The man, assisted by a friend, had called for the paper, put it into a
cart, and gone off. The worthy pair sold a small quantity in a place
where they had, on similar occasions, "done a stroke of business;" and,
after this little matter had been settled to their entire satisfaction,
they drove off to a public-house at the distance of about five miles
from the scene of their crime. This public-house was situated in a very
quiet street. The cart and horse were left at the door while the two
associates, snugly ensconced in the parlour, commenced enjoying the
fruits of their robbery.
They had not been there very long before the policeman on duty became
struck with the cart and its freight of paper. He had been on that beat
for many months past, and knew that no printer, bookbinder, or
stationer, lived in the street. The horse and cart were strangers to
him; so were the two men whom he saw in the parlour as he passed the
window. The whole thing had an ugly appearance. He meets with one of the
detectives, and communicates his suspicions to that sagacious
individual. The two fellows, utterly unconscious of the watch set on
their movements, produce more money than they could have earned in the
course of a week. They are taken into custody and brought up before the
magistrate. They cannot account for the possession of the paper, and
make a confession in full. The policeman, however, must have been very
sure of his case when he arrested them; for in doing so he incurred a
heavy responsibility. If his suspicions had turned out to be unfounded,
he would have been mulcted in a heavy fine, and possibly he might have
lost his place.
Now let us change the _venue_, and suppose this affair had happened in
Paris, Vienna, or Berlin. Not only have the police of those capitals
duties of greater importance than the mere catching of a couple of
wretched thieves, but it is also altogether absurd to believe that a
policeman or "_Sicherheitsmann_" should pay any attention to the fact of
a cart and horse being stationed at the door of a pot-house. Such a
thing is utterly impossible. The policemen of Vienna and Berlin change
their beats as soldiers do their posts. Possibly they know the street
and the outsides of the houses; they may also have some slight knowledge
of the most disreputable dens, and of those who habitually frequent
them, and, in some instances, they are _au courant_ of the politics of a
few honest tradesmen or citizens, who are too harmless to make a secret
of such matters.
The London policeman, on the other hand, knows every nook and corner,
every house, man, woman, and child on his beat. He knows their
occupations, habits, and circumstances. This knowledge he derives from
his constantly being employed in the same quarter and the same street,
and to--and surely a mind on duty bent may take great liberties with the
conventional moralities--that platonic and friendly intercourse which he
carries on with the female servants of the establishments which it is
his vocation to protect. An English maid-servant is a pleasant girl to
chat with, when half shrouded by the mystic fog of the evening and with
her smart little cap coquettishly placed on her head, she issues from
the sallyport of the kitchen, and advances stealthily to the row of
palisades which protect the house. And the handsome policeman, too, with
his blue coat and clean white gloves, is held in high regard and esteem
by the cooks and housemaids of England. His position on his beat is
analogous to that of the porter of a very large house; it is a point of
honour with him, that nothing shall escape his observation.
This _police-honour_ constitutes the essential difference between the
English and the continental police. Even the most liberal of
politicians--not a visionary--must admit, that it is impossible for a
large town, and still more impossible for a large state, to exist
without a well-organised protective force. It matters little whether the
force which insures the citizens against theft and robbery, as other
associations insure them against fire and hail-storms, is kept up and
directed by the State, or whether it is maintained by private
associations--as has been proposed. It is enough to refer to the fact,
that philanthropists of the Cobden and Burritt stamp have found reasons
as plenty as blackberries against standing armies of soldiers; but that
they have never yet dared to deny the necessity of a standing army of
policemen.
The police, whenever and wherever it answers its original purpose, is a
most beneficent institution. Its unpopularity in all the states of the
Continent is chargeable, not to the principles of the institution, but
to their perversion. It is the perversion of the protective force into
an instrument of oppression and aggression, which the German hates at
home; but he has no aversion to the police as such. Even the maddest of
the democratic refugees confess to great love and admiration for the
police in England. A man may like his cigar without entertaining a
preposterous passion for nicotine.
The policeman, no matter whether in a uniform or in plain clothes, is a
soldier of peace--a sentinel on a neutral post, and as such he is as
much entitled to respect as the soldier who takes the field against a
foreign invader. This is the case in England. The policeman is always
ready to give his assistance and friendly advice; the citizen is never
brought into an embarrassing and disagreeable contact with the police;
and the natural consequence of this state of things is, that the most
friendly feelings exist between the policeman and the honest part of the
population. Whenever the police have to interfere and want assistance,
the inhabitants are ready to support them, for they know that the police
never act without good reasons.
