Kitabı oku: «Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches», sayfa 17
Chapter Thirty One.
A Weird Place
Wondering whether Molly told the truth when she declared that she had never been false since the last parting at Wapping Old Stairs, and forming our own opinion upon the matter in a way decidedly unfavourable towards the trowsers washing, grog-making lady, in consequence of comparisons made with the feline damsels lurking at the corners of the courts, I came to an open door. Then without pausing to think that comparisons are odious, I confronted a pluffy-looking old gentleman busily engaged in building leaning Towers of Pisa with the bronze coinage of our realm. He was a gentleman of a subdued jovial expression of countenance, evidently not overburdened with toil, from the jaunty way in which he shifted from his left to his right foot, took my penny and allowed the turnstile to give its “click, click;” when passing through a pair of swing doors, I stood in a sort of dirty-looking whispering gallery, gazing down upon what appeared to be a sham chalet, minus the stones upon the roof. Right, left, and in front were painted views of sea-ports and landscapes, all looking like the dark half of that portrait exhibited by the gentleman who cleans and restores paintings; while assailing the nostrils was a peculiar odour something like the essence of stale theatre bottled and buried for many years in a damp cellar.
But there were stairs innumerable to descend before I could enter the famed tunnel of the Thames; and then, after a rat like progress, re-appear in Rotherhithe.
Lower, lower, lower, with a sense of depression attacking one at every step, I persevered till I reached the bottom, to be assailed by a loud man sitting in the gas-lit chalet, which displayed the well-known lens of the popular penny peep-show of our youth. And ’twas even so, for in a wild crescendo, which rose to a roar when refusing to listen to the voice of the charmer I passed on, the land man called upon me to come and see “all these beautiful views” for the low charge of one penny.
And I wouldn’t.
No; though his appeal ended with a regular snap, and came after me like the voice of the giant from his cave when longing for John Bunyan’s pilgrims – I would not; but entered the cellar-like tunnel, and stood gazing along the gloomy, doleful vista, made doubly depressing by the stringent order that no smoking was allowed. Why it would have been a blessing to the place; and done a little at all events to take off the cellary flavour which greeted the palate. For the place was decidedly cellary, and looked as if a poor tenant had just quitted the house above, leaving nothing but a cleanly-swept place without vestige of wine or coal.
Dull, echoing, and gloomy, a place where the suction power of a pneumatic engine would be a blessing, it was melancholy to peer through arch after arch at the side tunnel, now turned into a large lumber room; while at about every second or third arch there was a gas-lit stall, where melancholy, saddened people presided over divers subfluvial ornaments, ranged in rows with a few dreary toys – evidently things which nobody ever bought, for their aspect was enough to startle any well-regulated child. They seemed the buried remains of playthings and chimney ornaments of the past – the very fossils of a Camberwell fair stall. Upon one gloomy pillar was inscribed “Temple of Amusement;” but no amusement was there; while, if the words had announced that it was the chamber of torture, less surprise would have been excited. Amusement! in a place that actually smelt of racks, thumbscrews, and scavenger’s daughters; ay! and of the parent scavenger as well.
At every gas-lit spot one expected to see coffins, from the crypt-like pillars and smells; but, no; where there was not a dreary, whitewashed blank, appeared another stall. On one appeared the notice, “Hier spricht man Deutsche.” Yes, it was a fact, “Deutsche,” and not a ventriloquistal tongue, a bowels of the earth speech, as gnomish.
On still, till there was a cellar vista front and rear, and a sensation upon one of having been in a railway accident, and escaped into the tunnel, while with a shiver one listened for the noise of the approaching trains, and paused to see whether of the lines, up or down, ’twas on. And now an oasis in the great desert. “Refreshments!” a real refreshment room in the long cellar. The first refreshment was for the eye, and that organ rested upon funereal yew decorating the vault-like aisle, while paper roses starred its gloomy green. And the refreshments for the internal economy? There were cards with names of wines upon them, and a melancholy person, most un-Ganymedean of aspect; but who could eat or drink in so depressing a spot, without forced in such a nether region to partake of a diabolical dish presented hot by a tailed imp, and consisting of brimstone, sans treacle?
Again onward, and more refreshments: a coffee room where coffee was not, and the place savouring of mushroom spawn. And again onward, to be startled by an apparition, back from his arch, a very gnome, busy at some fiery task – of what? Glassblowing, and spinning strange silky skeins from his glowing light.
More stalls, more Tunbridge and alabaster fossils, more echoes, more commands not to smoke, more gas light, and more desolate-looking people. Had I an enemy I would delude him into speculating in a stall below there; and then laugh in triumph at the wreck he would soon become, for this must be the home of melancholy mania. And now I stood at last in the southern approach, almost a fac-simile of its Wapping brother: the same smell, the same staircases, the same pictures, but no chalet. So back I turned to make my escape at the other end, which I reached in safety, passed the giant in his cave, a monster who lives upon the bronze extracted from unwary passers-by; and then reaching the top of the many stairs I stood once more gazing at the mouldy pictures, and the foul, fungus-furred wall. Fancy the pictures of the four seasons facing you in an atmosphere which resembled the whole four boiled down, and then served up skimmed, while the pot has boiled over furiously, so as to mingle hydrogen in excess with the smell.
Then with the shout of the chalet giant lingering in my ears, and a sensation as though I were an English Tam O’ Shanter on foot, with the ghosts of all the poor wretches drowned while making the ghastly bore in full pursuit, I passed through the moving doors which said “way out;” composed myself; and walked calmly through the egress turnstile, though the pluffy man looked at me as if he thought I had burglarious intentions, and ought to be searched for fossil pincushions; and then I stood once more in the full light of day.
Of course if ever I travel by East London Line in days to come, I must resign myself to fate, and allow my person to be whistled and shrieked through; but saving such an occasion as that, in the words of Jerry Cruncher, I say – “Never no more – never no more,” will I venture through the melancholy cellar; while in my own I say, that I’ll wager that no man dare walk through at the stilly midnight hour, with the gas extinguished, and none to hear him while he hurries his echoing steps – at least I’m sure that I would not.
Chapter Thirty Two.
A Common Object
Move on, oh pen! and in words whose hue is murky as his oilskin cape, tell with thy silent gall-dipped nibs of the tyrant of our streets – the Hyde Park hero – the helmet-crowned truncheon bearer – preserver of peace – marshal of erring vehicles – custodian of crime – the great numbered one – the unknown X – the Mayne force regulator – offspring of Peel, but never candid – myrmidon of a mighty law – confiscator of coster mongers’ barrows – dark man dressed in blue – hero of a hundred names and hundred fights. Tell to the great washed and wiped, of this mighty conqueror, who, by a motion of his Berlin glove, sweeps from the muddy face of the street the noisy crowd. Put down naught in malice or extenuation; hide not his faults, his failings, or his fancies; chronicle not the smashing of a glossy Lincoln and Bennett, nor the splitting up the back of a Poole’s surtout, when streets were thronged and Alexandra came; hint not at bribery; but tell of the man and his acts – acts explained in beloved old Carpenter as “substantive; deeds, exploits.” Paint the aspect of the man in tunic blue and headpiece of hardened felt, praised by the custodian of our streets as light. How can we cavil at the Minerva or Britannia-like aspect when the wearer sails down the streets, looking as though he ruled the waves of population, a people who never, never, never, will be slaves. Romanised in mien, he wants but the flowing toga and sandalled shoon to shine as a centurion. What is it to him that small boys scoff? In the full comprehension of his powers he walks erect – gorgeous. Has he not, from earliest times, been object and aim of scurrilous shafts meant for wit, but launched with telling force? Has he not been styled the great absentee, and have not rumours touching mutton been circulated to his disadvantage? What though on wintry night, when bitter blows the boist’rous wind, the wand’rer spies a cheering light behind the area window blind. Who, if a whistle known of old should rouse the culinary maid to beckon down the warrior bold to have his empty stomach stayed, who then would grudge the meal – the kiss – the small beer draught – the smile – embrace? They’re loved by others well, I wis, as him who wears the cotton lace – whose rolling eye – whose nostril wide, and towering form attractive draw, to inward thought – the fire’s warm side – the bliss of love – the chill of law. He has before now descended and been wanted – ascended and been too late. So have generals often; and is there perfection to be found upon this earth? “Nary bit of it.” Palliate, then, the policeman’s weak points, and as none but the brave deserve the fair, let the brave have his desert.
Is he not a part of our very being as a nation, the common object of our crowd? Who knows this better than the playwright, who sends him across the stage in a long string, like the soldiers or geese of our childhood’s day upon the scissor-working framework; who puts him into every imaginable difficulty, and bruises, batters, and beats him in a way most insufferable? But K9 in the gallery sees it all, smiles with disdain, and looks down upon the get up of his fictitious representative, who is as true to life as the Franco-Anglais of the Parisian stage; and seated in plain clothes beside Mary, cook from Number 34, Eating-street, he nudges that lady, and as the broad hint is reciprocated, they smile with contempt at the “Guy Fawkes” thing presented to them.
