Many years passed, and family circumstances obliged me to settle in the
poor little village of N. Engaged in farming, I sighed in secret for my
former merry, careless existence. Most difficult of all I found it to
pass in solitude the spring and winter evenings. Until the dinner hour I
somehow occupied the time, talking to the _starosta_, driving round to
see how the work went on, or visiting the new buildings. But as soon as
evening began to draw in, I was at a loss what to do with myself. My
books in various bookcases, cupboards, and storerooms I knew by heart.
The housekeeper, Kurilovna, related to me all the stories she could
remember. The songs of the peasant women made me melancholy. I tried
cherry brandy, but that gave me the headache. I must confess, however,
that I had some fear of becoming a drunkard from _ennui_, the saddest
kind of drunkenness imaginable, of which I had seen many examples in our
district.
I had no near neighbours with the exception of two or three melancholy
ones, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. Solitude
was preferable to that. Finally I decided to go to bed as early as
possible, and to dine as late as possible, thus shortening the evening
and lengthening the day; and I found this plan a good one.
Four versts from my place was a large estate belonging to Count B.; but
the steward alone lived there. The Countess had visited her domain once
only, just after her marriage; and she then only lived there about a
month. However, in the second spring of my retirement, there was a
report that the Countess, with her husband, would come to spend the
summer on her estate; and they arrived at the beginning of June.
The advent of a rich neighbour is an important event for residents in
the country. The landowners and the people of their household talk of it
for a couple of months beforehand, and for three years afterwards. As
far as I was concerned, I must confess, the expected arrival of a young
and beautiful neighbour affected me strongly. I burned with impatience
to see her; and the first Sunday after her arrival I started for the
village, in order to present myself to the Count and Countess as their
near neighbour and humble servant.
The footman showed me into the Count's study, while he went to inform
him of my arrival. The spacious room was furnished in a most luxurious
manner. Against the walls stood enclosed bookshelves well furnished with
books, and surmounted by bronze busts. Over the marble mantelpiece was a
large mirror. The floor was covered with green cloth, over which were
spread rugs and carpets.
Having got unaccustomed to luxury in my own poor little corner, and not
having beheld the wealth of other people for a long while, I was awed;
and I awaited the Count with a sort of fear, just as a petitioner from
the provinces awaits in an ante-room the arrival of the minister. The
doors opened, and a man, about thirty-two, and very handsome, entered
the apartment. The Count approached me with a frank and friendly look. I
tried to be self-possessed, and began to introduce myself, but he
forestalled me.
We sat down. His easy and agreeable conversation soon dissipated my
nervous timidity. I was already passing into my usual manner, when
suddenly the Countess entered, and I became more confused than ever. She
was, indeed, beautiful. The Count presented me. I was anxious to appear
at ease, but the more I tried to assume an air of unrestraint, the more
awkward I felt myself becoming. They, in order to give me time to
recover myself and get accustomed to my new acquaintances, conversed
with one another, treating me in good neighbourly fashion without
ceremony. Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and
pictures. In pictures I am no _connaisseur_; but one of the Count's
attracted my particular notice. It represented a view in Switzerland. I
was not, however, struck by the painting, but by the fact that it was
shot through by two bullets, one planted just on the top of the other.
"A good shot," I remarked, turning to the Count.
"Yes," he replied, "a very remarkable shot."
"Do you shoot well?" he added.
"Tolerably," I answered, rejoicing that the conversation had turned at
last on a subject which interested me. "At a distance of thirty paces I
do not miss a card; I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am
accustomed to."
"Really?" said the Countess, with a look of great interest. "And you, my
dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?"
"Some day," replied the Count, "we will try. In my own time I did not
shoot badly. But it is four years now since I held a pistol in my hand."
"Oh," I replied, "in that case, I bet, Count, that you will not hit a
card even at twenty paces. The pistol demands daily practice. I know
that from experience. In our regiment I was reckoned one of the best
shots. Once I happened not to take a pistol in hand for a whole month: I
had sent my own to the gunsmith's. Well, what do you think, Count? The
first time I began again to shoot I four times running missed a bottle
at twenty paces. The captain of our company, who was a wit, happened to
be present, and he said to me: 'Your hand, my friend, refuses to raise
itself against the bottle!' No, Count, you must not neglect to practise,
or you will soon lose all skill. The best shot I ever knew used to shoot
every day, and at least three times every day before dinner. This was as
much his habit as the preliminary glass of vodka."
The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.
"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.
"This sort, Count: if he saw a fly settle on the wall----You smile,
Countess, but I assure you it is a fact. When he saw the fly, he would
call out, 'Kouska, my pistol!' Kouska brought him the loaded pistol. A
crack, and the fly was crushed into the wall!"
"That is astonishing!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"
"Silvio was his name."
"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting from his seat. "_You_ knew
Silvio?"
"How could I fail to know him?--we were comrades; he was received at our
mess like a brother-officer. It is now about five years since I last had
tidings of him. Then you, Count, also knew him?"
"I knew him very well. Did he never tell you of one very extraordinary
incident in his life?"
"Do you mean the slap in the face, Count, that he received from a
blackguard at a ball?"
"He did not tell you the name of this blackguard?"
"No, Count, he did not. Forgive me," I added, guessing the truth,
"forgive me--I did not--could it really have been you?"
"It was myself," replied the Count, greatly agitated; "and the shots in
the picture are a memento of our last meeting."
[Illustration: "I FIRED AND HIT THAT PICTURE."]
"Oh, my dear," said the Countess, "for God's sake, do not relate it! It
frightens me to think of it."
"No," replied the Count; "I must tell him all. He knows how I insulted
his friend. He shall also know how Silvio revenged himself." The Count
pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I listened to
the following story:--
"Five years ago," began the Count, "I got married. The honeymoon I spent
here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the happiest
moments of my life, and for one of its saddest remembrances.
"One afternoon we went out riding together. My wife's horse became
restive. She was frightened, got off the horse, handed the reins over to
me, and walked home. I rode on before her. In the yard I saw a
travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat a man who would
not give his name, but simply said that he wanted to see me on business.
I entered the study, and saw in the darkness a man, dusty and unshaven.
He stood there, by the fireplace. I approached him trying to recollect
his face.
"'You don't remember me, Count?' he said, in a tremulous voice.
"'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess, I felt that my hair was standing on
end.
"'Exactly so,' he added. 'You owe me a shot; I have come to claim it.
Are you ready?' A pistol protruded from his side pocket.
[Illustration: "MASHA THREW HERSELF AT HIS FEET."]
"I measured twelve paces, and stood there in that corner, begging him to
fire quickly, before my wife came in.
"He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. I locked
the doors, gave orders that no one should enter, and again called upon
him to fire. He took out his pistol and aimed.
"I counted the seconds.... I thought of her.... A terrible moment
passed! Then Silvio lowered his hand.
"'I only regret,' he said, 'that the pistol is not loaded with
cherry-stones. My bullet is heavy; and it always seems to me that an
affair of this kind is not a duel, but a murder. I am not accustomed to
aim at unarmed men. Let us begin again from the beginning. Let us cast
lots as to who shall fire first.'
"My head went round. I think I objected. Finally, however, we loaded
another pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. These he placed inside
his cap; the one through which, at our first meeting, I had put the
bullet. I again drew the lucky number.
"'Count, you have the devil's luck,' he said, with a smile which I shall
never forget.
"I don't know what I was about, or how it happened that he succeeded in
inducing me. But I fired and hit that picture."
The Count pointed with his finger to the picture with the shot-marks.
His face had become red with agitation. The Countess was whiter than her
own handkerchief: and I could not restrain an exclamation.
"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank heaven, missed. Then
Silvio--at this moment he was really terrible--then Silvio raised his
pistol to take aim at me.
"Suddenly the door flew open, Masha rushed into the room. She threw
herself upon my neck with a loud shriek. Her presence restored to me all
my courage.
"'My dear,' I said to her, 'don't you see that we are only joking? How
frightened you look! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back; I
will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.'
"Masha was still in doubt.
"'Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?' she asked, turning to the
terrible Silvio; 'is it true that you are only joking?'
