TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE, AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT
SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE.
THE offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the
immediate neighbourhood of a very notorious metropolitan police office.
The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two
or three streets, and down a place called Mutton-hill, when he was led
beneath a low arch-way, and up a dirty court into this dispensary of
summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which
they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of
whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.
“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the
keys.
“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this
boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the
case.”
“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship
will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows.”
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he
unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was
searched, and, nothing being found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only
not so light. It was most intolerably dirty, for it was Monday
morning, and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been
locked up elsewhere since Saturday night. But this is nothing. In our
station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most
trivial _charges_—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared
with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons,
tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any
man who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated
in the lock; and turned with a sigh to the book which had been the
innocent cause of all this disturbance.
“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to
himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of
the book in a thoughtful manner, “something that touches and interests
me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like— By the bye,” exclaimed the
old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, “God
bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked with the same
meditative face into a back ante-room opening from the yard; and
there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast
amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many
years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be
imagination.”
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was
not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There
were the faces of friends and foes, and of many that had been almost
strangers, peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of
young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were others
that the grave had changed to ghastly trophies of death, but which the
mind, superior to his power, still dressed in their old freshness and
beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the
smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering
of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from
earth only to be set up as a light to shed a soft and gentle glow upon
the path to Heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s
features bore a trace; so he heaved a sigh over the recollections he
had awakened, and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman,
buried them again in the pages of the musty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the
man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book
hastily, and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the
renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a paneled wall. Mr. Fang sat
behind a bar at the upper end; and on one side the door, was a sort of
wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited, trembling
very much at the awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and
what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was
stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of taking
rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought an
action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy
damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully, and, advancing to the
magistrate’s desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my
name and address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with
another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be
questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading
article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent
decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth
time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State
for the Home Department. He was out of temper, and he looked up with an
angry scowl.
“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed with some surprise to his card.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the
newspaper, “who is this fellow?”
“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a
gentleman,—“my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name
of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a
respectable man, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr.
Brownlow looked round the office as if in search of some person who
would afford him the required information.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this
fellow charged with?”
“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He
appears against the boy, your worship.”
His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and
a safe one.
“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow
contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”
“Before I am sworn I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow;
“and that is, that I never, without actual experience, could have
believed——”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang peremptorily.
“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.
“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the
office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent, impertinent fellow. How
dare you bully a magistrate!”
“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another
word. Swear him.”
Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but, reflecting that
he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his
feelings, and submitted to be sworn at once.
“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you
got to say, sir?”
“I was standing at a book-stall—” Mr. Brownlow began.
“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman!—where’s the
policeman? Here, swear this man. Now, policeman, what is this?”
The policeman with becoming humility related how he had taken the
charge, how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person;
and how that was all he knew about it.
“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the
prosecutor, said in a towering passion,
“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, fellow,
or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing
to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will,
by——”
By what or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailer coughed very
loud just at the right moment, and the former dropped a heavy book upon
the floor; thus preventing the word from being heard—accidentally, of
course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived
to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he
had run after the boy because he saw him running away, and expressing
his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not
actually the thief, to be connected with thieves, he would deal as
leniently with him as justice would allow.
“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And
I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar,—“I
really fear that he is very ill.”
“Oh! yes; I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come; none of your
tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”
Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale,
and the whole place seemed turning round and round.
“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” thundered Mr. Fang.
“Officer, what’s his name?”
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow in a striped waistcoat, who
was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry;
but finding him really incapable of understanding the question, and
knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the
more, and add to the severity of his sentence, he hazarded a guess.
“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said this kind-hearted
thief-taker.
“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well.
Where does he live?”
“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer, again pretending to
receive Oliver’s answer.
“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer,
hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry Oliver raised his head, and, looking round
with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang; “don’t try to make a fool of me.”
“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.
“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.
“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands
instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”
“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang savagely; “let him if he likes.”
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell heavily to the
floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other,
but no one dared to stir.
“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable
proof of the fact. “Let him lie; he’ll soon be tired of that.”
“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in
a low voice.
“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three
months,—hard labour of course. Clear the office.”
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were
preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man
of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed
hastily into the office, and advanced to the bench.
“Stop, stop,—don’t take him away,—for Heaven’s sake stop a moment,”
cried the new-comer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding geniuses in such an office as this, exercise
a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the
character, almost the lives of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of
the poorer class; and although within such walls enough fantastic
tricks are daily played to make the angels weep hot tears of blood,
they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily
press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an
unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
“What is this?—who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office,”
cried Mr. Fang.
“I will speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out,—I saw it
all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put
down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You dare not refuse, sir.”
The man was right. His manner was bold and determined, and the matter
was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.
“Swear the fellow,” growled Fang with a very ill grace. “Now, man, what
have you got to say?”
“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys—two others and the prisoner
here—loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman
was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done,
and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.”
Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall
keeper proceeded to relate in a more coherent manner the exact
circumstances of the robbery.
“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang after a pause.
“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man; “everybody that
could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till
five minutes ago, and I’ve run here all the way.”
“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another
pause.
“Yes,” replied the man, “the very book he has in his hand.”
“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”
“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.
“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman,
innocently.
“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang,
with a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have
obtained possession of that book under very suspicious and disreputable
circumstances, and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner
of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my
man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the
office!”
“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had
kept down so long, “d—me! I’ll——”
“Clear the office!” roared the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear?
Clear the office!”
The mandate was obeyed, and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed
out, with the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other in a
perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.
He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist
lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his
temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble
convulsing his whole frame.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a
coach, somebody, pray,—directly!”
A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one
seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
“Bless me, yes, my dear friend,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot
you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor fellow!
there’s no time to lose.”
The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove.