +hand, and goes on eating. + +‘All well here?’ (repeated). + +No answer. Another old man sitting on his bed, paralytically peeling a +boiled potato, lifts his head and stares. + +‘Enough to eat?’ + +No answer. Another old man, in bed, turns himself and coughs. + +‘How are you to-day?’ To the last old man. + +That old man says nothing; but another old man, a tall old man of very +good address, speaking with perfect correctness, comes forward from +somewhere, and volunteers an answer. The reply almost always proceeds +from a volunteer, and not from the person looked at or spoken to. + +‘We are very old, sir,’ in a mild, distinct voice. ‘We can’t expect to +be well, most of us.’ + +‘Are you comfortable?’ + +‘I have no complaint to make, sir.’ With a half shake of his head, a +half shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of apologetic smile. + +‘Enough to eat?’ + +‘Why, sir, I have but a poor appetite,’ with the same air as before; ‘and +yet I get through my allowance very easily.’ + +‘But,’ showing a porringer with a Sunday dinner in it; ‘here is a portion +of mutton, and three potatoes. You can’t starve on that?’ + +‘Oh dear no, sir,’ with the same apologetic air. ‘Not starve.’ + +‘What do you want?’ + +‘We have very little bread, sir. It’s an exceedingly small quantity of +bread.’ + +The nurse, who is now rubbing her hands at the questioner’s elbow, +interferes with, ‘It ain’t much raly, sir. You see they’ve only six +ounces a day, and when they’ve took their breakfast, there can only be a +little left for night, sir.’ + +Another old man, hitherto invisible, rises out of his bed-clothes, as out +of a grave, and looks on. + +‘You have tea at night?’ The questioner is still addressing the +well-spoken old man. + +‘Yes, sir, we have tea at night.’ + +‘And you save what bread you can from the morning, to eat with it?’ + +‘Yes, sir—if we can save any.’ + +‘And you want more to eat with it?’ + +‘Yes, sir.’ With a very anxious face. + +The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, appears a little +discomposed, and changes the subject. + +‘What has become of the old man who used to lie in that bed in the +corner?’ + +The nurse don’t remember what old man is referred to. There has been +such a many old men. The well-spoken old man is doubtful. The spectral +old man who has come to life in bed, says, ‘Billy Stevens.’ Another old +man who has previously had his head in the fireplace, pipes out, + +‘Charley Walters.’ + +Something like a feeble interest is awakened. I suppose Charley Walters +had conversation in him. + +‘He’s dead,’ says the piping old man. + +Another old man, with one eye screwed up, hastily displaces the piping +old man, and says. + +‘Yes! Charley Walters died in that bed, and—and—’ + +‘Billy Stevens,’ persists the spectral old man. + +‘No, no! and Johnny Rogers died in that bed, and—and—they’re both on ’em +dead—and Sam’l Bowyer;’ this seems very extraordinary to him; ‘he went +out!’ + +With this he subsides, and all the old men (having had quite enough of +it) subside, and the spectral old man goes into his grave again, and +takes the shade of Billy Stevens with him. + +As we turn to go out at the door, another previously invisible old man, a +hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is standing there, as if he had just +come up through the floor. + +‘I beg your pardon, sir, could I take the liberty of saying a word?’ + +‘Yes; what is it?’ + +‘I am greatly better in my health, sir; but what I want, to get me quite +round,’ with his hand on his throat, ‘is a little fresh air, sir. It has +always done my complaint so much good, sir. The regular leave for going +out, comes round so seldom, that if the gentlemen, next Friday, would +give me leave to go out walking, now and then—for only an hour or so, +sir!—’ + +Who could wonder, looking through those weary vistas of bed and +infirmity, that it should do him good to meet with some other scenes, and +assure himself that there was something else on earth? Who could help +wondering why the old men lived on as they did; what grasp they had on +life; what crumbs of interest or occupation they could pick up from its +bare board; whether Charley Walters had ever described to them the days +when he kept company with some old pauper woman in the bud, or Billy +Stevens ever told them of the time when he was a dweller in the far-off +foreign land called Home! + +The morsel of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, in bed, +wrapped in lint, and looking steadfastly at us with his bright quiet eyes +when we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the knowledge of these things, +and of all the tender things there are to think about, might have been in +his mind—as if he thought, with us, that there was a fellow-feeling in +the pauper nurses which appeared to make them more kind to their charges +than the race of common nurses in the hospitals—as if he mused upon the +Future of some older children lying around him in the same place, and +thought it best, perhaps, all things considered, that he should die—as if +he knew, without fear, of those many coffins, made and unmade, piled up +in the store below—and of his unknown friend, ‘the dropped child,’ calm +upon the box-lid covered with a cloth. But there was something wistful +and appealing, too, in his tiny face, as if, in the midst of all the hard +necessities and incongruities he pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of +the helpless and the aged poor, for a little more liberty—and a little +more bread. + + + + +PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE + + +ONCE upon a time, and of course it was in the Golden Age, and I hope you +may know when that was, for I am sure I don’t, though I have tried hard +to find out, there lived in a rich and fertile country, a powerful Prince +whose name was BULL. He had gone through a great deal of fighting, in +his time, about all sorts of things, including nothing; but, had +gradually settled down to be a steady, peaceable, good-natured, +corpulent, rather sleepy Prince. + +This Puissant Prince was married to a lovely Princess whose name was Fair +Freedom. She had brought him a large fortune, and had borne him an +immense number of children, and had set them to spinning, and farming, +and engineering, and soldiering, and sailoring, and doctoring, and +lawyering, and preaching, and all kinds of trades. The coffers of Prince +Bull were full of treasure, his cellars were crammed with delicious wines +from all parts of the world, the richest gold and silver plate that ever +was seen adorned his sideboards, his sons were strong, his daughters were +handsome, and in short you might have supposed that if there ever lived +upon earth a fortunate and happy Prince, the name of that Prince, take +him for all in all, was assuredly Prince Bull. + +But, appearances, as we all know, are not always to be trusted—far from +it; and if they had led you to this conclusion respecting Prince Bull, +they would have led you wrong as they often have led me. + +For, this good Prince had two sharp thorns in his pillow, two hard knobs +in his crown, two heavy loads on his mind, two unbridled nightmares in +his sleep, two rocks ahead in his course. He could not by any means get +servants to suit him, and he had a tyrannical old godmother, whose name +was Tape. + +She was a Fairy, this Tape, and was a bright red all over. She was +disgustingly prim and formal, and could never bend herself a hair’s +breadth this way or that way, out of her naturally crooked shape. But, +she was very potent in her wicked art. She could stop the fastest thing +in the world, change the strongest thing into the weakest, and the most +useful into the most useless. To do this she had only to put her cold +hand upon it, and repeat her own name, Tape. Then it withered away. + +At the Court of Prince Bull—at least I don’t mean literally at his court, +because he was a very genteel Prince, and readily yielded to his +godmother when she always reserved that for his hereditary Lords and +Ladies—in the dominions of Prince Bull, among the great mass of the +community who were called in the language of that polite country the Mobs +and the Snobs, were a number of very ingenious men, who were always busy +with some invention or other, for promoting the prosperity of the +Prince’s subjects, and augmenting the Prince’s power. But, whenever they +submitted their models for the Prince’s approval, his godmother stepped +forward, laid her hand upon them, and said ‘Tape.’ Hence it came to +pass, that when any particularly good discovery was made, the discoverer +usually carried it off to some other Prince, in foreign parts, who had no +old godmother who said Tape. This was not on the whole an advantageous +state of things for Prince Bull, to the best of my understanding. + +The worst of it was, that Prince Bull had in course of years lapsed into +such a state of subjection to this unlucky godmother, that he never made +any serious effort to rid himself of her tyranny. I have said this was +the worst of it, but there I was wrong, because there is a worse +consequence still, behind. The Prince’s numerous family became so +downright sick and tired of Tape, that when they should have helped the +Prince out of the difficulties into which that evil creature led him, +they fell into a dangerous habit of moodily keeping away from him in an +impassive and indifferent manner, as though they had quite forgotten that +no harm could happen to the Prince their father, without its inevitably +affecting themselves. + +Such was the aspect of affairs at the court of Prince Bull, when this +great Prince found it necessary to go to war with Prince Bear. He had +been for some time very doubtful of his servants, who, besides being +indolent and addicted to enriching their families at his expense, +domineered over him dreadfully; threatening to discharge themselves if +they were found the least fault with, pretending that they had done a +wonderful amount of work when they had done nothing, making the most +unmeaning speeches that ever were heard in the Prince’s name, and +uniformly showing themselves to be very inefficient indeed. Though, that +some of them had excellent characters from previous situations is not to +be denied. Well; Prince Bull called his servants together, and said to +them one and all, ‘Send out my army against Prince Bear. Clothe it, arm +it, feed it, provide it with all necessaries and contingencies, and I +will pay the piper! Do your duty by my brave troops,’ said the Prince, +‘and do it well, and I will pour my treasure out like water, to defray +the cost. Who ever heard ME complain of money well laid out!’ Which +indeed he had reason for saying, inasmuch as he was well known to be a +truly generous and munificent Prince. + +When the servants heard those words, they sent out the army against +Prince Bear, and they set the army tailors to work, and the army +provision merchants, and the makers of guns both great and small, and the +gunpowder makers, and the makers of ball, shell, and shot; and they +bought up all manner of stores and ships, without troubling their heads +about the price, and appeared to be so busy that the good Prince rubbed +his hands, and (using a favourite expression of his), said, ‘It’s all +right!’ But, while they were thus employed, the Prince’s godmother, who +was a great favourite with those servants, looked in upon them +continually all day long, and whenever she popped in her head at the door +said, How do you do, my children? What are you doing here?’ ‘Official +business, godmother.’ ‘Oho!’ says this wicked Fairy. ‘—Tape!’ And then +the business all went wrong, whatever it was, and the servants’ heads +became so addled and muddled that they thought they were doing wonders. + +Now, this was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old nuisance, +and she ought to have been strangled, even if she had stopped here; but, +she didn’t stop here, as you shall learn. For, a number of the Prince’s +subjects, being very fond of the Prince’s army who were the bravest of +men, assembled together and provided all manner of eatables and +drinkables, and books to read, and clothes to wear, and tobacco to smoke, +and candies to burn, and nailed them up in great packing-cases, and put +them aboard a great many ships, to be carried out to that brave army in +the cold and inclement country where they were fighting Prince Bear. +Then, up comes this wicked Fairy as the ships were weighing anchor, and +says, ‘How do you do, my children? What are you doing here?’—‘We are +going with all these comforts to the army, godmother.’—‘Oho!’ says she. +‘A pleasant voyage, my darlings.—Tape!’ And from that time forth, those +enchanting ships went sailing, against wind and tide and rhyme and +reason, round and round the world, and whenever they touched at any port +were ordered off immediately, and could never deliver their cargoes +anywhere. + +This, again, was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old +nuisance, and she ought to have been strangled for it if she had done +nothing worse; but, she did something worse still, as you shall learn. +For, she got astride of an official broomstick, and muttered as a spell +these two sentences, ‘On Her Majesty’s service,’ and ‘I have the honour +to be, sir, your most obedient servant,’ and presently alighted in the +cold and inclement country where the army of Prince Bull were encamped to +fight the army of Prince Bear. On the sea-shore of that country, she +found piled together, a number of houses for the army to live in, and a +quantity of provisions for the army to live upon, and a quantity of +clothes for the army to wear: while, sitting in the mud gazing at them, +were a group of officers as red to look at as the wicked old woman +herself. So, she said to one of them, ‘Who are _you_, my darling, and +how do _you_ do?’—‘I am the Quartermaster General’s Department, +godmother, and _I_ am pretty well.’ Then she said to another, ‘Who are +you, my darling, and how do you do?’—‘I am the Commissariat Department, +godmother, and I am pretty well! Then she said to another, ‘Who are you, +my darling, and how do you do?’—‘I am the Head of the Medical Department, +godmother, and _I_ am pretty well.’ Then, she said to some gentlemen +scented with lavender, who kept themselves at a great distance from the +rest, ‘And who are _you_, my pretty pets, and how do _you_ do?’ And they +answered, ‘We-aw-are-the-aw-Staff-aw-Department, godmother, and we are +very well indeed.’—‘I am delighted to see you all, my beauties,’ says +this wicked old Fairy, ‘—Tape!’ Upon that, the houses, clothes, and +provisions, all mouldered away; and the soldiers who were sound, fell +sick; and the soldiers who were sick, died miserably: and the noble army +of Prince Bull perished. + +When the dismal news of his great loss was carried to the Prince, he +suspected his godmother very much indeed; but, he knew that his servants +must have kept company with the malicious beldame, and must have given +way to her, and therefore he resolved to turn those servants out of their +places. So, he called to him a Roebuck who had the gift of speech, and +he said, ‘Good Roebuck, tell them they must go.’ So, the good Roebuck +delivered his message, so like a man that you might have supposed him to +be nothing but a man, and they were turned out—but, not without warning, +for that they had had a long time. + +And now comes the most extraordinary part of the history of this Prince. +When he had turned out those servants, of course he wanted others. What +was his astonishment to find that in all his dominions, which contained +no less than twenty-seven millions of people, there were not above +five-and-twenty servants altogether! They were so lofty about it, too, +that instead of discussing whether they should hire themselves as +servants to Prince Bull, they turned things topsy-turvy, and considered +whether as a favour they should hire Prince Bull to be their master! +While they were arguing this point among themselves quite at their +leisure, the wicked old red Fairy was incessantly going up and down, +knocking at the doors of twelve of the oldest of the five-and-twenty, who +were the oldest inhabitants in all that country, and whose united ages +amounted to one thousand, saying, ‘Will you hire Prince Bull for your +master?—Will you hire Prince Bull for your master?’ To which one +answered, ‘I will if next door will;’ and another, ‘I won’t if over the +way does;’ and another, ‘I can’t if he, she, or they, might, could, +would, or should.’ And all this time Prince Bull’s affairs were going to +rack and ruin. + +At last, Prince Bull in the height of his perplexity assumed a thoughtful +face, as if he were struck by an entirely new idea. The wicked old +Fairy, seeing this, was at his elbow directly, and said, ‘How do you do, +my Prince, and what are you thinking of?’