From whatever point of view the policeman is taken, the first thing which strikes the observer is the dress; and once more, glancing at his helmet, is it not everything that it should not be? Perhaps it is useful, as none other is provided, but it is decidedly not ornamental, for it is grotesque, hideous, unsightly, and contemptible. It wants the grandeur of the old Roman, the graceful curve of the Grecian, the stiffness of the Prussian, the weight of the dragoon’s, and the gloss of the fireman’s, while as for comfort – who will put it to the test?
Take his appearance in a street scuffle, an affair in which the police have, ere now, been engaged; half his time is taken up in endeavouring – generally unsuccessfully – to keep his helmet in its place, but, as a rule, it rolls into the gutter, to be crushed by trampling feet.
Feet! Yes, that brings us to his feet, though t’were almost bootless to name them, since they are often nearly in that condition. The “strong, serviceable bluchers” supplied by Government contractors always seem to be made upon the principle of “small profits and quick returns,” which being interpreted means small profit to the wearer and quick return to elementary constituents.
Did not some great man – a city fortifier – once declare that there was nothing like leather? How true: how striking! But how much more so is the increased significance given to the adage when we say there is nothing like contractor’s leather? There is nothing like it anywhere, and considering its wondrous durability, why should not some firm commence making papier maché boots? They would be equally durable, far cheaper, while, as to fit, that does not matter, since Government contractors evidently believe that police bunions have no existence, while corns never crop out from legal toes.
Then, again, his tunic and trousers. Shoddy should not be named in connexion with the material, since the invisible blue is decidedly a degree more durable, for there is in it an elasticity, doubtless owing to its canvas-like – sampler canvas-like structure. To many this airy fabrication may look like deceit, but that is but a harsh construction to place upon such openness; while as to the strength of the cloth, the giving nature is intentional, for opposed as the police so often are to numbers, they need the activity and unholdability of the savage, who oils his body to elude inimical grasps. Hence, then, the weakness of police cloth, which gives way to the slightest drag. Here may the ignorant exclaim – “What a pity!” Not at all, for the offending party pays the damage, since it is a most heinous crime to damage a policeman’s uniform. As to the cut of the suit, and the coolness or warmth, they are the arrangements of the same wise and paternal government, who so justly and equitably arrange the promotion in the army. If the policeman shivers he can put on his great-coat, and if it rains, over that his oilskin cape; and what more can he want? Ignorance may again interpose, and say, why not give him a thoroughly good warm suit for winter, and a lighter one for summer? But then, ignorance was always prone to make strange remarks, and our subject remains buttoned – stuffy – tight.
Touching his truncheon, description is needless, since ample knowledge is gained of that instrument in street troubles.
Taking the policeman, then, from external points of view, he is not in appearance imposing, though by nature very. He is belted, buttoned, and laced; numbered like an auction lot; and, as a rule, powerfully whiskered; but he looks made up; there is a bastard military tournure about him, evidently the introduction of some official martinet. The drilling does not seem to fit our civil (?) friend, for there is either too much or not enough. But we don’t want him formed into squares, or three deep, or in line for a charge, for he always seems to act best “upon his own hook,” as Vulgus has it, he being rather given to passing judgment upon his sworn foe – passing judgment and remarks too, for is not the man in blue contemned? But why, when his nod suffices to disperse a crowd – he, the man so opposed in appearance to the fiercely moustached and cocked-hatted gendarme of the Gallic shore? Is it because he is unarmed save by the power of the law, and that ashen staff that will make mistakes! And yet the majesty of the law accompanies him everywhere, and emanates from his person at every movement – a visible invisibility – a halo threatening a storm to evil doers. But he is contemned and made the sieve to catch the flying chaff of our streets.
From whence comes the bitter hatred between the powers civil and military, if it does not proceed from the coquetries of the fair sex? It might be supposed that “Mars would always be in the ascendant” (Zadkiel), but it is not so; “law, civil power, and exeketive” is far ahead, but never in conjunction with the fiery planet. “Them solgers ain’t good for much,” says civil law, and he holds them in profound contempt – a contempt evidently engendered by rivalry. Go to the opera in the Haymarket, and behold both warriors at the entrance. Mars, all pipeclay, belts, buttons, and bayonets, rifles, ramrods, and regulation, standing like an image to do nothing, and doing it most effectually, while Bobby, all bustle, beatitude, and blueness, is hurrying about amongst rival charioteers and gorgeous footmen, keeping order most sublime, and making perfection out of chaos. But for the numbered one, somebody’s carriage would stop the way all night from the fierce block that would ensue; though no one seems to see all this, while looks from all quarters indicate that our subject is an enemy to society at large.
Again, compare the civil and military powers upon a grand occasion, when royalty visits the city; when every pinnacle, post, pale, rail, corner, crevice, or coign of vantage is seized by the many headed, surging and swaying backwards and forwards to catch a glimpse of the expected pageant. Here, perhaps, we have squadrons of horse artillery – troopers braided, busbied, and plumed, with jingling arms and accoutrements, sent to keep the way, while the civil power watches them backing their horses, making them prance and curvet and thrust back the crowd, which only closes in as they pass, while the policeman looks down in contempt upon their evolutions.
But then comes the order: onward goes the fat inspector, and in goose step come his followers. Truncheons are drawn, men posted, and order reigns, for the crowd falls back – sometimes – but always loudly “chaffs.” The policeman heeds not this though, for he knows the reward of merit, that is the common reward, and remembering all this at other times, he moves on the muffin boy, who revenges himself by yelling his wares with renewed energy as soon as he has turned the corner, while again law smiles contemptuously, and directs his attention to the orange girl and moves her off the pavement. Reward: a queer name; a grimace; and as soon as his back is turned, a handful of orange-peel scattered upon the slabs for the benefit of the passengers.
Watch the policeman on duty in one of the parks, and see with what jealous eye he looks after each nursemaid and her little flock, and how closely he follows when Mary or Hann wander by accident amidst the trees with Mars. The constable has no business to keep on passing and repassing with austere mien, robbing the lovers of their sweets, but he does so not from a personal hatred, but from an instinctive dislike – a class-like jealousy. He gazes upon the soldier as any game-loving squire would cast his eye upon a poacher even though encountered a hundred miles from his estate, for were the constable in power, Mars would be doomed to a life of celibacy. He forgives the maidens whom he knows to be attracted by the garish uniform, and he pities them for their weakness, but decides in his own mind that they require protection – such protection as a policeman could give them. Sometimes the soldier is encountered when promenading the pave with an eye upon some especial house in the policeman’s beat. Now he may not have personal friends at more than half-a-dozen houses on his beat, but he holds every house as being under his surveillance, and his jealous eye follows the guard’s every movement. He hunts him step by step as though a burglary were imminent, and so thoroughly disarranges the plans of the parties interested, that at last Mars slinks off with lowered crest, while the man in blue beats together his Berlin gloves, and crows internally over his discomfited adversary.
Who has not admired the mounted policeman? But is it not taking him at a disadvantage, and seeing him suffering under untoward circumstances over which he has no control, not even being able to control his horse? But he was never meant to be upon a horse. What is he there for? And of what use can he be? He looks most thoroughly out of place, and, to do him justice, quite ashamed of himself. Like the soldier of the ballad, he presents himself in public “with a helmet on his brow, and a sabre at his thigh;” but, sinking the helmet, what does he want with a sword – a policeman with a sword? But we are not sure that it is a sword. May it not be a Quaker or theatrical representation of the military sabre? We never knew any one yet who had seen it out of its sheath, or who had been blinded by its flash, so that after all it may be but a sham. If one takes a trip across the channel, emulating the daring of a Josef Sprouts, and then making the best of one’s way to “Paris in France,” there is no surprise felt at the sight of cocked hats, cocked – very fiercely cocked – moustachios, and swords belted upon gendarme or sergent de ville. The sword there seems appropriate – suited to the national character – the staff for thick-headed boss-frontal Bull, and the skewer or spit for the Gallic frog or cock. If John Bull, as a mob, gets excited, the powers that be consider him to be all the better for a little hammering about the head, while prick of sword or cut of sabre would goad him to madness. In La France, au contraire, blows cause the madness. Jean or Pierre, if “nobbled” upon the sconce, would rave about the affront put upon his honour. Men ready to cry Mourir pour la Patrie, can pocket no blows. Here, then, is shown the wisdom of supplying the French man of order with a sword; a cut or thrust acts not as a goad, but surgically, for it lets out the mad revolutionary blood, and Jean or Pierre goes home the better for his lancing.