The detective police, who act in secret, do not stand on such an
intimate footing with the public as the preventive part of the force;
but whenever they are in want of immediate assistance for the arrest of
an offender, the detective has but to proclaim his functions, and no
man, not even the greatest man in the land, would refuse to lend him
assistance. In Germany and in France no one will associate with an agent
of the secret police, a _mouchard_, or by whatever other name those
persons may be called. Every one has an instinctive aversion to coming
in contact with this species of animal, for they are traitorous,
venomous, and blood-thirsty. And that such is the case, is another proof
of the vast superiority of the British institutions over those of the
Continent.
That London has not in the fulness of time come to be a vast den of
thieves and murderers, is mainly owing to the action of the detective
force. Here, where the worst men of the European and American continents
congregate, the functions of a detective are not only laborious but also
dangerous. The semi-romantic ferocity of an Italian bandit is sheer good
nature, if compared to the savage hardness and villany of a London
burglar. The bandit plies his lawless trade in the merry green wood and
mossy dell; he confesses to his priest, and receives absolution for any
peccadilloes in the way of stabbing he may have happened to commit; on
moonlit nights his head rests on the knees of the girl that loves him,
in spite of his cruel trade. He is not altogether lost to the gentler
feelings of humanity, and, in a great measure, he wants the confounding
hardening consciousness of having, by his actions, disgraced himself and
his species. But the London robber, like a venomous reptile, has his
home in dark holes under ground, in hidden back rooms of dirty houses,
and on the gloomy banks of the Thames. He breaks into the houses as a
wolf into a sheepfold, and kills those who resist him, and, in many
instances, even those who offer no resistance. There is no sun or
forest-green for him, no priest gives him absolution, the female that
herds with him is, in most cases, even more ferocious and abandoned than
himself; and if he be father to a child, he casts it at an early age
into the muddy whirlpool of the town, there to beg, to steal, and to
perish.
The streets which skirt the banks of the Thames are most horrible. There
the policeman does not saunter along on his beat with that easy and
comfortable air which distinguishes him in the western parts of the
town. Indeed, in many instances, they walk by twos and twos, with dirks
under their coats, and rattles to call in the aid of their comrades.
Many policemen and detectives, who, hunting on the track of some crime,
have ventured into these dens of infamy have disappeared, and no trace
has been left of them. They fell as victims to the vengeance of some
desperate criminal whom, perhaps, on a former occasion, they had brought
to justice. And it would almost appear to be part of the _haute
politique_ of the London robbers, that some policeman must be killed
from time to time as a warning to his comrades. The guild of assassins,
too, have their theory of terrorism.
Another remarkable fact is, that the London policemen, though their duty
brings them constantly in contact with the very scum of the earth,
contract none of their habits of rudeness, which appear to be an
essential portion of the stock-in-trade of the continental police. One
should say, that the "force" in England is recruited from a most
meritorious class of society, one in which patience, gentleness, and
politeness are hereditary.
Look there! A fine strapping fellow crossing the street with a child in
his arms! The girl is trembling as an aspen-leaf, for she was just on
the point of getting under a wheel. That fine fellow has taken her up;
and now you see he crosses again and fetches the little girl's mother,
who stands bewildered with the danger, and whom he conducts in safety to
the opposite pavement. Who and what is that man? His dress is decent and
citizen-like, and yet peculiar; it differs from the dress of ordinary
men; coat and trowsers of blue cloth; a number and a letter embroidered
on his collar; a striped band and buckle on his arm; a hat with oilskin
top, and white gloves--rather a rarity in the dirty atmosphere of
London. That man is a policeman, a well got up and improved edition of
our own German _Polizeidiener_, those scarecrows with sticks, sabres,
and other military accoutrements, standing at the street-corners of
German capitals, and spoiling the temper of honest men as well as of
thieves.
