Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costs
little and expresses much.
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether
we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence,
recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity--having begun no doubt with
Adam--or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the
whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the
lark, or sweetly by the little birds that "warble in the flowering
thorn."
The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to draw
the reader's attention at present, is that which was exemplified one
November night (the same November night of which mention has been made
in the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress through the
streets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow of St. Paul's
by the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cook's window.
Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into his
empty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyes
full on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishing
owl. Being poor--so poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of the
realm--he stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout of
limb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food with
inexpressible energy.
The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crow--a sable melody high
in public favour at that time--the familiar strains of which he
delivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as he
continued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and
'busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral,
and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from the
crevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing upwards on
the dome, and played around the golden cross that glimmered like a ghost
in the dark wintry sky.
The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat that
night chanced to be St. Paul's Churchyard. That sedate guardian of the
night, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the thoroughfare,
sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in the chorus
where Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about, spun him
round and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his knuckles, at the
same time advising him to move on.
"Oh!" exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deep
concern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, "I _hope_ I
didn't hurt you, bobby; I _really_ didn't mean to; but accidents will
happen, you know, an' if you won't keep your knuckles out of a feller's
way, why--"
"Come," muttered the policeman, "shut up your potato-trap for fear you
catch cold. Your mother wants you; she's got some pap ready for you."
"Ha!" exclaimed the small boy, with his head a little on one side, as
though he were critically inspecting the portrait of some curious
animal, "a prophet it is--a blue-coated prophet in brass buttons, all
but choked with a leather stock--if not conceit. A horacle, six fut two
in its stockin's. I say, bobby, whoever brought you up carried you up
much too high, both in body and notions. Wot _wouldn't_ they give for
'im in the Guards, or the hoss-marines, if he was only eight inches
wider across the shoulders!"
Seeing that the policeman passed slowly and gravely on without
condescending to take further notice of him, the small boy bade him an
affectionate farewell; said that he would not forget to mention him
favourably at head-quarters, and then continued his progress through the
crowded streets at a smart pace, whistling Jim Crow at the top of his
shrill pipe.
The small boy had a long walk before him; but neither his limbs,
spirits, nor lips grew weary by the way. Indeed, his energies seemed to
increase with every step, if one might judge from the easy swagger of
his gait, and the various little touches of pleasantry in which he
indulged from time to time; such as pulling the caps over the eyes of
boys smaller than himself, winking at those who were bigger, uttering
Indian war-whoops down alleys and lanes that looked as if they could
echo, and chaffing all who appeared to be worthy of his attentions.
Those eccentricities of humour, however, did not divert his active mind
from the frequent and earnest study of the industrial arts, as these
were exhibited and exemplified in shop-windows.
"Jolly stuff that, ain't it?" observed another small boy, in a coat much
too long for him, as they met and stopped in front of a chocolate-shop
at the top of Holborn Hill, where a steam-engine was perpetually
grinding up such quantities of rich brown chocolate, that it seemed
quite unreasonable, selfish, and dog-in-the-manger-ish of the young man
behind the counter to stand there, and neither eat it himself, nor let
anyone else touch it.
"Yes, it's very jolly stuff," replied the first small boy, regarding his
questioner sternly. "I know you'd like some, wouldn't you? Go in now
an' buy two pen'orth, and I'll buy the half from you w'en you come out."
"_Walker_!" replied the boy in the long coat.
"Just so; and I'd advise you to become a walker too," retorted the
other; "run away now, your master's bin askin' after you for half an
hour, _I_ know, and more."
Without waiting for a reply, the small boy (our small boy) swaggered
away whistling louder than ever.
Passing along Holborn, he continued his way into Oxford Street, where
the print-shop windows proved irresistibly attractive. They seemed also
to have the effect of stimulating his intellectual and conceptive
faculties, insomuch that he struck out several new, and, to himself,
highly entertaining pieces of pleasantry, one of which consisted of
asking a taciturn cabman, in the meekest of voices:
"Please, sir, you couldn't tell me wot's o'clock, could you?"
The cabman observed a twinkle in the boy's eye; saw through him; in a
metaphorical sense, and treated him with silent contempt.