—‘I am thinking, godmother,’ +says he, ‘that among all the seven-and-twenty millions of my subjects who +have never been in service, there are men of intellect and business who +have made me very famous both among my friends and enemies.’—‘Aye, +truly?’ says the Fairy.—‘Aye, truly,’ says the Prince.—‘And what then?’ +says the Fairy.—‘Why, then,’ says he, ‘since the regular old class of +servants do so ill, are so hard to get, and carry it with so high a hand, +perhaps I might try to make good servants of some of these.’ The words +had no sooner passed his lips than she returned, chuckling, ‘You think +so, do you? Indeed, my Prince?—Tape!’ Thereupon he directly forgot what +he was thinking of, and cried out lamentably to the old servants, ‘O, do +come and hire your poor old master! Pray do! On any terms!’ + +And this, for the present, finishes the story of Prince Bull. I wish I +could wind it up by saying that he lived happy ever afterwards, but I +cannot in my conscience do so; for, with Tape at his elbow, and his +estranged children fatally repelled by her from coming near him, I do +not, to tell you the plain truth, believe in the possibility of such an +end to it. + + + + +A PLATED ARTICLE + + +PUTTING up for the night in one of the chiefest towns of Staffordshire, I +find it to be by no means a lively town. In fact, it is as dull and dead +a town as any one could desire not to see. It seems as if its whole +population might be imprisoned in its Railway Station. The Refreshment +Room at that Station is a vortex of dissipation compared with the extinct +town-inn, the Dodo, in the dull High Street. + +Why High Street? Why not rather Low Street, Flat Street, Low-Spirited +Street, Used-up Street? Where are the people who belong to the High +Street? Can they all be dispersed over the face of the country, seeking +the unfortunate Strolling Manager who decamped from the mouldy little +Theatre last week, in the beginning of his season (as his play-bills +testify), repentantly resolved to bring him back, and feed him, and be +entertained? Or, can they all be gathered to their fathers in the two +old churchyards near to the High Street—retirement into which churchyards +appears to be a mere ceremony, there is so very little life outside their +confines, and such small discernible difference between being buried +alive in the town, and buried dead in the town tombs? Over the way, +opposite to the staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are a little +ironmonger’s shop, a little tailor’s shop (with a picture of the Fashions +in the small window and a bandy-legged baby on the pavement staring at +it)—a watchmakers shop, where all the clocks and watches must be stopped, +I am sure, for they could never have the courage to go, with the town in +general, and the Dodo in particular, looking at them. Shade of Miss +Linwood, erst of Leicester Square, London, thou art welcome here, and thy +retreat is fitly chosen! I myself was one of the last visitors to that +awful storehouse of thy life’s work, where an anchorite old man and woman +took my shilling with a solemn wonder, and conducting me to a gloomy +sepulchre of needlework dropping to pieces with dust and age and shrouded +in twilight at high noon, left me there, chilled, frightened, and alone. +And now, in ghostly letters on all the dead walls of this dead town, I +read thy honoured name, and find that thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin +Wool, invites inspection as a powerful excitement! + +Where are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this feast of +little wool? Where are they? Who are they? They are not the +bandy-legged baby studying the fashions in the tailor’s window. They are +not the two earthy ploughmen lounging outside the saddler’s shop, in the +stiff square where the Town Hall stands, like a brick and mortar private +on parade. They are not the landlady of the Dodo in the empty bar, whose +eye had trouble in it and no welcome, when I asked for dinner. They are +not the turnkeys of the Town Jail, looking out of the gateway in their +uniforms, as if they had locked up all the balance (as my American +friends would say) of the inhabitants, and could now rest a little. They +are not the two dusty millers in the white mill down by the river, where +the great water-wheel goes heavily round and round, like the monotonous +days and nights in this forgotten place. Then who are they, for there is +no one else? No; this deponent maketh oath and saith that there is no +one else, save and except the waiter at the Dodo, now laying the cloth. +I have paced the streets, and stared at the houses, and am come back to +the blank bow window of the Dodo; and the town clocks strike seven, and +the reluctant echoes seem to cry, ‘Don’t wake us!’ and the bandy-legged +baby has gone home to bed. + +If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird—if he had only some confused idea +of making a comfortable nest—I could hope to get through the hours +between this and bed-time, without being consumed by devouring +melancholy. But, the Dodo’s habits are all wrong. It provides me with a +trackless desert of sitting-room, with a chair for every day in the year, +a table for every month, and a waste of sideboard where a lonely China +vase pines in a corner for its mate long departed, and will never make a +match with the candlestick in the opposite corner if it live till +Doomsday. The Dodo has nothing in the larder. Even now, I behold the +Boots returning with my sole in a piece of paper; and with that portion +of my dinner, the Boots, perceiving me at the blank bow window, slaps his +leg as he comes across the road, pretending it is something else. The +Dodo excludes the outer air. When I mount up to my bedroom, a smell of +closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose like sleepy snuff. The loose +little bits of carpet writhe under my tread, and take wormy shapes. I +don’t know the ridiculous man in the looking-glass, beyond having met him +once or twice in a dish-cover—and I can never shave _him_ to-morrow +morning! The Dodo is narrow-minded as to towels; expects me to wash on a +freemason’s apron without the trimming: when I asked for soap, gives me a +stony-hearted something white, with no more lather in it than the Elgin +marbles. The Dodo has seen better days, and possesses interminable +stables at the back—silent, grass-grown, broken-windowed, horseless. + +This mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much. Can cook a +steak, too, which is more. I wonder where it gets its Sherry? If I were +to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist to be analysed, what would +it turn out to be made of? It tastes of pepper, sugar, bitter-almonds, +vinegar, warm knives, any flat drinks, and a little brandy. Would it +unman a Spanish exile by reminding him of his native land at all? I +think not. If there really be any townspeople out of the churchyards, +and if a caravan of them ever do dine, with a bottle of wine per man, in +this desert of the Dodo, it must make good for the doctor next day! + +Where was the waiter born? How did he come here? Has he any hope of +getting away from here? Does he ever receive a letter, or take a ride +upon the railway, or see anything but the Dodo? Perhaps he has seen the +Berlin Wool. He appears to have a silent sorrow on him, and it may be +that. He clears the table; draws the dingy curtains of the great bow +window, which so unwillingly consent to meet, that they must be pinned +together; leaves me by the fire with my pint decanter, and a little thin +funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a plate of pale biscuits—in themselves +engendering desperation. + +No book, no newspaper! I left the Arabian Nights in the railway +carriage, and have nothing to read but Bradshaw, and ‘that way madness +lies.’ Remembering what prisoners and ship-wrecked mariners have done to +exercise their minds in solitude, I repeat the multiplication table, the +pence table, and the shilling table: which are all the tables I happen to +know. What if I write something? The Dodo keeps no pens but steel pens; +and those I always stick through the paper, and can turn to no other +account. + +What am I to do? Even if I could have the bandy-legged baby knocked up +and brought here, I could offer him nothing but sherry, and that would be +the death of him. He would never hold up his head again if he touched +it. I can’t go to bed, because I have conceived a mortal hatred for my +bedroom; and I can’t go away, because there is no train for my place of +destination until morning. To burn the biscuits will be but a fleeting +joy; still it is a temporary relief, and here they go on the fire! Shall +I break the plate? First let me look at the back, and see who made it. +COPELAND. + +Copeland! Stop a moment. Was it yesterday I visited Copeland’s works, +and saw them making plates? In the confusion of travelling about, it +might be yesterday or it might be yesterday month; but I think it was +yesterday. I appeal to the plate. The plate says, decidedly, yesterday. +I find the plate, as I look at it, growing into a companion. + +Don’t you remember (says the plate) how you steamed away, yesterday +morning, in the bright sun and the east wind, along the valley of the +sparkling Trent? Don’t you recollect how many kilns you flew past, +looking like the bowls of gigantic tobacco-pipes, cut short off from the +stem and turned upside down? And the fires—and the smoke—and the roads +made with bits of crockery, as if all the plates and dishes in the +civilised world had been Macadamised, expressly for the laming of all the +horses? Of course I do! + +And don’t you remember (says the plate) how you alighted at Stoke—a +picturesque heap of houses, kilns, smoke, wharfs, canals, and river, +lying (as was most appropriate) in a basin—and how, after climbing up the +sides of the basin to look at the prospect, you trundled down again at a +walking-match pace, and straight proceeded to my father’s, Copeland’s, +where the whole of my family, high and low, rich and poor, are turned out +upon the world from our nursery and seminary, covering some fourteen +acres of ground? And don’t you remember what we spring from:—heaps of +lumps of clay, partially prepared and cleaned in Devonshire and +Dorsetshire, whence said clay principally comes—and hills of flint, +without which we should want our ringing sound, and should never be +musical? And as to the flint, don’t you recollect that it is first burnt +in kilns, and is then laid under the four iron feet of a demon slave, +subject to violent stamping fits, who, when they come on, stamps away +insanely with his four iron legs, and would crush all the flint in the +Isle of Thanet to powder, without leaving off? And as to the clay, don’t +you recollect how it is put into mills or teazers, and is sliced, and +dug, and cut at, by endless knives, clogged and sticky, but +persistent—and is pressed out of that machine through a square trough, +whose form it takes—and is cut off in square lumps and thrown into a vat, +and there mixed with water, and beaten to a pulp by paddle-wheels—and is +then run into a rough house, all rugged beams and ladders splashed with +white,—superintended by Grindoff the Miller in his working clothes, all +splashed with white,—where it passes through no end of machinery-moved +sieves all splashed with white, arranged in an ascending scale of +fineness (some so fine, that three hundred silk threads cross each other +in a single square inch of their surface), and all in a violent state of +ague with their teeth for ever chattering, and their bodies for ever +shivering! And as to the flint again, isn’t it mashed and mollified and +troubled and soothed, exactly as rags are in a paper-mill, until it is +reduced to a pap so fine that it contains no atom of ‘grit’ perceptible +to the nicest taste? And as to the flint and the clay together, are they +not, after all this, mixed in the proportion of five of clay to one of +flint, and isn’t the compound—known as ‘slip’—run into oblong troughs, +where its superfluous moisture may evaporate; and finally, isn’t it +slapped and banged and beaten and patted and kneaded and wedged and +knocked about like butter, until it becomes a beautiful grey dough, ready +for the potter’s use? + +In regard of the potter, popularly so called (says the plate), you don’t +mean to say you have forgotten that a workman called a Thrower is the man +under whose hand this grey dough takes the shapes of the simpler +household vessels as quickly as the eye can follow? You don’t mean to +say you cannot call him up before you, sitting, with his attendant woman, +at his potter’s wheel—a disc about the size of a dinner-plate, revolving +on two drums slowly or quickly as he wills—who made you a complete +breakfast-set for a bachelor, as a good-humoured little off-hand joke? +You remember how he took up as much dough as he wanted, and, throwing it +on his wheel, in a moment fashioned it into a teacup—caught up more clay +and made a saucer—a larger dab and whirled it into a teapot—winked at a +smaller dab and converted it into the lid of the teapot, accurately +fitting by the measurement of his eye alone—coaxed a middle-sized dab for +two seconds, broke it, turned it over at the rim, and made a +milkpot—laughed, and turned out a slop-basin—coughed, and provided for +the sugar? Neither, I think, are you oblivious of the newer mode of +making various articles, but especially basins, according to which +improvement a mould revolves instead of a disc? For you must remember +(says the plate) how you saw the mould of a little basin spinning round +and round, and how the workmen smoothed and pressed a handful of dough +upon it, and how with an instrument called a profile (a piece of wood, +representing the profile of a basin’s foot) he cleverly scraped and +carved the ring which makes the base of any such basin, and then took the +basin off the lathe like a doughy skull-cap to be dried, and afterwards +(in what is called a green state) to be put into a second lathe, there to +be finished and burnished with a steel burnisher? And as to moulding in +general (says the plate), it can’t be necessary for me to remind you that +all ornamental articles, and indeed all articles not quite circular, are +made in moulds. For you must remember how you saw the vegetable dishes, +for example, being made in moulds; and how the handles of teacups, and +the spouts of teapots, and the feet of tureens, and so forth, are all +made in little separate moulds, and are each stuck on to the body +corporate, of which it is destined to form a part, with a stuff called +‘slag,’ as quickly as you can recollect it. Further, you learnt—you know +you did—in the same visit, how the beautiful sculptures in the delicate +new material called Parian, are all constructed in moulds; how, into that +material, animal bones are ground up, because the phosphate of lime +contained in bones makes it translucent; how everything is moulded, +before going into the fire, one-fourth larger than it is intended to come +out of the fire, because it shrinks in that proportion in the intense +heat; how, when a figure shrinks unequally, it is spoiled—emerging from +the furnace a misshapen birth; a big head and a little body, or a little +head and a big body, or a Quasimodo with long arms and short legs, or a +Miss Biffin with neither legs nor arms worth mentioning. + +And as to the Kilns, in which the firing takes place, and in which some +of the more precious articles are burnt repeatedly, in various stages of +their process towards completion,—as to the Kilns (says the plate, +warming with the recollection), if you don’t remember THEM with a +horrible interest, what did you ever go to Copeland’s for? When you +stood inside of one of those inverted bowls of a Pre-Adamite +tobacco-pipe, looking up at the blue sky through the open top far off, as +you might have looked up from a well, sunk under the centre of the +pavement of the Pantheon at Rome, had you the least idea where you were? +And when you found yourself surrounded, in that dome-shaped cavern, by +innumerable columns of an unearthly order of architecture, supporting +nothing, and squeezed close together as if a Pre-Adamite Samson had taken +a vast Hall in his arms and crushed it into the smallest possible space, +had you the least idea what they were? No (says the plate), of course +not! And when you found that each of those pillars was a pile of +ingeniously made vessels of coarse clay—called Saggers—looking, when +separate, like raised-pies for the table of the mighty Giant Blunderbore, +and now all full of various articles of pottery ranged in them in baking +order, the bottom of each vessel serving for the cover of the one below, +and the whole Kiln rapidly filling with these, tier upon tier, until the +last workman should have barely room to crawl out, before the closing of +the jagged aperture in the wall and the kindling of the gradual fire; did +you not stand amazed to think that all the year round these dread +chambers are heating, white hot—and cooling—and filling—and emptying—and +being bricked up—and broken open—humanly speaking, for ever and ever? To +be sure you did! And standing in one of those Kilns nearly full, and +seeing a free crow shoot across the aperture a-top, and learning how the +fire would wax hotter and hotter by slow degrees, and would cool +similarly through a space of from forty to sixty hours, did no +remembrance of the days when human clay was burnt oppress you? Yes. I +think so! I suspect that some fancy of a fiery haze and a shortening +breath, and a growing heat, and a gasping prayer; and a figure in black +interposing between you and the sky (as figures in black are very apt to +do), and looking down, before it grew too hot to look and live, upon the +Heretic in his edifying agony—I say I suspect (says the plate) that some +such fancy was pretty strong upon you when you went out into the air, and +blessed God for the bright spring day and the degenerate times! + +After that, I needn’t remind you what a relief it was to see the simplest +process of ornamenting this ‘biscuit’ (as it is called when baked) with +brown circles and blue trees—converting it into the common crockery-ware +that is exported to Africa, and used in cottages at home. For (says the +plate) I am well persuaded that you bear in mind how those particular +jugs and mugs were once more set upon a lathe and put in motion; and how +a man blew the brown colour (having a strong natural affinity with the +material in that condition) on them from a blowpipe as they twirled; and +how his daughter, with a common brush, dropped blotches of blue upon them +in the right places; and how, tilting the blotches upside down, she made +them run into rude images of trees, and there an end. + +And didn’t you see (says the plate) planted upon my own brother that +astounding blue willow, with knobbed and gnarled trunk, and foliage of +blue ostrich feathers, which gives our family the title of ‘willow +pattern’? And didn’t you observe, transferred upon him at the same time, +that blue bridge which spans nothing, growing out from the roots of the +willow; and the three blue Chinese going over it into a blue temple, +which has a fine crop of blue bushes sprouting out of the roof; and a +blue boat sailing above them, the mast of which is burglariously sticking +itself into the foundations of a blue villa, suspended sky-high, +surmounted by a lump of blue rock, sky-higher, and a couple of billing +blue birds, sky-highest—together with the rest of that amusing blue +landscape, which has, in deference to our revered ancestors of the +Cerulean Empire, and in defiance of every known law of perspective, +adorned millions of our family ever since the days of platters? Didn’t +you inspect the copper-plate on which my pattern was deeply engraved? +Didn’t you perceive an impression of it taken in cobalt colour at a +cylindrical press, upon a leaf of thin paper, streaming from a +plunge-bath of soap and water? Wasn’t the paper impression daintily +spread, by a light-fingered damsel (you know you admired her!), over the +surface of the plate, and the back of the paper rubbed prodigiously +hard—with a long tight roll of flannel, tied up like a round of hung +beef—without so much as ruffling the paper, wet as it was? Then (says +the plate), was not the paper washed away with a sponge, and didn’t there +appear, set off upon the plate, _this_ identical piece of Pre-Raphaelite +blue distemper which you now behold? Not to be denied! I had seen all +this—and more. I had been shown, at Copeland’s, patterns of beautiful +design, in faultless perspective, which are causing the ugly old willow +to wither out of public favour; and which, being quite as cheap, +insinuate good wholesome natural art into the humblest households. When +Mr. and Mrs. Sprat have satisfied their material tastes by that equal +division of fat and lean which has made their _ménage_ immortal; and +have, after the elegant tradition, ‘licked the platter clean,’ they +can—thanks to modern artists in clay—feast their intellectual tastes upon +excellent delineations of natural objects. + +This reflection prompts me to transfer my attention from the blue plate +to the forlorn but cheerfully painted vase on the sideboard. And surely +(says the plate) you have not forgotten how the outlines of such groups +of flowers as you see there, are printed, just as I was printed, and are +afterwards shaded and filled in with metallic colours by women and girls? +As to the aristocracy of our order, made of the finer clay-porcelain +peers and peeresses;—the slabs, and panels, and table-tops, and tazze; +the endless nobility and gentry of dessert, breakfast, and tea services; +the gemmed perfume bottles, and scarlet and gold salvers; you saw that +they were painted by artists, with metallic colours laid on with +camel-hair pencils, and afterwards burnt in. + +And talking of burning in (says the plate), didn’t you find that every +subject, from the willow pattern to the landscape after Turner—having +been framed upon clay or porcelain biscuit—has to be glazed? Of course, +you saw the glaze—composed of various vitreous materials—laid over every +article; and of course you witnessed the close imprisonment of each piece +in saggers upon the separate system rigidly enforced by means of +fine-pointed earthenware stilts placed between the articles to prevent +the slightest communication or contact. We had in my time—and I suppose +it is the same now—fourteen hours’ firing to fix the glaze and to make it +‘run’ all over us equally, so as to put a good shiny and unscratchable +surface upon us. Doubtless, you observed that one sort of glaze—called +printing-body—is burnt into the better sort of ware _before_ it is +printed. Upon this you saw some of the finest steel engravings +transferred, to be fixed by an after glazing—didn’t you? Why, of course +you did! + +Of course I did. I had seen and enjoyed everything that the plate +recalled to me, and had beheld with admiration how the rotatory motion +which keeps this ball of ours in its place in the great scheme, with all +its busy mites upon it, was necessary throughout the process, and could +only be dispensed with in the fire. So, listening to the plate’s +reminders, and musing upon them, I got through the evening after all, and +went to bed. I made but one sleep of it—for which I have no doubt I am +also indebted to the plate—and left the lonely Dodo in the morning, quite +at peace with it, before the bandy-legged baby was up. + + + + +OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND + + +WE are delighted to find that he has got in! Our honourable friend is +triumphantly returned to serve in the next Parliament. He is the +honourable member for Verbosity—the best represented place in England. + +Our honourable friend has issued an address of congratulation to the +Electors, which is worthy of that noble constituency, and is a very +pretty piece of composition. In electing him, he says, they have covered +themselves with glory, and England has been true to herself. (In his +preliminary address he had remarked, in a poetical quotation of great +rarity, that nought could make us rue, if England to herself did prove +but true.) + +Our honourable friend delivers a prediction, in the same document, that +the feeble minions of a faction will never hold up their heads any more; +and that the finger of scorn will point at them in their dejected state, +through countless ages of time. Further, that the hireling tools that +would destroy the sacred bulwarks of our nationality are unworthy of the +name of Englishman; and that so long as the sea shall roll around our +ocean-girded isle, so long his motto shall be, No surrender. Certain +dogged persons of low principles and no intellect, have disputed whether +anybody knows who the minions are, or what the faction is, or which are +the hireling tools and which the sacred bulwarks, or what it is that is +never to be surrendered, and if not, why not? But, our honourable friend +the member for Verbosity knows all about it. + +Our honourable friend has sat in several parliaments, and given bushels +of votes. He is a man of that profundity in the matter of vote-giving, +that you never know what he means. When he seems to be voting pure +white, he may be in reality voting jet black. When he says Yes, it is +just as likely as not—or rather more so—that he means No. This is the +statesmanship of our honourable friend. It is in this, that he differs +from mere unparliamentary men. You may not know what he meant then, or +what he means now; but, our honourable friend knows, and did from the +first know, both what he meant then, and what he means now; and when he +said he didn’t mean it then, he did in fact say, that he means it now. +And if you mean to say that you did not then, and do not now, know what +he did mean then, or does mean now, our honourable friend will be glad to +receive an explicit declaration from you whether you are prepared to +destroy the sacred bulwarks of our nationality. + +Our honourable friend, the member for Verbosity, has this great +attribute, that he always means something, and always means the same +thing. When he came down to that House and mournfully boasted in his +place, as an individual member of the assembled Commons of this great and +happy country, that he could lay his hand upon his heart, and solemnly +declare that no consideration on earth should induce him, at any time or +under any circumstances, to go as far north as Berwick-upon-Tweed; and +when he nevertheless, next year, did go to Berwick-upon-Tweed, and even +beyond it, to Edinburgh; he had one single meaning, one and indivisible. +And God forbid (our honourable friend says) that he should waste another +argument upon the man who professes that he cannot understand it! ‘I do +NOT, gentlemen,’ said our honourable friend, with indignant emphasis and +amid great cheering, on one such public occasion. ‘I do NOT, gentlemen, +I am free to confess, envy the feelings of that man whose mind is so +constituted as that he can hold such language to me, and yet lay his head +upon his pillow, claiming to be a native of that land, + + Whose march is o’er the mountain-wave, + Whose home is on the deep! + +(Vehement cheering, and man expelled.) + +When our honourable friend issued his preliminary address to the +constituent body of Verbosity on the occasion of one particular glorious +triumph, it was supposed by some of his enemies, that even he would be +placed in a situation of difficulty by the following comparatively +trifling conjunction of circumstances. The dozen noblemen and gentlemen +whom our honourable friend supported, had ‘come in,’ expressly to do a +certain thing. Now, four of the dozen said, at a certain place, that +they didn’t mean to do that thing, and had never meant to do it; another +four of the dozen said, at another certain place, that they did mean to +do that thing, and had always meant to do it; two of the remaining four +said, at two other certain places, that they meant to do half of that +thing (but differed about which half), and to do a variety of nameless +wonders instead of the other half; and one of the remaining two declared +that the thing itself was dead and buried, while the other as strenuously +protested that it was alive and kicking. It was admitted that the +parliamentary genius of our honourable friend would be quite able to +reconcile such small discrepancies as these; but, there remained the +additional difficulty that each of the twelve made entirely different +statements at different places, and that all the twelve called everything +visible and invisible, sacred and profane, to witness, that they were a +perfectly impregnable phalanx of unanimity. This, it was apprehended, +would be a stumbling-block to our honourable friend. + +The difficulty came before our honourable friend, in this way. He went +down to Verbosity to meet his free and independent constituents, and to +render an account (as he informed them in the local papers) of the trust +they had confided to his hands—that trust which it was one of the +proudest privileges of an Englishman to possess—that trust which it was +the proudest privilege of an Englishman to hold. It may be mentioned as +a proof of the great general interest attaching to the contest, that a +Lunatic whom nobody employed or knew, went down to Verbosity with several +thousand pounds in gold, determined to give the whole away—which he +actually did; and that all the publicans opened their houses for nothing. +Likewise, several fighting men, and a patriotic group of burglars +sportively armed with life-preservers, proceeded (in barouches and very +drunk) to the scene of action at their own expense; these children of +nature having conceived a warm attachment to our honourable friend, and +intending, in their artless manner, to testify it by knocking the voters +in the opposite interest on the head. + +Our honourable friend being come into the presence of his constituents, +and having professed with great suavity that he was delighted to see his +good friend Tipkisson there, in his working-dress—his good friend +Tipkisson being an inveterate saddler, who always opposes him, and for +whom he has a mortal hatred—made them a brisk, ginger-beery sort of +speech, in which he showed them how the dozen noblemen and gentlemen had +(in exactly ten days from their coming in) exercised a surprisingly +beneficial effect on the whole financial condition of Europe, had altered +the state of the exports and imports for the current half-year, had +prevented the drain of gold, had made all that matter right about the +glut of the raw material, and had restored all sorts of balances with +which the superseded noblemen and gentlemen had played the deuce—and all +this, with wheat at so much a quarter, gold at so much an ounce, and the +Bank of England discounting good bills at so much per cent.! He might be +asked, he observed in a peroration of great power, what were his +principles? His principles were what they always had been. His +principles were written in the countenances of the lion and unicorn; were +stamped indelibly upon the royal shield which those grand animals +supported, and upon the free words of fire which that shield bore. His +principles were, Britannia and her sea-king trident! His principles +were, commercial prosperity co-existently with perfect and profound +agricultural contentment; but short of this he would never stop. His +principles were, these,—with the addition of his colours nailed to the +mast, every man’s heart in the right place, every man’s eye open, every +man’s hand ready, every man’s mind on the alert. His principles were +these, concurrently with a general revision of something—speaking +generally—and a possible readjustment of something else, not to be +mentioned more particularly. His principles, to sum up all in a word, +were, Hearths and Altars, Labour and Capital, Crown and Sceptre, Elephant +and Castle. And now, if his good friend Tipkisson required any further +explanation from him, he (our honourable friend) was there, willing and +ready to give it. + +Tipkisson, who all this time had stood conspicuous in the crowd, with his +arms folded and his eyes intently fastened on our honourable friend: +Tipkisson, who throughout our honourable friend’s address had not relaxed +a muscle of his visage, but had stood there, wholly unaffected by the +torrent of eloquence: an object of contempt and scorn to mankind (by +which we mean, of course, to the supporters of our honourable friend); +Tipkisson now said that he was a plain man (Cries of ‘You are indeed!’), +and that what he wanted to know was, what our honourable friend and the +dozen noblemen and gentlemen were driving at? + +Our honourable friend immediately replied, ‘At the illimitable +perspective.’ + +It was considered by the whole assembly that this happy statement of our +honourable friend’s political views ought, immediately, to have settled +Tipkisson’s business and covered him with confusion; but, that implacable +person, regardless of the execrations that were heaped upon him from all +sides (by which we mean, of course, from our honourable friend’s side), +persisted in retaining an unmoved countenance, and obstinately retorted +that if our honourable friend meant that, he wished to know what _that_ +meant? + +It was in repelling this most objectionable and indecent opposition, that +our honourable friend displayed his highest qualifications for the +representation of Verbosity. His warmest supporters present, and those +who were best acquainted with his generalship, supposed that the moment +was come when he would fall back upon the sacred bulwarks of our +nationality. No such thing. He replied thus: ‘My good friend Tipkisson, +gentlemen, wishes to know what I mean when he asks me what we are driving +at, and when I candidly tell him, at the illimitable perspective, he +wishes (if I understand him) to know what I mean?’