"'He is always joking, Countess,' Silvio replied. 'He once in a joke
gave me a slap in the face; in joke he put a bullet through this cap
while I was wearing it; and in joke, too, he missed me when he fired
just now. And now _I_ have a fancy for a joke.' With these words he
raised his pistol as if to shoot me down before her eyes!
"Masha threw herself at his feet.
"'Rise, Masha! For shame!' I cried in my passion; 'and you, sir, cease
to amuse yourself at the expense of an unhappy woman. Will you fire or
not?'
"'I will not,' replied Silvio. 'I am satisfied. I have witnessed your
agitation; your terror. I forced you to fire at me. That is enough; you
will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.'
"He was now about to go. But he stopped at the door, looked round at the
picture which my shot had passed through, fired at it almost without
taking aim, and disappeared.
"My wife had sunk down fainting. The servants had not ventured to stop
Silvio, whom they looked upon with terror. He passed out to the steps,
called his coachman, and before I could collect myself drove off."
The Count was silent. I had now heard the end of the story of which the
beginning had long before surprised me. The hero of it I never saw
again. I heard, however, that Silvio, during the rising of Alexander
Ipsilanti, commanded a detachment of insurgents and was killed in
action.
[Illustration]
_A Night with the Thames Police._
[Illustration: HEADQUARTERS AT WAPPING.]
There was a time when the owners of craft on the Thames practically left
their back-doors open and invited the river-thieves to enter, help
themselves, and leave unmolested and content. The barges lay in the
river holding everything most coveted, from precious cargoes of silk to
comfortable-looking bales of tobacco, protected only from wind, weather,
and wicked fingers by a layer of tarpaulin--everything ready and
inviting to those who devoted their peculiar talents and irrepressible
instincts to the water. Goods to the value of a million sterling were
being neatly appropriated every year. The City merchants were at their
wits' end. Some of the more courageous and determined of them ventured
out themselves at night; but the thieves--never at a loss in conceiving
an ingenious and ready means of escape--slipped, so to speak, out of
their would-be captors' hands by going semi-clothed about their work,
greasing their flesh and garments until they were as difficult to catch
as eels.
So the merchants held solemn conclave, the result of which was the
formation, in 1792, of "The Preventative Service," a title which clung
to the members thereof until 1839, when they were embodied with the
Metropolitan Police with the special privilege of posing as City
constables. Now they are a body of two hundred and two strong,
possessing twenty-eight police galleys and a trio of steam launches.
From a million pounds' worth of property stolen yearly a hundred years
ago, they have, by a persistent traversing of a watery beat, reduced it
to one hundred pounds. Smuggling is in reality played out, though foggy
nights are still fascinating to those so inclined; but now they have to
be content with a coil or two of old rope, an ingot of lead, or a few
fish. Still the river-policeman's eye and the light of his lantern are
always searching for suspicious characters and guilty-looking craft.
[Illustration: IN THE CELLS.]
In High-street, Wapping, famous for its river romances, and within five
hundred yards of the Old Stairs, the principal station of the Thames
Police is to be found. The traditional blue lamp projects over a
somewhat gloomy passage leading down to the river-side landing stage. To
us, on the night appointed for our expedition, it is a welcome beacon as
to the whereabouts of law and order, for only a few minutes previously
half a dozen worthy gentlemen standing at the top of some neighbouring
steps, wearing slouched hats and anything but a comforting expression on
their faces gruffly demanded, "Do you want a boat?" Fortunately we did
not. These estimable individuals had only just left the dock of the
police station, where they had been charged on suspicion, but eventually
discharged.
[Illustration: INSPECTOR FLETCHER.]
It is a quarter to six o'clock. At six we are to start for our journey
up the river as far as Waterloo and back again to Greenwich; but there
is time to take a hasty survey of the interior of the station, where
accommodation is provided for sixteen single men, with a library,
reading-room, and billiard-room at their disposal.
"Fine night, sir; rather cold, though," says a hardy-looking fellow
dressed in a reefer and a brightly glazed old-time man-o'-war's hat. He
is one of the two oldest men in the force, and could tell how he lost
his wife and all his family, save one lad, when the _Princess Alice_
went down in 1878. He searched for ten days and ten nights, but they
were lost to him. Another of these river guardians has a
never-to-be-forgotten reminiscence of that terrible disaster, when the
men of the Thames police were on duty for four or five nights at a
stretch. He was just too late to catch the ill-fated vessel! He was left
behind on the pier at Sheerness, and with regret watched it leave, full
of merrymakers. What must have been his thoughts when he heard the news?
[Illustration: A NIGHT CHARGE.]
You may pick out any of these thick-set fellows standing about. They
have one and all roamed the seas over. Many are old colonials, others
middle-aged veterans from the navy and merchant service--every one of
them as hard as a rock, capable of rowing for six or eight hours at a
stretch without resting on the oar.
"Don't be long inside, sir," shouts a strapping fellow, buttoning up his
coat to his neck.
"Aye, aye, skipper," we shout, becoming for the moment quite nautical.
Inside the station-house you turn sharply to the right, and there is the
charge-room. Portraits of Sir Charles Warren and other police
authorities are picturesquely arranged on the walls. In front of the
desk, with its innumerable little wooden rails, where sits the inspector
in charge, is the prisoners' dock, from the ground of which rises the
military measurement in inches against which the culprit testifies as to
his height. The hands of the clock above are slowly going their rounds.
In a corner, near the stout steel rails of the dock, lie a couple of
bargemen's peak caps. They are labelled with a half-sheet of notepaper.
Their history? They have been picked up in the river, but the poor
fellows who owned them are--missing! It will be part of our duties to
assist in the search for them to-night.
Just in a crevice by the window are the telegraph instruments. A
clicking noise is heard, and the inspector hurriedly takes down on a
slate a strange but suggestive message.
"Information received of a prize-fight for £2 a side, supposed to take
place between Highgate and Hampstead."
What has Highgate or Hampstead to do with the neighbourhood of Wapping,
or how does a prize-fight affect the members of the Thames police, who
are anything but pugilistically inclined? In our innocence we learn that
it is customary to telegraph such information to all the principal
stations throughout London. The steady routine of the force is to be
admired.
[Illustration: GOING ON DUTY.]
There are countless coats, capes, and caps hanging in a room through
which we pass on our way to the cells--cosy, clean, and convenient
apartments, and decidedly cheap to the temporary tenant. There are two
of them, one being specially retained for women. They are painted
yellow, provided with a wash-basin, towel, a supply of soap, and a
drinking cup. Heat is supplied through hot-water pipes; a pillow and rug
are provided for the women; and, like "desirable villa residences," the
apartments are fitted with electric bells.
Here the occupier is lodged for the time being, allowed food at each
meal to the value of fourpence, and eventually tried at the Thames
Police-court. Look at the doors. They bear countless dents from the
boot-tips of young men endeavouring to perform the clever acrobatic feat
of kicking out the iron grating over the door through which the gas-jet
gives them light. Those of a musical nature ring the electric bell for
half an hour at a time, imagining that they are disturbing the peace of
the officer in a distant room. But our smart constable, after satisfying
himself that all is well, disconnects the current, and sits smiling at
his ease. Some of the inmates, too, amuse themselves by manufacturing
streamers out of the blankets. They never do it a second time.
Now we are on our way to the riverside. We descend the wooden steps,
soaked through with the water which only a few hours previously has been
washing the stairs. Our boat is in waiting, manned by three sturdy
fellows, under the charge of an inspector. It is a glorious night; the
moon seems to have come out just to throw a light upon our artist's
note-book, and to provide a picture of the station standing out in
strong relief. The carpenter--for they repair their own boats
here--looks out from his shop door, and shouts a cheery "Good-night."
Our galley receives a gentle push into the water, and we start on a long
beat of seven and a half miles.
[Illustration: POLICE LAUNCH "ALERT."]
Save for the warning of a passing tug, the river is as a place of the
dead. How still and solemn! But a sudden "Yo-ho" from the inspector
breaks the quietude.
It is the method of greeting as one police galley passes another.
"Yo-ho!" replies the man in charge of the other boat.
"All right. Good-night."
These river police know every man who has any business on the water at
night. If the occupant of a boat was questioned, and his "Yo-ho" did not
sound familiar, he would be "towed" to the station.
A simple "Yo-ho" once brought about a smart capture. The rower was
mystified at the magic word, got mixed in his replies, and accordingly
was accommodated with a private room at the station for the night. It
transpired that this river purloiner had stolen the boat, and, being of
a communicative disposition, was in the habit of getting on friendly
terms with the watchmen of the steamers, and so contrived to gain an
entrance to the cabins, from which money and watches disappeared. This
piece of ingenuity was rewarded with ten years' penal servitude.
Our little craft has a lively time amongst the fire-floats--for fires
are just as likely to occur on the river as on the land, and accordingly
small launches are dotted about here and there, fulfilling the same
duties as the more formidable-looking engines on _terra firma_. A red
light signifies their whereabouts, and they usually lie alongside the
piers, so as to be able to telephone quickly should a fire occur. If the
police saw flames, they would act exactly as their comrades do on land,
and hurry to the nearest float to give the alarm.
It blows cold as we spin past Traitor's Gate at the Tower, but our men
become weather-beaten on the Thames, and their hands never lose the grip
of the oar. They need a hardy frame, a robust constitution, for no
matter what the weather, blinding snow or driving rain, these water
guardians come out--the foggiest night detains them not; they have to
get through the fog and their allotted six hours. At the time of the
Fenian scare at the House of Correction, thirty-six hours at a stretch
was considered nothing out of the way.
Now the lights of Billingsgate shine out, and we experience a good deal
of dodging outside the Custom House. The wind is getting up, and the
diminutive sprat-boats are taking advantage of the breeze to return
home. Some are being towed along. And as the oars of our little craft
touch the water, every man's eyes are fixed in order to catch sight of
anything like the appearance of a missing person. A record of the
missing, as well as the found, is kept at the station we have just left
a mile or two down the river. Ten poor creatures remain yet to be
discovered. What stories, thrilling and heartrending, we have to listen
to! Yet even in such pitiful occurrences as these, much that is grimly
humorous often surrounds them. Many are the sad recognitions on the part
of those "found drowned." Experience has taught the police to stand
quietly behind those who must needs go through such a terrible ordeal,
and who often swoon at the first sight. Where is a more touching story
than that of the little girl who tramped all the way from Camden Town to
Wapping, for the purpose of identifying her father, who had been picked
up near the Old Stairs? She was a brave little lass, and looked up into
the policeman's face as he took her by the hand and walked with her
towards the mortuary. As they reached the door and opened it, the
bravery of the child went to the man's heart. He was used to this sort
of thing, but, when he thought of the orphan, the tears came to his
eyes; he turned away for a moment, lest his charge should see them and
lose what strength her tiny frame possessed. He hesitated before he let
her go in.
"You're not frightened, are you, policeman?" she asked innocently.
He could not move, and she went in alone. When the constable followed,
he found the child with her arms round her dead father's neck, covering
his face with tears and kisses.
We shoot beneath London Bridge, and the commotion brought about by a
passing tug causes our men to rest their oars as we are lifted like a
cork by the disturbed waves. And as the great dome of St. Paul's appears
in sight, standing out solemnly against the black night, we pull our
wraps around us, as a little preliminary to a story volunteered by the
captain of our crew. The river police could tell of many a remarkable
clue to identification--a piece of lace, or the button of a man's
trousers. But the inspector has a curious story of a watch to
relate--true every word of it.
"Easy!" he cries to his men--"look to it--now get along," and to the
steady swing of the oars he commences.
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.]
"It all turned on the inscription engraved on a watch," he says. "When I
came to search the clothing of the poor fellow picked up, the timekeeper
was found in his pocket. It was a gold one, and on the case was engraved
an inscription, setting forth that it had been given to a sergeant in
the Marines. Here was the clue sought after--the drowned man had
evidently been in the army. The following morning I was on my way to
Spring Gardens, when in passing down the Strand I saw a marine, whom I
was half inclined to question. I did not, however, do so, but hurried on
my sorrowful mission.
[Illustration: RESCUED!]
"On my arrival, I asked if they knew anything of Sergeant ----. Yes,
they did. I must have passed him in the Strand, for he had gone to
Coutts' Bank! I was perfectly bewildered. Here was the very man found
drowned, still alive!
"I could only wait until his return. Then the mystery was soon
explained. It seemed that the sergeant had sold his gold watch in order
to get a more substantial silver one, on condition that the purchaser
should take the inscription off. This he failed to do, and he in his
turn parted with the timekeeper to another buyer, who had finally
committed suicide with the watch still in his pocket."
Our police galley is now alongside the station, just below Waterloo
Bridge. It is not far to seek why it has been found necessary to
establish a depôt here. We look up at the great bridge which spans the
river at this point, named alas! with only too much truth, "The Bridge
of Sighs." The dark water looks inviting to those burdened with trial
and trouble, a place to receive those longing for rest and yearning for
one word of sympathy. More suicides occur at this spot than at any other
along the whole length of the river, though Whitehall Stairs and Adelphi
Stairs are both notorious places, where such poor creatures end their
existence. Some twenty-one suicides have been attempted at this point
during the past year, and twenty-five bodies found.
As we step on the timber station the sensation is extremely curious to
those used to the firm footing of the pavement. But Inspector Gibbons--a
genial member of the river force--assures us that one soon becomes
accustomed to the incessant rocking. Waterloo Police Station--familiar
to all river pedestrians during the summer months, owing to the
picturesque appearance it presents with its pots of geraniums and
climbing fuchsias--is a highly interesting corner.
Just peep into the Inspector's room, and make friends with "Dick," the
cat, upon whose shoulders rests the weight of four years and a round
dozen pounds. Dick is a capital swimmer, and has been in the water
scores of times. Moreover, he is a veritable feline policeman, and woe
betide any trespassers of his own race and breed. When a cat ventures
within the sacred precincts of the station, Dick makes friends with the
intruder for the moment, and, in order to enjoy the breeze, quietly
edges him to the extreme end of the platform, and suddenly pushes him
overboard. "Another cat last night," is a common expression amongst the
men here.
The Waterloo Police Station on occasion becomes a temporary hospital and
a home together.
Only half an hour previous to our arrival there had been an attempted
suicide, and in a little room, at the far end of the pier, there was
every sign that efforts had only recently been successfully made to
restore animation to a young fellow who had thrown himself off
Blackfriars Bridge. He had been picked up by a passing skiff, and his
head held above water until a steamboat passed by and took him on board.
Here is a bed in the corner, with comfortable-looking pillow and thick,
warm blankets, where the unfortunate one is put to bed for a period,
previous to being sent to the Infirmary, and afterwards charged. Close
at hand is a little medicine chest, containing numerous medicine phials,
a flask of stimulants, and a smelling-bottle. A dozen or so of tins, of
all shapes and sizes, are handy. These are filled with hot water and
placed in contact with the body of the person rescued from the river.
It is often an hour before anything approaching animation makes itself
visible, and even four hours have elapsed before any sign has been
apparent. The rescued one is laid upon a wooden board, below which is a
bath, and rubbed by ready hands according to Dr. Sylvester's method,
whose instructions are prominently displayed upon the wall, and are
understood by all the police.
[Illustration: AN UNRULY PRISONER.]
It will be noticed in the picture that two men are apparently about to
undress the hapless creature who has attempted her own life. The first
thought that will occur to the reader on looking at the illustration is,
that a member of her own sex ought to to do this work. It must be
remembered, however, that weeks may elapse without any such event, and
there is no place at Waterloo Bridge where a woman could be kept
constantly in waiting. Still, it is clearly not right that the men
should do this duty, and we think they might be enabled to go to some
house in the neighbourhood, in which arrangements had been made for the
services of a woman in cases of emergency. We do not forget that great
promptness is required at such times in order to resuscitate the body.
But, when we remember that every branch in the police system on the
Thames is so perfect, it seems a pity that some means cannot be devised.
Many remarkable things might be told about people who have been in this
room. One poor fellow was once an inmate who was humorous to the last.
When he was brought in, a pair of dumb-bells were found in his pocket,
and a piece of paper on which was scrawled in charcoal the following:--
"Dear Bob,--I am going to drown myself. You will find me somewhere near
Somerset House. I can't part with my old friends, Bob, so I'm going to
take them with me. Good-bye."
The man was evidently an athlete, and the "old friends" referred to were
the weighty dumb-bells.
Many have been picked up with their pockets full of granite stones or a
piece of lead. One was found with the hands tied together with a silk
handkerchief--a love-token which the forsaken one had used so
pitifully. A woman, too, was discovered with a summons in her pocket,
which was put down as the cause of her untimely end.
Remarkable are the escapes of would-be suicides. In one instance a woman
threw herself off one of the bridges, and instead of falling into the
water, jumped into a passing barge. She had a child in her arms. The
little one died at Guy's Hospital, but the mother recovered. Some time
ago a woman jumped off Westminster Bridge, and floated safely down to
the Temple Stairs, where she was picked up. She had gone off the bridge
feet first, the wind had caught her clothes, and by this means her head
was kept up, and she was saved.
Perhaps, however, the strangest case and one of the most romantic, was
that of Alice Blanche Oswald. Previous to committing suicide she wrote
letters to herself, purporting to come from wealthy people in America,
and setting forth a most heartrending history. Her death aroused a vast
amount of public sympathy. A monument to her memory was suggested, and
subscriptions were already coming in, when inquiries proved that her
supposed friends in America did not exist, and that the story contained
in the missives was a far from truthful one. She was nothing more than
an adventuress.
As we glance in at the solitary cell, built on exactly the same
principle as those at Wapping, in which eleven enterprising individuals
have been accommodated at one time, we learn of the thousand and one
odds and ends that are washed up--revolvers and rifles, housebreaking
instruments which thoughtful burglars have got rid of; the plant of a
process for manufacturing counterfeit bank-notes, with some of the
flimsy pieces of paper still intact. A plated cup was once picked up at
Waterloo, which turned out to be the proceeds of a burglary at Eton
College; it is probable the cup floated all the way from the Thames at
Windsor to Waterloo.
Forty-eight men are always on duty at this station, including four
single men, whose quarters are both novel and decidedly cosy. This
quartet of bachelors sleep in bunks, two above the others. The watch of
one of the occupants is ticking away in one berth, whilst a clock is
vieing with it next door. These men have each a separate locker for
their clothes, boot-brushes, tea-pot, coffee-pot, food, &c. The men do
all their own cleaning and cooking; if you will, you may look into a
kitchen in the corner, in which every pot and pan is as bright as a new
pin.
But our time is up; the chiming of "Big Ben" causes the genial inspector
gently to remind us that we must be off, and once more we are seated in
the boat, and, cutting right across the river, move slowly on our way to
Greenwich, where the old _Royalist_ is transformed into a station, a
familiar institution some sixteen or seventeen years ago at Waterloo.
The whole scene is wonderfully impressive--not a sound is to be heard
but the distant rumbling of the vehicles over London Bridge. Our men
pause for a moment and rest their oars. The great wharves are deserted,
the steamers and barges appear immovable as they lie alongside--there is
no life anywhere or any sign of it. Again we get along, halting for a
moment to look up at the old man-o'-war, the famous _Discovery_, which
ventured out to the Arctic regions under Captain Nares. The old
three-mast schooner--for the vessel is nothing more now, being used as a
river carrier of the stores from the Victualling Yard at Deptford to the
various dockyards--had on board when she went to colder regions a future
member of the Thames Police: hence he was called "Arctic Jack" by his
companions, a near relation to "Father Neptune," a cognomen bestowed
upon another representative of the force, owing to the wealth of white
beard which he possessed.
Past Deptford Cattle Market, the red lamps on the jetties light up the
water; a good pull and we are at Greenwich Steps, near to which is "The
Ship," ever associated with the name of "whitebait." Our beat is ended,
and a hearty "Good-night" is re-echoed by the men as we stand watching
them on the river steps whilst they pull the first few strokes on their
way home to Wapping.
[Illustration]
_The Maid of Treppi._