It is, however, a mistake to believe, as some persons on the continent
actually do, that the London police are altogether unarmed and at the
mercy of every drunkard. Not only have they, in many instances and
quarters, a dirk hidden under their great-coats, but they have also, at
all times, a short club-like staff in their pockets. This staff is
produced on solemn occasions, for instance, on the occasion of public
processions, when every policeman holds his staff in his hand. The
staves have of
[Illustration: THE LOST CHILD.
p. 54.]
late years been manufactured of gutta percha, and made from this
material they are lighter and more durable than wooden staves. In the
name of all that is smashing, what a rich full sound does not such a
gutta percha club produce when in quick succession it comes down on a
human shoulder. That sound is frequently heard by those who, on Saturday
or Monday night, perambulate the poorer or more dissolute quarters of
the town, when all respect for the constable's staff has been drowned in
a deluge of gin. Matters, on such occasions, proceed frequently to the
extremity of a duel. The policeman, like any civilian, fights for his
skin; he gets a drubbing and returns it with interest. But since his
weapon does not give him so manifest an advantage as a sword would, the
public consider the _fracas_ a fair fight. And after all, the combatants
must appear before a magistrate; in the police-court they are on equal
terms, and witnesses are heard on either side. There is no prejudice in
favour of the policeman.
But stop! Look at the crowd in the street. Two policemen are busy with a
poor ragged creature of a woman, whom they carry to a doorway. An
accident perhaps? Nothing of the kind. The woman is drunk, and fell down
in the road. The policemen are taking her to the station, where she may
sleep till she is sober. But it was a strange spectacle to see those two
men in smart blue coats and white gloves rescuing the ragged woman from
the mire of the street.
Let us go on. At Temple Bar there is a Gordian knot of vehicles of every
description. Three drays are jammed into one another. One of the horses
has slipped and fallen. The traffic is stopped for a few minutes; and
this is a matter of importance at Temple Bar. Just look down
Fleet-street--the stoppage extends to Ludgate-hill. But half a dozen
policemen appear as if by enchantment. One of them ranges the vehicles
that proceed to the city in a line on the left side of the road. A
second lends a hand in unravelling the knot of horses. A third takes his
position in the next street, and stops the carriages and cabs which, if
allowed to proceed, would but contribute their quota to the confusion.
Two policemen are busy with the horse which lies kicking in the road.
They unhook chains and unbuckle straps; get the horse on its legs, and
assist the driver in putting him to rights again. They have got dirty
all over; and they must, moreover, submit to hear from Mr. Evans, who
stands on the pavement dignified, with a broad-brimmed Quaker hat, that
they are awkward fellows, and know nothing whatever about the treatment
of horses. In another minute, the whole street-traffic is in full force.
The crowd vanishes as quickly and silently as it came. The two policemen
betake themselves to the next shop, where the apprentice is called upon
to brush their clothes.
The continental policeman is the torment of the stranger. The London
policeman is the stranger's friend. If you are in search of an
acquaintance and only know the street where he lives, apply to the
policeman on duty in that street, and he will show you the house, or at
least assist you in your search. If you lose your way, turn to the first
policeman you meet; he will take charge of you and direct you. If you
would ride in an omnibus without being familiar with the goings and
comings of those four-wheeled planets, speak to a policeman, and he will
keep you by his side until the "bus" you want comes within hailing
distance. If you should happen to have an amicable dispute with a
cabman--and what stranger can escape that infliction?--you may
confidently appeal to the arbitration of a policeman. If, in the course
of your peregrinations, you come to a steam-boat wharf or a
railway-station, or a theatre or some other public institution, and if
you are at a loss how to proceed, pray pour your sorrows into the
sympathetic ear of the policeman. He will direct yourself and baggage;
in a theatre, he will assist you in the purchase of a ticket, or at
least tell you where to apply and how to proceed. The London policeman
is almost always kind and serviceable.
At night, indeed, as some say, he is rather more rough-spoken than in
the day-time; and when you meet and address him in some solitary street,
he is reserved and treats you with something akin to suspicion. Whether
or not this remark applies to the force generally, we will not undertake
to decide. But it is quite natural that they should not be altogether at
their ease in
[Illustration: THE CAB DISPUTE.
p. 56.]
solitary or disreputable quarters, and that their temper gets soured
thereby. A glass of brandy now and then may also contribute to produce
the above effect. But the English climate is damp; the fog makes its
home in the folds of the constable's great-coat; the rain runs from the
oilskin cape which stands the policeman in the stead of an umbrella; the
wind is cold and bleak; and we leave the policeman on his beat with "the
stranger's thanks and the stranger's gratitude."