"Oh, I beg pardon, sir," continued the small boy, in the same meek tone,
as he turned to move humbly away; "I forgot to remember that cabbies
don't carry no watches, no, nor _change_ neither, they're much too wide
awake for that!"
A sudden motion of the taciturn cabman caused the small boy to dart
suddenly to the other side of the crowded street, where he resumed his
easy independent air, and his interrupted tune.
"Can you direct me to Nottin' Hill Gate, missus?" he inquired of an
applewoman, on reaching the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road.
"Straight on as you go, boy," answered the woman, who was busying
herself about her stall.
"Very good indeed," said the small boy, with a patronising air; "quite
correctly answered. You've learnt geography, I see."
"What say?" inquired the woman, who was apparently a little deaf.
"I was askin' the price o' your oranges, missus."
"One penny apiece," said the woman, taking up one.
"They ain't biled to make 'em puff out, are they?"
To this the woman vouchsafed no reply.
"Come, missus, don't be cross; wot's the price o' yer apples now?"
"D'you want one?" asked the woman testily.
"Of course I does."
"Well, then, they're two a penny."
"Two a penny!" cried the small boy, with a look of surprise; "why, I'd
'a said they was a penny apiece. Good evenin', missus; I never buys
cheap fruit--cheap and nasty--no, no; good evenin'."
It seemed as if the current of the small boy's thoughts had been
diverted by this conversation, for he walked for some time with his eyes
cast on the ground, and without whistling, but whatever the feelings
were that might have been working in his mind, they were speedily put to
flight by a facetious butcher, who pulled his hat over his eyes as he
passed him.
"Now then, pig-sticker, what d'ye mean by that?" he shouted, but as the
butcher walked on without deigning to reply, he let off his indignation
by yelling in at the open door of a tobacco-shop and making off at a
brisk run.
From this point in his progress, he became still more hilarious and
daring in his freaks, and turned aside once or twice into narrow
streets, where sounds of shouting or of music promised him fresh
excitement.
On turning the corner of one of those streets, he passed a wide doorway,
by the side of which was a knob with the word FIRE in conspicuous
letters above it, and the word BELL below it. The small boy paused,
caught his breath as if a sudden thought had struck him, and glanced
round. The street was comparatively quiet; his heart beat high; he
seized the bell with both hands, pulled it full out, and bolted!
Now it chanced that one of the firemen of the station happened to be
standing close to the door, inside, at the time. He, guessing the
meaning of the ring at once, darted out and gave chase.
The small boy fled on the wings of terror, with his blue eyes starting
from their sockets. The fireman was tall and heavy, but he was also
strong and in his prime, so that a short run brought him up with the
fugitive, whom he seized with a grip of iron.
"Now, then, young bottle-imp, what did you mean by that?"
"Oh! please, sir," gasped the small boy, with a beseeching look, "I
_couldn't_ help it."
There was such a tone of truthfulness in this "_couldn't_" that it
tickled the fireman. His mouth relaxed in a quiet smile, and, releasing
his intended victim, he returned to the station, while the small boy
darted away in the direction of Oxford Street.
He had scarcely reached the end of the street, however, when a man
turned the corner at full speed and ran him down--ran him down so
completely that he sent him head-over-heels into the kennel, and,
passing on, darted at the fire-bell of the station, which he began to
pull violently.
The man was tall and dishevelled, partially clad in blue velvet, with
stockings which had once been white, but were now covered from garter to
toe with mud. One shoe clung to his left foot, the other was fixed by
the heel in a grating over a cellar-window in Tottenham Court Road.
Without hat or coat, with his shirt-sleeves torn by those unfortunates
into whose arms he had wildly rushed, with his hair streaming backwards,
his eyes blood-shot, his face pale as marble, and perspiration running
down his cheeks, not even his own most intimate friends would have
recognised Hopkins--the staid, softspoken, polite, and gentle Hopkins--
had they seen him that night pulling like a maniac at the fire-bell.
And, without doubt, Hopkins _was_ a maniac that night--at least he was
afflicted with temporary insanity!