—‘I do!’ says +Tipkisson, amid cries of ‘Shame’ and ‘Down with him.’ ‘Gentlemen,’ says +our honourable friend, ‘I will indulge my good friend Tipkisson, by +telling him, both what I mean and what I don’t mean. (Cheers and cries +of ‘Give it him!’) Be it known to him then, and to all whom it may +concern, that I do mean altars, hearths, and homes, and that I don’t mean +mosques and Mohammedanism!’ The effect of this home-thrust was terrific. +Tipkisson (who is a Baptist) was hooted down and hustled out, and has +ever since been regarded as a Turkish Renegade who contemplates an early +pilgrimage to Mecca. Nor was he the only discomfited man. The charge, +while it stuck to him, was magically transferred to our honourable +friend’s opponent, who was represented in an immense variety of placards +as a firm believer in Mahomet; and the men of Verbosity were asked to +choose between our honourable friend and the Bible, and our honourable +friend’s opponent and the Koran. They decided for our honourable friend, +and rallied round the illimitable perspective. + +It has been claimed for our honourable friend, with much appearance of +reason, that he was the first to bend sacred matters to electioneering +tactics. However this may be, the fine precedent was undoubtedly set in +a Verbosity election: and it is certain that our honourable friend (who +was a disciple of Brahma in his youth, and was a Buddhist when we had the +honour of travelling with him a few years ago) always professes in public +more anxiety than the whole Bench of Bishops, regarding the theological +and doxological opinions of every man, woman, and child, in the United +Kingdom. + +As we began by saying that our honourable friend has got in again at this +last election, and that we are delighted to find that he has got in, so +we will conclude. Our honourable friend cannot come in for Verbosity too +often. It is a good sign; it is a great example. It is to men like our +honourable friend, and to contests like those from which he comes +triumphant, that we are mainly indebted for that ready interest in +politics, that fresh enthusiasm in the discharge of the duties of +citizenship, that ardent desire to rush to the poll, at present so +manifest throughout England. When the contest lies (as it sometimes +does) between two such men as our honourable friend, it stimulates the +finest emotions of our nature, and awakens the highest admiration of +which our heads and hearts are capable. + +It is not too much to predict that our honourable friend will be always +at his post in the ensuing session. Whatever the question be, or +whatever the form of its discussion; address to the crown, election +petition, expenditure of the public money, extension of the public +suffrage, education, crime; in the whole house, in committee of the whole +house, in select committee; in every parliamentary discussion of every +subject, everywhere: the Honourable Member for Verbosity will most +certainly be found. + + + + +OUR SCHOOL + + +WE went to look at it, only this last Midsummer, and found that the +Railway had cut it up root and branch. A great trunk-line had swallowed +the playground, sliced away the schoolroom, and pared off the corner of +the house: which, thus curtailed of its proportions, presented itself, in +a green stage of stucco, profilewise towards the road, like a forlorn +flat-iron without a handle, standing on end. + +It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. We +have faint recollections of a Preparatory Day-School, which we have +sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to make a new +street, ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a +belief, that it was over a dyer’s shop. We know that you went up steps +to it; that you frequently grazed your knees in doing so; that you +generally got your leg over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off +a very unsteady little shoe. The mistress of the Establishment holds no +place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an eternal +entry long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal animosity +towards us, who triumphs over Time. The bark of that baleful Pug, a +certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the +ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and the +insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live and +flourish. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him with a +fiddle, we conclude that he was of French extraction, and his name +_Fidèle_. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a back-parlour, +whose life appears to us to have been consumed in sniffing, and in +wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her, he would sit up and balance cake +upon his nose, and not eat it until twenty had been counted. To the best +of our belief we were once called in to witness this performance; when, +unable, even in his milder moments, to endure our presence, he instantly +made at us, cake and all. + +Why a something in mourning, called ‘Miss Frost,’ should still connect +itself with our preparatory school, we are unable to say. We retain no +impression of the beauty of Miss Frost—if she were beautiful; or of the +mental fascinations of Miss Frost—if she were accomplished; yet her name +and her black dress hold an enduring place in our remembrance. An +equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself +unalterably into ‘Master Mawls,’ is not to be dislodged from our brain. +Retaining no vindictive feeling towards Mawls—no feeling whatever, +indeed—we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss Frost. Our +first impression of Death and Burial is associated with this formless +pair. We all three nestled awfully in a corner one wintry day, when the +wind was blowing shrill, with Miss Frost’s pinafore over our heads; and +Miss Frost told us in a whisper about somebody being ‘screwed down.’ It +is the only distinct recollection we preserve of these impalpable +creatures, except a suspicion that the manners of Master Mawls were +susceptible of much improvement. Generally speaking, we may observe that +whenever we see a child intently occupied with its nose, to the exclusion +of all other subjects of interest, our mind reverts, in a flash, to +Master Mawls. + +But, the School that was Our School before the Railroad came and +overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. We were old enough to be +put into Virgil when we went there, and to get Prizes for a variety of +polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. It was a School of +some celebrity in its neighbourhood—nobody could have said why—and we had +the honour to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy. The +master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was +supposed to know everything. We are still inclined to think the +first-named supposition perfectly correct. + +We have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather trade, +and had bought us—meaning Our School—of another proprietor who was +immensely learned. Whether this belief had any real foundation, we are +not likely ever to know now. The only branches of education with which +he showed the least acquaintance, were, ruling and corporally punishing. +He was always ruling ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany ruler, or +smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical instrument, or +viciously drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large hands, +and caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt whatever that +this occupation was the principal solace of his existence. + +A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was, of course, +derived from its Chief. We remember an idiotic goggle-eyed boy, with a +big head and half-crowns without end, who suddenly appeared as a +parlour-boarder, and was rumoured to have come by sea from some +mysterious part of the earth where his parents rolled in gold. He was +usually called ‘Mr.’ by the Chief, and was said to feed in the parlour on +steaks and gravy; likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly stated +that if rolls and coffee were ever denied him at breakfast, he would +write home to that unknown part of the globe from which he had come, and +cause himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. He was put into no +form or class, but learnt alone, as little as he liked—and he liked very +little—and there was a belief among us that this was because he was too +wealthy to be ‘taken down.’ His special treatment, and our vague +association of him with the sea, and with storms, and sharks, and Coral +Reefs occasioned the wildest legends to be circulated as his history. A +tragedy in blank verse was written on the subject—if our memory does not +deceive us, by the hand that now chronicles these recollections—in which +his father figured as a Pirate, and was shot for a voluminous catalogue +of atrocities: first imparting to his wife the secret of the cave in +which his wealth was stored, and from which his only son’s half-crowns +now issued. Dumbledon (the boy’s name) was represented as ‘yet unborn’ +when his brave father met his fate; and the despair and grief of Mrs. +Dumbledon at that calamity was movingly shadowed forth as having weakened +the parlour-boarder’s mind. This production was received with great +favour, and was twice performed with closed doors in the dining-room. +But, it got wind, and was seized as libellous, and brought the unlucky +poet into severe affliction. Some two years afterwards, all of a sudden +one day, Dumbledon vanished. It was whispered that the Chief himself had +taken him down to the Docks, and re-shipped him for the Spanish Main; but +nothing certain was ever known about his disappearance. At this hour, we +cannot thoroughly disconnect him from California. + +Our School was rather famous for mysterious pupils. There was another—a +heavy young man, with a large double-cased silver watch, and a fat knife +the handle of which was a perfect tool-box—who unaccountably appeared one +day at a special desk of his own, erected close to that of the Chief, +with whom he held familiar converse. He lived in the parlour, and went +out for his walks, and never took the least notice of us—even of us, the +first boy—unless to give us a deprecatory kick, or grimly to take our hat +off and throw it away, when he encountered us out of doors, which +unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed—not even +condescending to stop for the purpose. Some of us believed that the +classical attainments of this phenomenon were terrific, but that his +penmanship and arithmetic were defective, and he had come there to mend +them; others, that he was going to set up a school, and had paid the +Chief ‘twenty-five pound down,’ for leave to see Our School at work. The +gloomier spirits even said that he was going to buy us; against which +contingency, conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and +running away. However, he never did that. After staying for a quarter, +during which period, though closely observed, he was never seen to do +anything but make pens out of quills, write small hand in a secret +portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest blade in his knife into +his desk all over it, he too disappeared, and his place knew him no more. + +There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate complexion and +rich curling hair, who, we found out, or thought we found out (we have no +idea now, and probably had none then, on what grounds, but it was +confidentially revealed from mouth to mouth), was the son of a Viscount +who had deserted his lovely mother. It was understood that if he had his +rights, he would be worth twenty thousand a year. And that if his mother +ever met his father, she would shoot him with a silver pistol, which she +carried, always loaded to the muzzle, for that purpose. He was a very +suggestive topic. So was a young Mulatto, who was always believed +(though very amiable) to have a dagger about him somewhere. But, we +think they were both outshone, upon the whole, by another boy who claimed +to have been born on the twenty-ninth of February, and to have only one +birthday in five years. We suspect this to have been a fiction—but he +lived upon it all the time he was at Our School. + +The principal currency of Our School was slate pencil. It had some +inexplicable value, that was never ascertained, never reduced to a +standard. To have a great hoard of it was somehow to be rich. We used +to bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon our chosen +friends. When the holidays were coming, contributions were solicited for +certain boys whose relatives were in India, and who were appealed for +under the generic name of ‘Holiday-stoppers,’—appropriate marks of +remembrance that should enliven and cheer them in their homeless state. +Personally, we always contributed these tokens of sympathy in the form of +slate pencil, and always felt that it would be a comfort and a treasure +to them. + +Our School was remarkable for white mice. Red-polls, linnets, and even +canaries, were kept in desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other strange +refuges for birds; but white mice were the favourite stock. The boys +trained the mice, much better than the masters trained the boys. We +recall one white mouse, who lived in the cover of a Latin dictionary, who +ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shouldered muskets, turned wheels, +and even made a very creditable appearance on the stage as the Dog of +Montargis. He might have achieved greater things, but for having the +misfortune to mistake his way in a triumphal procession to the Capitol, +when he fell into a deep inkstand, and was dyed black and drowned. The +mice were the occasion of some most ingenious engineering, in the +construction of their houses and instruments of performance. The famous +one belonged to a company of proprietors, some of whom have since made +Railroads, Engines, and Telegraphs; the chairman has erected mills and +bridges in New Zealand. + +The usher at Our School, who was considered to know everything as opposed +to the Chief, who was considered to know nothing, was a bony, +gentle-faced, clerical-looking young man in rusty black. It was +whispered that he was sweet upon one of Maxby’s sisters (Maxby lived +close by, and was a day pupil), and further that he ‘favoured Maxby.’ As +we remember, he taught Italian to Maxby’s sisters on half-holidays. He +once went to the play with them, and wore a white waistcoat and a rose: +which was considered among us equivalent to a declaration. We were of +opinion on that occasion, that to the last moment he expected Maxby’s +father to ask him to dinner at five o’clock, and therefore neglected his +own dinner at half-past one, and finally got none. We exaggerated in our +imaginations the extent to which he punished Maxby’s father’s cold meat +at supper; and we agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and +water when he came home. But, we all liked him; for he had a good +knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better school if he had +had more power. He was writing master, mathematical master, English +master, made out the bills, mended the pens, and did all sorts of things. +He divided the little boys with the Latin master (they were smuggled +through their rudimentary books, at odd times when there was nothing else +to do), and he always called at parents’ houses to inquire after sick +boys, because he had gentlemanly manners. He was rather musical, and on +some remote quarter-day had bought an old trombone; but a bit of it was +lost, and it made the most extraordinary sounds when he sometimes tried +to play it of an evening. His holidays never began (on account of the +bills) until long after ours; but, in the summer vacations he used to +take pedestrian excursions with a knapsack; and at Christmas time, he +went to see his father at Chipping Norton, who we all said (on no +authority) was a dairy-fed pork-butcher. Poor fellow! He was very low +all day on Maxby’s sister’s wedding-day, and afterwards was thought to +favour Maxby more than ever, though he had been expected to spite him. +He has been dead these twenty years. Poor fellow! + +Our remembrance of Our School, presents the Latin master as a colourless +doubled-up near-sighted man with a crutch, who was always cold, and +always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and always disclosing +ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost always applying a ball +of pocket-handkerchief to some part of his face with a screwing action +round and round. He was a very good scholar, and took great pains where +he saw intelligence and a desire to learn: otherwise, perhaps not. Our +memory presents him (unless teased into a passion) with as little energy +as colour—as having been worried and tormented into monotonous +feebleness—as having had the best part of his life ground out of him in a +Mill of boys. We remember with terror how he fell asleep one sultry +afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and awoke not when +the footstep of the Chief fell heavy on the floor; how the Chief aroused +him, in the midst of a dread silence, and said, ‘Mr. Blinkins, are you +ill, sir?’ how he blushingly replied, ‘Sir, rather so;’ how the Chief +retorted with severity, ‘Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to be ill in’ +(which was very, very true), and walked back solemn as the ghost in +Hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he called that boy for +inattention, and happily expressed his feelings towards the Latin master +through the medium of a substitute. + +There was a fat little dancing-master who used to come in a gig, and +taught the more advanced among us hornpipes (as an accomplishment in +great social demand in after life); and there was a brisk little French +master who used to come in the sunniest weather, with a handleless +umbrella, and to whom the Chief was always polite, because (as we +believed), if the Chief offended him, he would instantly address the +Chief in French, and for ever confound him before the boys with his +inability to understand or reply. + +There was besides, a serving man, whose name was Phil. Our retrospective +glance presents Phil as a shipwrecked carpenter, cast away upon the +desert island of a school, and carrying into practice an ingenious +inkling of many trades. He mended whatever was broken, and made whatever +was wanted. He was general glazier, among other things, and mended all +the broken windows—at the prime cost (as was darkly rumoured among us) of +ninepence, for every square charged three-and-six to parents. We had a +high opinion of his mechanical genius, and generally held that the Chief +‘knew something bad of him,’ and on pain of divulgence enforced Phil to +be his bondsman. We particularly remember that Phil had a sovereign +contempt for learning: which engenders in us a respect for his sagacity, +as it implies his accurate observation of the relative positions of the +Chief and the ushers. He was an impenetrable man, who waited at table +between whiles, and throughout ‘the half’ kept the boxes in severe +custody. He was morose, even to the Chief, and never smiled, except at +breaking-up, when, in acknowledgment of the toast, ‘Success to Phil! +Hooray!’ he would slowly carve a grin out of his wooden face, where it +would remain until we were all gone. Nevertheless, one time when we had +the scarlet fever in the school, Phil nursed all the sick boys of his own +accord, and was like a mother to them. + +There was another school not far off, and of course Our School could have +nothing to say to that school. It is mostly the way with schools, +whether of boys or men. Well! the railway has swallowed up ours, and the +locomotives now run smoothly over its ashes. + + So fades and languishes, grows dim and dies, + All that this world is proud of, + +- and is not proud of, too. It had little reason to be proud of Our +School, and has done much better since in that way, and will do far +better yet. + + + + +OUR VESTRY + + +WE have the glorious privilege of being always in hot water if we like. +We are a shareholder in a Great Parochial British Joint Stock Bank of +Balderdash. We have a Vestry in our borough, and can vote for a +vestryman—might even _be_ a vestryman, mayhap, if we were inspired by a +lofty and noble ambition. Which we are not. + +Our Vestry is a deliberative assembly of the utmost dignity and +importance. Like the Senate of ancient Rome, its awful gravity +overpowers (or ought to overpower) barbarian visitors. It sits in the +Capitol (we mean in the capital building erected for it), chiefly on +Saturdays, and shakes the earth to its centre with the echoes of its +thundering eloquence, in a Sunday paper. + +To get into this Vestry in the eminent capacity of Vestryman, gigantic +efforts are made, and Herculean exertions used. It is made manifest to +the dullest capacity at every election, that if we reject Snozzle we are +done for, and that if we fail to bring in Blunderbooze at the top of the +poll, we are unworthy of the dearest rights of Britons. Flaming placards +are rife on all the dead walls in the borough, public-houses hang out +banners, hackney-cabs burst into full-grown flowers of type, and +everybody is, or should be, in a paroxysm of anxiety. + +At these momentous crises of the national fate, we are much assisted in +our deliberations by two eminent volunteers; one of whom subscribes +himself A Fellow Parishioner, the other, A Rate-Payer. Who they are, or +what they are, or where they are, nobody knows; but, whatever one +asserts, the other contradicts. They are both voluminous writers, +indicting more epistles than Lord Chesterfield in a single week; and the +greater part of their feelings are too big for utterance in anything less +than capital letters. They require the additional aid of whole rows of +notes of admiration, like balloons, to point their generous indignation; +and they sometimes communicate a crushing severity to stars. As thus: + + MEN OF MOONEYMOUNT. + + Is it, or is it not, a * * * to saddle the parish with a debt of + £2,745 6_s._ 9_d._, yet claim to be a RIGID ECONOMIST? + + Is it, or is it not, a * * * to state as a fact what is proved to be + _both a moral and a_ PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY? + + Is it, or is it not, a * * * to call £2,745 6_s._ 9_d._ nothing; and + nothing, something? + + Do you, or do you _not_ want a * * * TO REPRESENT YOU IN THE VESTRY? + + Your consideration of these questions is recommended to you by + + A FELLOW PARISHIONER. + +It was to this important public document that one of our first orators, +MR. MAGG (of Little Winkling Street), adverted, when he opened the great +debate of the fourteenth of November by saying, ‘Sir, I hold in my hand +an anonymous slander’—and when the interruption, with which he was at +that point assailed by the opposite faction, gave rise to that memorable +discussion on a point of order which will ever be remembered with +interest by constitutional assemblies. In the animated debate to which +we refer, no fewer than thirty-seven gentlemen, many of them of great +eminence, including MR. WIGSBY (of Chumbledon Square), were seen upon +their legs at one time; and it was on the same great occasion that +DOGGINSON—regarded in our Vestry as ‘a regular John Bull:’ we believe, in +consequence of his having always made up his mind on every subject +without knowing anything about it—informed another gentleman of similar +principles on the opposite side, that if he ‘cheek’d him,’ he would +resort to the extreme measure of knocking his blessed head off. + +This was a great occasion. But, our Vestry shines habitually. In +asserting its own pre-eminence, for instance, it is very strong. On the +least provocation, or on none, it will be clamorous to know whether it is +to be ‘dictated to,’ or ‘trampled on,’ or ‘ridden over rough-shod.’ Its +great watchword is Self-government. That is to say, supposing our Vestry +to favour any little harmless disorder like Typhus Fever, and supposing +the Government of the country to be, by any accident, in such ridiculous +hands, as that any of its authorities should consider it a duty to object +to Typhus Fever—obviously an unconstitutional objection—then, our Vestry +cuts in with a terrible manifesto about Self-government, and claims its +independent right to have as much Typhus Fever as pleases itself. Some +absurd and dangerous persons have represented, on the other hand, that +though our Vestry may be able to ‘beat the bounds’ of its own parish, it +may not be able to beat the bounds of its own diseases; which (say they) +spread over the whole land, in an ever expanding circle of waste, and +misery, and death, and widowhood, and orphanage, and desolation. But, +our Vestry makes short work of any such fellows as these. + +It was our Vestry—pink of Vestries as it is—that in support of its +favourite principle took the celebrated ground of denying the existence +of the last pestilence that raged in England, when the pestilence was +raging at the Vestry doors. Dogginson said it was plums; Mr. Wigsby (of +Chumbledon Square) said it was oysters; Mr. Magg (of Little Winkling +Street) said, amid great cheering, it was the newspapers. The noble +indignation of our Vestry with that un-English institution the Board of +Health, under those circumstances, yields one of the finest passages in +its history. It wouldn’t hear of rescue. Like Mr. Joseph Miller’s +Frenchman, it would be drowned and nobody should save it. Transported +beyond grammar by its kindled ire, it spoke in unknown tongues, and +vented unintelligible bellowings, more like an ancient oracle than the +modern oracle it is admitted on all hands to be. Rare exigencies produce +rare things; and even our Vestry, new hatched to the woful time, came +forth a greater goose than ever. + +But this, again, was a special occasion. Our Vestry, at more ordinary +periods, demands its meed of praise. + +Our Vestry is eminently parliamentary. Playing at Parliament is its +favourite game. It is even regarded by some of its members as a chapel +of ease to the House of Commons: a Little Go to be passed first. It has +its strangers’ gallery, and its reported debates (see the Sunday paper +before mentioned), and our Vestrymen are in and out of order, and on and +off their legs, and above all are transcendently quarrelsome, after the +pattern of the real original. + +Our Vestry being assembled, Mr. Magg never begs to trouble Mr. Wigsby +with a simple inquiry. He knows better than that. Seeing the honourable +gentleman, associated in their minds with Chumbledon Square, in his +place, he wishes to ask that honourable gentleman what the intentions of +himself, and those with whom he acts, may be, on the subject of the +paving of the district known as Piggleum Buildings? Mr. Wigsby replies +(with his eye on next Sunday’s paper) that in reference to the question +which has been put to him by the honourable gentleman opposite, he must +take leave to say, that if that honourable gentleman had had the courtesy +to give him notice of that question, he (Mr. Wigsby) would have consulted +with his colleagues in reference to the advisability, in the present +state of the discussions on the new paving-rate, of answering that +question. But, as the honourable gentleman has NOT had the courtesy to +give him notice of that question (great cheering from the Wigsby +interest), he must decline to give the honourable gentleman the +satisfaction he requires. Mr. Magg, instantly rising to retort, is +received with loud cries of ‘Spoke!’ from the Wigsby interest, and with +cheers from the Magg side of the house. Moreover, five gentlemen rise to +order, and one of them, in revenge for being taken no notice of, +petrifies the assembly by moving that this Vestry do now adjourn; but, is +persuaded to withdraw that awful proposal, in consideration of its +tremendous consequences if persevered in. Mr. Magg, for the purpose of +being heard, then begs to move, that you, sir, do now pass to the order +of the day; and takes that opportunity of saying, that if an honourable +gentleman whom he has in his eye, and will not demean himself by more +particularly naming (oh, oh, and cheers), supposes that he is to be put +down by clamour, that honourable gentleman—however supported he may be, +through thick and thin, by a Fellow Parishioner, with whom he is well +acquainted (cheers and counter-cheers, Mr. Magg being invariably backed +by the Rate-Payer)—will find himself mistaken. Upon this, twenty members +of our Vestry speak in succession concerning what the two great men have +meant, until it appears, after an hour and twenty minutes, that neither +of them meant anything. Then our Vestry begins business. + +We have said that, after the pattern of the real original, our Vestry in +playing at Parliament is transcendently quarrelsome. It enjoys a +personal altercation above all things. Perhaps the most redoubtable case +of this kind we have ever had—though we have had so many that it is +difficult to decide—was that on which the last extreme solemnities passed +between Mr. Tiddypot (of Gumption House) and Captain Banger (of +Wilderness Walk). + +In an adjourned debate on the question whether water could be regarded in +the light of a necessary of life; respecting which there were great +differences of opinion, and many shades of sentiment; Mr. Tiddypot, in a +powerful burst of eloquence against that hypothesis, frequently made use +of the expression that such and such a rumour had ‘reached his ears.’ +Captain Banger, following him, and holding that, for purposes of ablution +and refreshment, a pint of water per diem was necessary for every adult +of the lower classes, and half a pint for every child, cast ridicule upon +his address in a sparkling speech, and concluded by saying that instead +of those rumours having reached the ears of the honourable gentleman, he +rather thought the honourable gentleman’s ears must have reached the +rumours, in consequence of their well-known length. Mr. Tiddypot +immediately rose, looked the honourable and gallant gentleman full in the +face, and left the Vestry. + +The excitement, at this moment painfully intense, was heightened to an +acute degree when Captain Banger rose, and also left the Vestry. After a +few moments of profound silence—one of those breathless pauses never to +be forgotten—Mr. Chib (of Tucket’s Terrace, and the father of the Vestry) +rose. He said that words and looks had passed in that assembly, replete +with consequences which every feeling mind must deplore. Time pressed. +The sword was drawn, and while he spoke the scabbard might be thrown +away. He moved that those honourable gentlemen who had left the Vestry +be recalled, and required to pledge themselves upon their honour that +this affair should go no farther. The motion being by a general union of +parties unanimously agreed to (for everybody wanted to have the +belligerents there, instead of out of sight: which was no fun at all), +Mr. Magg was deputed to recover Captain Banger, and Mr. Chib himself to +go in search of Mr. Tiddypot. The Captain was found in a conspicuous +position, surveying the passing omnibuses from the top step of the +front-door immediately adjoining the beadle’s box; Mr. Tiddypot made a +desperate attempt at resistance, but was overpowered by Mr. Chib (a +remarkably hale old gentleman of eighty-two), and brought back in safety. + +Mr. Tiddypot and the Captain being restored to their places, and glaring +on each other, were called upon by the chair to abandon all homicidal +intentions, and give the Vestry an assurance that they did so. Mr. +Tiddypot remained profoundly silent. The Captain likewise remained +profoundly silent, saying that he was observed by those around him to +fold his arms like Napoleon Buonaparte, and to snort in his +breathing—actions but too expressive of gunpowder. + +The most intense emotion now prevailed. Several members clustered in +remonstrance round the Captain, and several round Mr. Tiddypot; but, both +were obdurate. Mr. Chib then presented himself amid tremendous cheering, +and said, that not to shrink from the discharge of his painful duty, he +must now move that both honourable gentlemen be taken into custody by the +beadle, and conveyed to the nearest police-office, there to be held to +bail. The union of parties still continuing, the motion was seconded by +Mr. Wigsby—on all usual occasions Mr. Chib’s opponent—and rapturously +carried with only one dissentient voice. This was Dogginson’s, who said +from his place ‘Let ’em fight it out with fistes;’ but whose coarse +remark was received as it merited. + +The beadle now advanced along the floor of the Vestry, and beckoned with +his cocked hat to both members. Every breath was suspended. To say that +a pin might have been heard to fall, would be feebly to express the +all-absorbing interest and silence. Suddenly, enthusiastic cheering +broke out from every side of the Vestry. Captain Banger had risen—being, +in fact, pulled up by a friend on either side, and poked up by a friend +behind. + +The Captain said, in a deep determined voice, that he had every respect +for that Vestry and every respect for that chair; that he also respected +the honourable gentleman of Gumpton House; but, that he respected his +honour more. Hereupon the Captain sat down, leaving the whole Vestry +much affected. Mr. Tiddypot instantly rose, and was received with the +same encouragement. He likewise said—and the exquisite art of this +orator communicated to the observation an air of freshness and +novelty—that he too had every respect for that Vestry; that he too had +every respect for that chair. That he too respected the honourable and +gallant gentleman of Wilderness Walk; but, that he too respected his +honour more. ‘Hows’ever,’ added the distinguished Vestryman, ‘if the +honourable and gallant gentleman’s honour is never more doubted and +damaged than it is by me, he’s all right.’ Captain Banger immediately +started up again, and said that after those observations, involving as +they did ample concession to his honour without compromising the honour +of the honourable gentleman, he would be wanting in honour as well as in +generosity, if he did not at once repudiate all intention of wounding the +honour of the honourable gentleman, or saying anything dishonourable to +his honourable feelings. These observations were repeatedly interrupted +by bursts of cheers. Mr. Tiddypot retorted that he well knew the spirit +of honour by which the honourable and gallant gentleman was so honourably +animated, and that he accepted an honourable explanation, offered in a +way that did him honour; but, he trusted that the Vestry would consider +that his (Mr. Tiddypot’s) honour had imperatively demanded of him that +painful course which he had felt it due to his honour to adopt. The +Captain and Mr. Tiddypot then touched their hats to one another across +the Vestry, a great many times, and it is thought that these proceedings +(reported to the extent of several columns in next Sunday’s paper) will +bring them in as church-wardens next year. + +All this was strictly after the pattern of the real original, and so are +the whole of our Vestry’s proceedings. In all their debates, they are +laudably imitative of the windy and wordy slang of the real original, and +of nothing that is better in it. They have head-strong party +animosities, without any reference to the merits of questions; they tack +a surprising amount of debate to a very little business; they set more +store by forms than they do by substances:—all very like the real +original! It has been doubted in our borough, whether our Vestry is of +any utility; but our own conclusion is, that it is of the use to the +Borough that a diminishing mirror is to a painter, as enabling it to +perceive in a small focus of absurdity all the surface defects of the +real original. + + + + +OUR BORE + + +IT is unnecessary to say that we keep a bore. Everybody does. But, the +bore whom we have the pleasure and honour of enumerating among our +particular friends, is such a generic bore, and has so many traits (as it +appears to us) in common with the great bore family, that we are tempted +to make him the subject of the present notes. May he be generally +accepted! + +Our bore is admitted on all hands to be a good-hearted man. He may put +fifty people out of temper, but he keeps his own. He preserves a sickly +solid smile upon his face, when other faces are ruffled by the perfection +he has attained in his art, and has an equable voice which never travels +out of one key or rises above one pitch. His manner is a manner of +tranquil interest. None of his opinions are startling. Among his +deepest-rooted convictions, it may be mentioned that he considers the air +of England damp, and holds that our lively neighbours—he always calls the +French our lively neighbours—have the advantage of us in that particular. +Nevertheless he is unable to forget that John Bull is John Bull all the +world over, and that England with all her faults is England still. + +Our bore has travelled. He could not possibly be a complete bore without +having travelled. He rarely speaks of his travels without introducing, +sometimes on his own plan of construction, morsels of the language of the +country—which he always translates. You cannot name to him any little +remote town in France, Italy, Germany, or Switzerland but he knows it +well; stayed there a fortnight under peculiar circumstances. And talking +of that little place, perhaps you know a statue over an old fountain, up +a little court, which is the second—no, the third—stay—yes, the third +turning on the right, after you come out of the Post-house, going up the +hill towards the market? You _don’t_ know that statue? Nor that +fountain? You surprise him! They are not usually seen by travellers +(most extraordinary, he has never yet met with a single traveller who +knew them, except one German, the most intelligent man he ever met in his +life!) but he thought that YOU would have been the man to find them out. +And then he describes them, in a circumstantial lecture half an hour +long, generally delivered behind a door which is constantly being opened +from the other side; and implores you, if you ever revisit that place, +now do go and look at that statue and fountain! + +Our bore, in a similar manner, being in Italy, made a discovery of a +dreadful picture, which has been the terror of a large portion of the +civilized world ever since. We have seen the liveliest men paralysed by +it, across a broad dining-table. He was lounging among the mountains, +sir, basking in the mellow influences of the climate, when he came to +_una piccola chiesa_—a little church—or perhaps it would be more correct +to say _una piccolissima cappella_—the smallest chapel you can possibly +imagine—and walked in. There was nobody inside but a _cieco_—a blind +man—saying his prayers, and a _vecchio padre_—old friar-rattling a +money-box. But, above the head of that friar, and immediately to the +right of the altar as you enter—to the right of the altar? No. To the +left of the altar as you enter—or say near the centre—there hung a +painting (subject, Virgin and Child) so divine in its expression, so pure +and yet so warm and rich in its tone, so fresh in its touch, at once so +glowing in its colour and so statuesque in its repose, that our bore +cried out in ecstasy, ‘That’s the finest picture in Italy!’ And so it +is, sir. There is no doubt of it. It is astonishing that that picture +is so little known. Even the painter is uncertain. He afterwards took +Blumb, of the Royal Academy (it is to be observed that our bore takes +none but eminent people to see sights, and that none but eminent people +take our bore), and you never saw a man so affected in your life as Blumb +was. He cried like a child! And then our bore begins his description in +detail—for all this is introductory—and strangles his hearers with the +folds of the purple drapery. + +By an equally fortunate conjunction of accidental circumstances, it +happened that when our bore was in Switzerland, he discovered a Valley, +of that superb character, that Chamouni is not to be mentioned in the +same breath with it. This is how it was, sir. He was travelling on a +mule—had been in the saddle some days—when, as he and the guide, Pierre +Blanquo: whom you may know, perhaps?—our bore is sorry you don’t, because +he’s the only guide deserving of the name—as he and Pierre were +descending, towards evening, among those everlasting snows, to the little +village of La Croix, our bore observed a mountain track turning off +sharply to the right. At first he was uncertain whether it _was_ a track +at all, and in fact, he said to Pierre, ‘_Qu’est que c’est donc_, _mon +ami_?—What is that, my friend? ‘_Où_, _monsieur_?’ said Pierre—‘Where, +sir?’ ‘_Là_!—there!’ said our bore. ‘_Monsieur_, _ce n’est rien de +tout_—sir, it’s nothing at all,’ said Pierre. ‘_Allons_!—Make haste. +_Il va neiget_—it’s going to snow!’ But, our bore was not to be done in +that way, and he firmly replied, ‘I wish to go in that direction—_je veux +y aller_. I am bent upon it—_je suis déterminé_. _En avant_!—go ahead!’ +In consequence of which firmness on our bore’s part, they proceeded, sir, +during two hours of evening, and three of moonlight (they waited in a +cavern till the moon was up), along the slenderest track, overhanging +perpendicularly the most awful gulfs, until they arrived, by a winding +descent, in a valley that possibly, and he may say probably, was never +visited by any stranger before. What a valley! Mountains piled on +mountains, avalanches stemmed by pine forests; waterfalls, chalets, +mountain-torrents, wooden bridges, every conceivable picture of Swiss +scenery! The whole village turned out to receive our bore. The peasant +girls kissed him, the men shook hands with him, one old lady of +benevolent appearance wept upon his breast. He was conducted, in a +primitive triumph, to the little inn: where he was taken ill next +morning, and lay for six weeks, attended by the amiable hostess (the same +benevolent old lady who had wept over night) and her charming daughter, +Fanchette. It is nothing to say that they were attentive to him; they +doted on him. They called him in their simple way, _l’Ange Anglais_—the +English Angel. When our bore left the valley, there was not a dry eye in +the place; some of the people attended him for miles. He begs and +entreats of you as a personal favour, that if you ever go to Switzerland +again (you have mentioned that your last visit was your twenty-third), +you will go to that valley, and see Swiss scenery for the first time. +And if you want really to know the pastoral people of Switzerland, and to +understand them, mention, in that valley, our bore’s name! + +Our bore has a crushing brother in the East, who, somehow or other, was +admitted to smoke pipes with Mehemet Ali, and instantly became an +authority on the whole range of Eastern matters, from Haroun Alraschid to +the present Sultan. He is in the habit of expressing mysterious opinions +on this wide range of subjects, but on questions of foreign policy more +particularly, to our bore, in letters; and our bore is continually +sending bits of these letters to the newspapers (which they never +insert), and carrying other bits about in his pocket-book. It is even +whispered that he has been seen at the Foreign Office, receiving great +consideration from the messengers, and having his card promptly borne +into the sanctuary of the temple. The havoc committed in society by this +Eastern brother is beyond belief. Our bore is always ready with him. We +have known our bore to fall upon an intelligent young sojourner in the +wilderness, in the first sentence of a narrative, and beat all confidence +out of him with one blow of his brother. He became omniscient, as to +foreign policy, in the smoking of those pipes with Mehemet Ali. The +balance of power in Europe, the machinations of the Jesuits, the gentle +and humanising influence of Austria, the position and prospects of that +hero of the noble soul who is worshipped by happy France, are all easy +reading to our bore’s brother. And our bore is so provokingly +self-denying about him! ‘I don’t pretend to more than a very general +knowledge of these subjects myself,’ says he, after enervating the +intellects of several strong men, ‘but these are my brother’s opinions, +and I believe he is known to be well-informed.’ + +The commonest incidents and places would appear to have been made +special, expressly for our bore. Ask him whether he ever chanced to +walk, between seven and eight in the morning, down St. James’s Street, +London, and he will tell you, never in his life but once. But, it’s +curious that that once was in eighteen thirty; and that as our bore was +walking down the street you have just mentioned, at the hour you have +just mentioned—half-past seven—or twenty minutes to eight. No! Let him +be correct!—exactly a quarter before eight by the palace clock—he met a +fresh-coloured, grey-haired, good-humoured looking gentleman, with a +brown umbrella, who, as he passed him, touched his hat and said, ‘Fine +morning, sir, fine morning!’—William the Fourth! + +Ask our bore whether he has seen Mr. Barry’s new Houses of Parliament, +and he will reply that he has not yet inspected them minutely, but, that +you remind him that it was his singular fortune to be the last man to see +the old Houses of Parliament before the fire broke out. It happened in +this way. Poor John Spine, the celebrated novelist, had taken him over +to South Lambeth to read to him the last few chapters of what was +certainly his best book—as our bore told him at the time, adding, ‘Now, +my dear John, touch it, and you’ll spoil it!’—and our bore was going back +to the club by way of Millbank and Parliament Street, when he stopped to +think of Canning, and look at the Houses of Parliament. Now, you know +far more of the philosophy of Mind than our bore does, and are much +better able to explain to him than he is to explain to you why or +wherefore, at that particular time, the thought of fire should come into +his head. But, it did. It did. He thought, What a national calamity if +an edifice connected with so many associations should be consumed by +fire! At that time there was not a single soul in the street but +himself. All was quiet, dark, and solitary. After contemplating the +building for a minute—or, say a minute and a half, not more—our bore +proceeded on his way, mechanically repeating, What a national calamity if +such an edifice, connected with such associations, should be destroyed +by—A man coming towards him in a violent state of agitation completed the +sentence, with the exclamation, Fire! Our bore looked round, and the +whole structure was in a blaze. + +In harmony and union with these experiences, our bore never went anywhere +in a steamboat but he made either the best or the worst voyage ever known +on that station. Either he overheard the captain say to himself, with +his hands clasped, ‘We are all lost!’ or the captain openly declared to +him that he had never made such a run before, and never should be able to +do it again. Our bore was in that express train on that railway, when +they made (unknown to the passengers) the experiment of going at the rate +of a hundred to miles an hour. Our bore remarked on that occasion to the +other people in the carriage, ‘This is too fast, but sit still!’ He was +at the Norwich musical festival when the extraordinary echo for which +science has been wholly unable to account, was heard for the first and +last time. He and the bishop heard it at the same moment, and caught +each other’s eye. He was present at that illumination of St. Peter’s, of +which the Pope is known to have remarked, as he looked at it out of his +window in the Vatican, ‘_O Cielo_! _Questa cosa non sara fatta_, _mai +ancora_, _come questa_—O Heaven! this thing will never be done again, +like this!’ He has seen every lion he ever saw, under some remarkably +propitious circumstances. He knows there is no fancy in it, because in +every case the showman mentioned the fact at the time, and congratulated +him upon it. + +At one period of his life, our bore had an illness. It was an illness of +a dangerous character for society at large. Innocently remark that you +are very well, or that somebody else is very well; and our bore, with a +preface that one never knows what a blessing health is until one has lost +it, is reminded of that illness, and drags you through the whole of its +symptoms, progress, and treatment. Innocently remark that you are not +well, or that somebody else is not well, and the same inevitable result +ensues. You will learn how our bore felt a tightness about here, sir, +for which he couldn’t account, accompanied with a constant sensation as +if he were being stabbed—or, rather, jobbed—that expresses it more +correctly—jobbed—with a blunt knife. Well, sir! This went on, until +sparks began to flit before his eyes, water-wheels to turn round in his +head, and hammers to beat incessantly, thump, thump, thump, all down his +back—along the whole of the spinal vertebræ. Our bore, when his +sensations had come to this, thought it a duty he owed to himself to take +advice, and he said, Now, whom shall I consult? He naturally thought of +Callow, at that time one of the most eminent physicians in London, and he +went to Callow. Callow said, ‘Liver!’ and prescribed rhubarb and +calomel, low diet, and moderate exercise. Our bore went on with this +treatment, getting worse every day, until he lost confidence in Callow, +and went to Moon, whom half the town was then mad about. Moon was +interested in the case; to do him justice he was very much interested in +the case; and he said, ‘Kidneys!’ He altered the whole treatment, +sir—gave strong acids, cupped, and blistered. This went on, our bore +still getting worse every day, until he openly told Moon it would be a +satisfaction to him if he would have a consultation with Clatter. The +moment Clatter saw our bore, he said, ‘Accumulation of fat about the +heart!’ Snugglewood, who was called in with him, differed, and said, +‘Brain!’ But, what they all agreed upon was, to lay our bore upon his +back, to shave his head, to leech him, to administer enormous quantities +of medicine, and to keep him low; so that he was reduced to a mere +shadow, you wouldn’t have known him, and nobody considered it possible +that he could ever recover. This was his condition, sir, when he heard +of Jilkins—at that period in a very small practice, and living in the +upper part of a house in Great Portland Street; but still, you +understand, with a rising reputation among the few people to whom he was +known. Being in that condition in which a drowning man catches at a +straw, our bore sent for Jilkins. Jilkins came. Our bore liked his eye, +and said, ‘Mr. Jilkins, I have a presentiment that you will do me good.’ +Jilkins’s reply was characteristic of the man. It was, ‘Sir, I mean to +do you good.’ This confirmed our bore’s opinion of his eye, and they +went into the case together—went completely into it. Jilkins then got +up, walked across the room, came back, and sat down. His words were +these. ‘You have been humbugged. This is a case of indigestion, +occasioned by deficiency of power in the Stomach. Take a mutton chop in +half-an-hour, with a glass of the finest old sherry that can be got for +money. Take two mutton chops to-morrow, and two glasses of the finest +old sherry. Next day, I’ll come again.’ In a week our bore was on his +legs, and Jilkins’s success dates from that period! + +Our bore is great in secret information. He happens to know many things +that nobody else knows. He can generally tell you where the split is in +the Ministry; he knows a great deal about the Queen; and has little +anecdotes to relate of the royal nursery. He gives you the judge’s +private opinion of Sludge the murderer, and his thoughts when he tried +him. He happens to know what such a man got by such a transaction, and +it was fifteen thousand five hundred pounds, and his income is twelve +thousand a year. Our bore is also great in mystery. He believes, with +an exasperating appearance of profound meaning, that you saw Parkins last +Sunday?—Yes, you did.—Did he say anything particular?—No, nothing +particular.—Our bore is surprised at that.—Why?—Nothing. Only he +understood that Parkins had come to tell you something.—What about?—Well! +our bore is not at liberty to mention what about. But, he believes you +will hear that from Parkins himself, soon, and he hopes it may not +surprise you as it did him. Perhaps, however, you never heard about +Parkins’s wife’s sister?—No.—Ah! says our bore, that explains it! + +Our bore is also great in argument. He infinitely enjoys a long humdrum, +drowsy interchange of words of dispute about nothing. He considers that +it strengthens the mind, consequently, he ‘don’t see that,’ very often. +Or, he would be glad to know what you mean by that. Or, he doubts that. +Or, he has always understood exactly the reverse of that. Or, he can’t +admit that. Or, he begs to deny that. Or, surely you don’t mean that. +And so on. He once advised us; offered us a piece of advice, after the +fact, totally impracticable and wholly impossible of acceptance, because +it supposed the fact, then eternally disposed of, to be yet in abeyance. +It was a dozen years ago, and to this hour our bore benevolently wishes, +in a mild voice, on certain regular occasions, that we had thought better +of his opinion. + +The instinct with which our bore finds out another bore, and closes with +him, is amazing. We have seen him pick his man out of fifty men, in a +couple of minutes. They love to go (which they do naturally) into a slow +argument on a previously exhausted subject, and to contradict each other, +and to wear the hearers out, without impairing their own perennial +freshness as bores. It improves the good understanding between them, and +they get together afterwards, and bore each other amicably. Whenever we +see our bore behind a door with another bore, we know that when he comes +forth, he will praise the other bore as one of the most intelligent men +he ever met. And this bringing us to the close of what we had to say +about our bore, we are anxious to have it understood that he never +bestowed this praise on us. + + + + +A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY + + +IT was profoundly observed by a witty member of the Court of Common +Council, in Council assembled in the City of London, in the year of our +Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty, that the French are a +frog-eating people, who wear wooden shoes. + +We are credibly informed, in reference to the nation whom this choice +spirit so happily disposed of, that the caricatures and stage +representations which were current in England some half a century ago, +exactly depict their present condition. For example, we understand that +every Frenchman, without exception, wears a pigtail and curl-papers. +That he is extremely sallow, thin, long-faced, and lantern-jawed. That +the calves of his legs are invariably undeveloped; that his legs fail at +the knees, and that his shoulders are always higher than his ears. We +are likewise assured that he rarely tastes any food but soup maigre, and +an onion; that he always says, ‘By Gar! Aha! Vat you tell me, sare?’ at +the end of every sentence he utters; and that the true generic name of +his race is the Mounseers, or the Parly-voos. If he be not a +dancing-master, or a barber, he must be a cook; since no other trades but +those three are congenial to the tastes of the people, or permitted by +the Institutions of the country. He is a slave, of course. The ladies +of France (who are also slaves) invariably have their heads tied up in +Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long earrings, carry tambourines, and beguile +the weariness of their yoke by singing in head voices through their +noses—principally to barrel-organs. + +It may be generally summed up, of this inferior people, that they have no +idea of anything. + +Of a great Institution like Smithfield, they are unable to form the least +conception. A Beast Market in the heart of Paris would be regarded an +impossible nuisance. Nor have they any notion of slaughter-houses in the +midst of a city. One of these benighted frog-eaters would scarcely +understand your meaning, if you told him of the existence of such a +British bulwark. + +It is agreeable, and perhaps pardonable, to indulge in a little +self-complacency when our right to it is thoroughly established. At the +present time, to be rendered memorable by a final attack on that good old +market which is the (rotten) apple of the Corporation’s eye, let us +compare ourselves, to our national delight and pride as to these two +subjects of slaughter-house and beast-market, with the outlandish +foreigner. + +The blessings of Smithfield are too well understood to need +recapitulation; all who run (away from mad bulls and pursuing oxen) may +read. Any market-day they may be beheld in glorious action. Possibly +the merits of our slaughter-houses are not yet quite so generally +appreciated. + +Slaughter-houses, in the large towns of England, are always (with the +exception of one or two enterprising towns) most numerous in the most +densely crowded places, where there is the least circulation of air. +They are often underground, in cellars; they are sometimes in close back +yards; sometimes (as in Spitalfields) in the very shops where the meat is +sold. Occasionally, under good private management, they are ventilated +and clean. For the most part, they are unventilated and dirty; and, to +the reeking walls, putrid fat and other offensive animal matter clings +with a tenacious hold. The busiest slaughter-houses in London are in the +neighbourhood of Smithfield, in Newgate Market, in Whitechapel, in +Newport Market, in Leadenhall Market, in Clare Market. All these places +are surrounded by houses of a poor description, swarming with +inhabitants. Some of them are close to the worst burial-grounds in +London. When the slaughter-house is below the ground, it is a common +practice to throw the sheep down areas, neck and crop—which is exciting, +but not at all cruel. When it is on the level surface, it is often +extremely difficult of approach. Then, the beasts have to be worried, +and goaded, and pronged, and tail-twisted, for a long time before they +can be got in—which is entirely owing to their natural obstinacy. When +it is not difficult of approach, but is in a foul condition, what they +see and scent makes them still more reluctant to enter—which is their +natural obstinacy again. When they do get in at last, after no trouble +and suffering to speak of (for, there is nothing in the previous journey +into the heart of London, the night’s endurance in Smithfield, the +struggle out again, among the crowded multitude, the coaches, carts, +waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, dogs, boys, +whoopings, roarings, and ten thousand other distractions), they are +represented to be in a most unfit state to be killed, according to +microscopic examinations made of their fevered blood by one of the most +distinguished physiologists in the world, PROFESSOR OWEN—but that’s +humbug. When they _are_ killed, at last, their reeking carcases are hung +in impure air, to become, as the same Professor will explain to you, less +nutritious and more unwholesome—but he is only an _un_common counsellor, +so don’t mind _him_. In half a quarter of a mile’s length of +Whitechapel, at one time, there shall be six hundred newly slaughtered +oxen hanging up, and seven hundred sheep—but, the more the merrier—proof +of prosperity. Hard by Snow Hill and Warwick Lane, you shall see the +little children, inured to sights of brutality from their birth, trotting +along the alleys, mingled with troops of horribly busy pigs, up to their +ankles in blood—but it makes the young rascals hardy. Into the imperfect +sewers of this overgrown city, you shall have the immense mass of +corruption, engendered by these practices, lazily thrown out of sight, to +rise, in poisonous gases, into your house at night, when your sleeping +children will most readily absorb them, and to find its languid way, at +last, into the river that you drink—but, the French are a frog-eating +people who wear wooden shoes, and it’s O the roast beef of England, my +boy, the jolly old English roast beef. + +It is quite a mistake—a newfangled notion altogether—to suppose that +there is any natural antagonism between putrefaction and health. They +know better than that, in the Common Council. You may talk about Nature, +in her wisdom, always warning man through his sense of smell, when he +draws near to something dangerous; but, that won’t go down in the City. +Nature very often don’t mean anything. Mrs. Quickly says that prunes are +ill for a green wound; but whosoever says that putrid animal substances +are ill for a green wound, or for robust vigour, or for anything or for +anybody, is a humanity-monger and a humbug. Britons never, never, never, +&c., therefore. And prosperity to cattle-driving, cattle-slaughtering, +bone-crushing, blood-boiling, trotter-scraping, tripe-dressing, +paunch-cleaning, gut-spinning, hide-preparing, tallow-melting, and other +salubrious proceedings, in the midst of hospitals, churchyards, +workhouses, schools, infirmaries, refuges, dwellings, provision-shops +nurseries, sick-beds, every stage and baiting-place in the journey from +birth to death! + +These _un_common counsellors, your Professor Owens and fellows, will +contend that to tolerate these things in a civilised city, is to reduce +it to a worse condition than BRUCE found to prevail in ABYSSINIA. For +there (say they) the jackals and wild dogs came at night to devour the +offal; whereas, here there are no such natural scavengers, and quite as +savage customs. Further, they will demonstrate that nothing in Nature is +intended to be wasted, and that besides the waste which such abuses +occasion in the articles of health and life—main sources of the riches of +any community—they lead to a prodigious waste of changing matters, which +might, with proper preparation, and under scientific direction, be safely +applied to the increase of the fertility of the land. Thus (they argue) +does Nature ever avenge infractions of her beneficent laws, and so surely +as Man is determined to warp any of her blessings into curses, shall they +become curses, and shall he suffer heavily. But, this is cant. Just as +it is cant of the worst description to say to the London Corporation, +‘How can you exhibit to the people so plain a spectacle of dishonest +equivocation, as to claim the right of holding a market in the midst of +the great city, for one of your vested privileges, when you know that +when your last market holding charter was granted to you by King Charles +the First, Smithfield stood IN THE SUBURBS OF LONDON, and is in that very +charter so described in those five words?’—which is certainly true, but +has nothing to do with the question. + +Now to the comparison, in these particulars of civilisation, between the +capital of England, and the capital of that frog-eating and wooden-shoe +wearing country, which the illustrious Common Councilman so sarcastically +settled. + +In Paris, there is no Cattle Market. Cows and calves are sold within the +city, but, the Cattle Markets are at Poissy, about thirteen miles off, on +a line of railway; and at Sceaux, about five miles off. The Poissy +market is held every Thursday; the Sceaux market, every Monday. In +Paris, there are no slaughter-houses, in our acceptation of the term. +There are five public Abattoirs—within the walls, though in the +suburbs—and in these all the slaughtering for the city must be performed. +They are managed by a Syndicat or Guild of Butchers, who confer with the +Minister of the Interior on all matters affecting the trade, and who are +consulted when any new regulations are contemplated for its government. +They are, likewise, under the vigilant superintendence of the police. +Every butcher must be licensed: which proves him at once to be a slave, +for we don’t license butchers in England—we only license apothecaries, +attorneys, post-masters, publicans, hawkers, retailers of tobacco, snuff, +pepper, and vinegar—and one or two other little trades, not worth +mentioning. Every arrangement in connexion with the slaughtering and +sale of meat, is matter of strict police regulation. (Slavery again, +though we certainly have a general sort of Police Act here.) + +But, in order that the reader may understand what a monument of folly +these frog-eaters have raised in their abattoirs and cattle-markets, and +may compare it with what common counselling has done for us all these +years, and would still do but for the innovating spirit of the times, +here follows a short account of a recent visit to these places: + + * * * * * + +It was as sharp a February morning as you would desire to feel at your +fingers’ ends when I turned out—tumbling over a chiffonier with his +little basket and rake, who was picking up the bits of coloured paper +that had been swept out, over-night, from a Bon-Bon shop—to take the +Butchers’ Train to Poissy. A cold, dim light just touched the high roofs +of the Tuileries which have seen such changes, such distracted crowds, +such riot and bloodshed; and they looked as calm, and as old, all covered +with white frost, as the very Pyramids. There was not light enough, yet, +to strike upon the towers of Notre Dame across the water; but I thought +of the dark pavement of the old Cathedral as just beginning to be +streaked with grey; and of the lamps in the ‘House of God,’ the Hospital +close to it, burning low and being quenched; and of the keeper of the +Morgue going about with a fading lantern, busy in the arrangement of his +terrible waxwork for another sunny day. + +The sun was up, and shining merrily when the butchers and I, announcing +our departure with an engine shriek to sleepy Paris, rattled away for the +Cattle Market. Across the country, over the Seine, among a forest of +scrubby trees—the hoar frost lying cold in shady places, and glittering +in the light—and here we are—at Poissy! Out leap the butchers, who have +been chattering all the way like madmen, and off they straggle for the +Cattle Market (still chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and +caps of all shapes, in coats and blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, +horse-skins, furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oil-skin, +anything you please that will keep a man and a butcher warm, upon a +frosty morning. + +Many a French town have I seen, between this spot of ground and Strasburg +or Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little Poissy! Barring +the details of your old church, I know you well, albeit we make +acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know your narrow, straggling, +winding streets, with a kennel in the midst, and lamps slung across. I +know your picturesque street-corners, winding up-hill Heaven knows why or +where! I know your tradesmen’s inscriptions, in letters not quite fat +enough; your barbers’ brazen basins dangling over little shops; your +Cafés and Estaminets, with cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows, +and pictures of crossed billiard cues outside. I know this identical +grey horse with his tail rolled up in a knot like the ‘back hair’ of an +untidy woman, who won’t be shod, and who makes himself heraldic by +clattering across the street on his hind-legs, while twenty voices shriek +and growl at him as a Brigand, an accursed Robber, and an +everlastingly-doomed Pig. I know your sparkling town-fountain, too, my +Poissy, and am glad to see it near a cattle-market, gushing so freshly, +under the auspices of a gallant little sublimated Frenchman wrought in +metal, perched upon the top. Through all the land of France I know this +unswept room at The Glory, with its peculiar smell of beans and coffee, +where the butchers crowd about the stove, drinking the thinnest of wine +from the smallest of tumblers; where the thickest of coffee-cups mingle +with the longest of loaves, and the weakest of lump sugar; where Madame +at the counter easily acknowledges the homage of all entering and +departing butchers; where the billiard-table is covered up in the midst +like a great bird-cake—but the bird may sing by-and-by! + +A bell! The Calf Market! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty payment +and departure on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame reproaches +Ma’amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to the devotion of +a Butcher in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of The Glory, counts a +double handful of sous, without an unobliterated inscription, or an +undamaged crowned head, among them. + +There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confusion. The +open area devoted to the market is divided into three portions: the Calf +Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep Market. Calves at eight, cattle at +ten, sheep at mid-day. All is very clean. + +The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or four feet +high, open on all sides, with a lofty overspreading roof, supported on +stone columns, which give it the appearance of a sort of vineyard from +Northern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie innumerable calves, +all bound hind-legs and fore-legs together, and all trembling +violently—perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear, perhaps with pain; for, +this mode of tying, which seems to be an absolute superstition with the +peasantry, can hardly fail to cause great suffering. Here, they lie, +patiently in rows, among the straw, with their stolid faces and +inexpressive eyes, superintended by men and women, boys and girls; here +they are inspected by our friends, the butchers, bargained for, and +bought. Plenty of time; plenty of room; plenty of good humour. +‘Monsieur Francois in the bear-skin, how do you do, my friend? You come +from Paris by the train? The fresh air does you good. If you are in +want of three or four fine calves this market morning, my angel, I, +Madame Doche, shall be happy to deal with you. Behold these calves, +Monsieur Francois! Great Heaven, you are doubtful! Well, sir, walk +round and look about you. If you find better for the money, buy them. +If not, come to me!’ Monsieur Francois goes his way leisurely, and keeps +a wary eye upon the stock. No other butcher jostles Monsieur Francois; +Monsieur Francois jostles no other butcher. Nobody is flustered and +aggravated. Nobody is savage. In the midst of the country blue frocks +and red handkerchiefs, and the butchers’ coats, shaggy, furry, and hairy: +of calf-skin, cow-skin, horse-skin, and bear-skin: towers a cocked hat +and a blue cloak. Slavery! For _our_ Police wear great-coats and glazed +hats. + +But now the bartering is over, and the calves are sold. ‘Ho! Gregoire, +Antoine, Jean, Louis! Bring up the carts, my children! Quick, brave +infants! Hola! Hi!’ + +The carts, well littered with straw, are backed up to the edge of the +raised pavement, and various hot infants carry calves upon their heads, +and dexterously pitch them in, while other hot infants, standing in the +carts, arrange the calves, and pack them carefully in straw. Here is a +promising young calf, not sold, whom Madame Doche unbinds. Pardon me, +Madame Doche, but I fear this mode of tying the four legs of a quadruped +together, though strictly à la mode, is not quite right. You observe, +Madame Doche, that the cord leaves deep indentations in the skin, and +that the animal is so cramped at first as not to know, or even remotely +suspect that he _is_ unbound, until you are so obliging as to kick him, +in your delicate little way, and pull his tail like a bell-rope. Then, +he staggers to his knees, not being able to stand, and stumbles about +like a drunken calf, or the horse at Franconi’s, whom you may have seen, +Madame Doche, who is supposed to have been mortally wounded in battle. +But, what is this rubbing against me, as I apostrophise Madame Doche? It +is another heated infant with a calf upon his head. ‘Pardon, Monsieur, +but will you have the politeness to allow me to pass?’ ‘Ah, sir, +willingly. I am vexed to obstruct the way.’ On he staggers, calf and +all, and makes no allusion whatever either to my eyes or limbs. + +Now, the carts are all full. More straw, my Antoine, to shake over these +top rows; then, off we will clatter, rumble, jolt, and rattle, a long row +of us, out of the first town-gate, and out at the second town-gate, and +past the empty sentry-box, and the little thin square bandbox of a +guardhouse, where nobody seems to live: and away for Paris, by the paved +road, lying, a straight, straight line, in the long, long avenue of +trees. We can neither choose our road, nor our pace, for that is all +prescribed to us. The public convenience demands that our carts should +get to Paris by such a route, and no other (Napoleon had leisure to find +that out, while he had a little war with the world upon his hands), and +woe betide us if we infringe orders. + +Drovers of oxen stand in the Cattle Market, tied to iron bars fixed into +posts of granite. Other droves advance slowly down the long avenue, past +the second town-gate, and the first town-gate, and the sentry-box, and +the bandbox, thawing the morning with their smoky breath as they come +along. Plenty of room; plenty of time. Neither man nor beast is driven +out of his wits by coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, +phaetons, cabs, trucks, boys, whoopings, roarings, and multitudes. No +tail-twisting is necessary—no iron pronging is necessary. There are no +iron prongs here. The market for cattle is held as quietly as the market +for calves. In due time, off the cattle go to Paris; the drovers can no +more choose their road, nor their time, nor the numbers they shall drive, +than they can choose their hour for dying in the course of nature. + +Sheep next. The sheep-pens are up here, past the Branch Bank of Paris +established for the convenience of the butchers, and behind the two +pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My name is Bull: yet I +think I should like to see as good twin fountains—not to say in +Smithfield, but in England anywhere. Plenty of room; plenty of time. +And here are sheep-dogs, sensible as ever, but with a certain French air +about them—not without a suspicion of dominoes—with a kind of flavour of +moustache and beard—demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose where an English +dog would be tight and close—not so troubled with business calculations +as our English drovers’ dogs, who have always got their sheep upon their +minds, and think about their work, even resting, as you may see by their +faces; but, dashing, showy, rather unreliable dogs: who might worry me +instead of their legitimate charges if they saw occasion—and might see it +somewhat suddenly. + +The market for sheep passes off like the other two; and away they go, by +_their_ allotted road to Paris. My way being the Railway, I make the +best of it at twenty miles an hour; whirling through the now high-lighted +landscape; thinking that the inexperienced green buds will be wishing, +before long, they had not been tempted to come out so soon; and wondering +who lives in this or that château, all window and lattice, and what the +family may have for breakfast this sharp morning. + +After the Market comes the Abattoir. What abattoir shall I visit first? +Montmartre is the largest. So I will go there. + +The abattoirs are all within the walls of Paris, with an eye to the +receipt of the octroi duty; but, they stand in open places in the +suburbs, removed from the press and bustle of the city. They are managed +by the Syndicat or Guild of Butchers, under the inspection of the Police. +Certain smaller items of the revenue derived from them are in part +retained by the Guild for the payment of their expenses, and in part +devoted by it to charitable purposes in connexion with the trade. They +cost six hundred and eighty thousand pounds; and they return to the city +of Paris an interest on that outlay, amounting to nearly six and a-half +per cent. + +Here, in a sufficiently dismantled space is the Abattoir of Montmartre, +covering nearly nine acres of ground, surrounded by a high wall, and +looking from the outside like a cavalry barrack. At the iron gates is a +small functionary in a large cocked hat. ‘Monsieur desires to see the +abattoir? Most certainly.’ State being inconvenient in private +transactions, and Monsieur being already aware of the cocked hat, the +functionary puts it into a little official bureau which it almost fills, +and accompanies me in the modest attire—as to his head—of ordinary life. + +Many of the animals from Poissy have come here. On the arrival of each +drove, it was turned into yonder ample space, where each butcher who had +bought, selected his own purchases. Some, we see now, in these long +perspectives of stalls with a high over-hanging roof of wood and open +tiles rising above the walls. While they rest here, before being +slaughtered, they are required to be fed and watered, and the stalls must +be kept clean. A stated amount of fodder must always be ready in the +loft above; and the supervision is of the strictest kind. The same +regulations apply to sheep and calves; for which, portions of these +perspectives are strongly railed off. All the buildings are of the +strongest and most solid description. + +After traversing these lairs, through which, besides the upper provision +for ventilation just mentioned, there may be a thorough current of air +from opposite windows in the side walls, and from doors at either end, we +traverse the broad, paved, court-yard until we come to the +slaughter-houses. They are all exactly alike, and adjoin each other, to +the number of eight or nine together, in blocks of solid building. Let +us walk into the first. + +It is firmly built and paved with stone. It is well lighted, thoroughly +aired, and lavishly provided with fresh water. It has two doors opposite +each other; the first, the door by which I entered from the main yard; +the second, which is opposite, opening on another smaller yard, where the +sheep and calves are killed on benches. The pavement of that yard, I +see, slopes downward to a gutter, for its being more easily cleansed. +The slaughter-house is fifteen feet high, sixteen feet and a-half wide, +and thirty-three feet long. It is fitted with a powerful windlass, by +which one man at the handle can bring the head of an ox down to the +ground to receive the blow from the pole-axe that is to fell him—with the +means of raising the carcass and keeping it suspended during the +after-operation of dressing—and with hooks on which carcasses can hang, +when completely prepared, without touching the walls. Upon the pavement +of this first stone chamber, lies an ox scarcely dead. If I except the +blood draining from him, into a little stone well in a corner of the +pavement, the place is free from offence as the Place de la Concorde. It +is infinitely purer and cleaner, I know, my friend the functionary, than +the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Ha, ha! Monsieur is pleasant, but, truly, +there is reason, too, in what he says. + +I look into another of these slaughter-houses. ‘Pray enter,’ says a +gentleman in bloody boots. ‘This is a calf I have killed this morning. +Having a little time upon my hands, I have cut and punctured this lace +pattern in the coats of his stomach. It is pretty enough. I did it to +divert myself.’—‘It is beautiful, Monsieur, the slaughterer!’ He tells +me I have the gentility to say so. + +I look into rows of slaughter-houses. In many, retail dealers, who have +come here for the purpose, are making bargains for meat. There is +killing enough, certainly, to satiate an unused eye; and there are +steaming carcasses enough, to suggest the expediency of a fowl and salad +for dinner; but, everywhere, there is an orderly, clean, +well-systematised routine of work in progress—horrible work at the best, +if you please; but, so much the greater reason why it should be made the +best of. I don’t know (I think I have observed, my name is Bull) that a +Parisian of the lowest order is particularly delicate, or that his nature +is remarkable for an infinitesimal infusion of ferocity; but, I do know, +my potent, grave, and common counselling Signors, that he is forced, when +at this work, to submit himself to a thoroughly good system, and to make +an Englishman very heartily ashamed of you. + +Here, within the walls of the same abattoir, in other roomy and +commodious buildings, are a place for converting the fat into tallow and +packing it for market—a place for cleansing and scalding calves’ heads +and sheep’s feet—a place for preparing tripe—stables and coach-houses for +the butchers—innumerable conveniences, aiding in the diminution of +offensiveness to its lowest possible point, and the raising of +cleanliness and supervision to their highest. Hence, all the meat that +goes out of the gate is sent away in clean covered carts. And if every +trade connected with the slaughtering of animals were obliged by law to +be carried on in the same place, I doubt, my friend, now reinstated in +the cocked hat (whose civility these two francs imperfectly acknowledge, +but appear munificently to repay), whether there could be better +regulations than those which are carried out at the Abattoir of +Montmartre. Adieu, my friend, for I am away to the other side of Paris, +to the Abattoir of Grenelle! And there I find exactly the same thing on +a smaller scale, with the addition of a magnificent Artesian well, and a +different sort of conductor, in the person of a neat little woman with +neat little eyes, and a neat little voice, who picks her neat little way +among the bullocks in a very neat little pair of shoes and stockings. + + * * * * * + +Such is the Monument of French Folly which a foreigneering people have +erected, in a national hatred and antipathy for common counselling +wisdom. That wisdom, assembled in the City of London, having distinctly +refused, after a debate of three days long, and by a majority of nearly +seven to one, to associate itself with any Metropolitan Cattle Market +unless it be held in the midst of the City, it follows that we shall lose +the inestimable advantages of common counselling protection, and be +thrown, for a market, on our own wretched resources. In all human +probability we shall thus come, at last, to erect a monument of folly +very like this French monument. If that be done, the consequences are +obvious. The leather trade will be ruined, by the introduction of +American timber, to be manufactured into shoes for the fallen English; +the Lord Mayor will be required, by the popular voice, to live entirely +on frogs; and both these changes will (how, is not at present quite +clear, but certainly somehow or other) fall on that unhappy landed +interest which is always being killed, yet is always found to be +alive—and kicking. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{415} Give a bill + +{426} Three months’ imprisonment as reputed thieves. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REPRINTED PIECES*** + + +******* This file should be named 872-0.txt or 872-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/8/7/872 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive +specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this +eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook +for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, +performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given +away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks +not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the +trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country outside the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you + are located before using this ebook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The +Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the +mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its +volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous +locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt +Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to +date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and +official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + |