IN PICCADILLY
It was past eleven. The people, streaming out of the theatres, poured
into Piccadilly Circus. The night was fine, so that those on foot
were disposed to take their time. The crowd was huge, its constituent
parts people of all climes and countries, of all ranks and stations.
To the unaccustomed eye the confusion was bewildering; omnibuses
rolled heavily in every direction; hansom cabs made efforts to break
through what, to the eyes of their sanguine drivers, seemed breaks in
the line of traffic; carriages filled with persons in evening-dress
made such haste as they could. The pavements were crowded almost to
the point of danger; even in the roadway foot-passengers passed
hither and thither amidst the throng of vehicles, while on every side
vendors of evening papers pushed and scrambled, shouting out, with
stentorian lungs, what wares they had to sell.
The papers met with a brisk demand. Strange tales were told in them.
Readers were uncertain as to the light in which they ought to be
regarded; editors were themselves in doubt as to the manner in which
it would be proper to set them forth. Some wrote in a strain which
was intended to be frankly humorous; others told the stories baldly,
leaving readers to take them as they chose; while still a third set
did their best to dish them up in the shape of a wild sensation.
It was currently reported that a Mysterious Stranger had appeared in
London. During the last few hours He had been seen by large numbers
of people. The occasions on which He had created the most remarkable
impressions had been two. At St. John's Hall the Rev. Philip Evans
had been preaching on the Second Coming, when, in the middle of the
discourse, a Stranger had appeared upon the platform, actually
claiming, so far as could be gathered, to be the Christ. In the
operating theatre at St. Philip's Hospital, just as a subject--a
woman--had succumbed under the surgeon's knife, a Stranger had come
upon the scene, and, before all eyes, had restored the dead to life.
It was this story of the miracle, as it was called, at St. Philip's
Hospital, which had been exciting London all that day. The thing was
incredible; but the witnesses were so reputable, their statements so
emphatic, the details given so precise, it was difficult to know what
to make of it. And now in the evening papers there was a story of how
a riot had taken place outside Messrs. Anthony's works. The strikers
had attacked a blackleg. A stranger had come upon them while they
were in the very thick of the fracas; at a word from Him the tumult
ceased; before His presence the brawlers had scattered like chaff
before the wind. The latest editions were full of the tale; it was in
everybody's mouth.
Christ's name was in the air, the topic of the hour. The Stranger's
claim was, of course, absurd, unspeakable. He was an impostor, some
charlatan; at best, a religious maniac. Similar creatures had arisen
before, notably in the United States, though we had not been without
them here in England, and Roman Catholic countries had had their
share. The story of the dead woman who had been restored to life at
St. Philip's Hospital was odd, but it was capable of natural
explanation. To doubt this would be to write one's self down a
lunatic, a superstitious fool, a relic of medieval ignorance. There
is no going outside natural laws; the man who pretends to do so
writes himself down a knave, and pays those to whom he appeals a very
scanty compliment. Why, even the most pious of God's own ministers
have agreed that there are no miracles, and never have been. Go to
with your dead woman restored to life! Yet, the tale was an odd one,
especially as it was so well attested. But then the thing was so well
done that it seemed that those present were in a state of mind in
which they would have been prepared to swear to anything.
Still, Christ's name was in the air--in an unusual sense. It came
from unaccustomed lips. Even the women of the pavement spoke of
Jesus, wondering if there was such a man, and what would happen if He
were to come again.
'Suppose this fellow in the papers turned out to be Him, how would
that be then?' one inquired of the other. Then both were silent, for
they were uneasy; and at the first opportunity they solaced
themselves with a drink.
The men for the most part were more outspoken in ribaldry than
the women, especially those specimens of masculinity who frequented
at that hour the purlieus of Piccadilly Circus. Common-sense was
their stand-by. What was not in accordance with the teachings of
common-sense was nothing. How could it be otherwise? Judged by this
standard, the tales which were told were nonsense, sheer and
absolute. Therefore, in so far as they were concerned, the scoffer's
was the proper mental attitude. The editors who wrote of them
humorously were the level-headed men. They were only fit to be
laughed at.
'If I'd been at St. Philip's, I'd have got hold of that very
mysterious stranger, and I'd have kept hold until I'd got from him an
explanation of that pretty little feat of hanky-panky.'
The speaker was standing at the Piccadilly corner of the Circus, by
the draper's shop. He was a tall man, and held a cigar in his mouth.
His overcoat was open, revealing the evening dress beneath. The man
to whom he spoke was shorter. He was dressed in tweeds; his soft felt
hat, worn a little on one side of his head, lent to him a mocking
air. When the other spoke, he laughed.
'I'd like to have a shy at him myself. I've seen beggars of his sort
in India, where they do a lot of mischief, sometimes sending whole
districts stark staring mad. But there they do believe in them; thank
goodness we don't!'
'How do you make that out, when you read the names of the people who
are prepared to swear to the truth of the St. Philip's tale?'
'My dear boy, long before this they're sorry. Fellows lost their
heads--sort of moment of delirium, which will leave a bad taste in
their mouths now they've got well out of it. If that mysterious
gentleman ever comes their way again, they'll be every bit as ready
to keep a tight hold of him as you could be.'
'I wonder.' The tall man puffed at his cigar. 'I'd give--well, Grey,
I won't say how much, but I'd give a bit to have him stand in front
of me just here and now. That kind of fellow makes me sick. The
common or garden preacher I don't mind; he has his uses. But the kind
of creature who tries to trade on the folly of the great majority, by
trying to make out that he's something which he isn't--whenever he's
about there ought to be a pump just handy. We're too lenient to
cattle of his particular breed.'
'Suppose, Boyle, this mysterious stranger were to appear in
Piccadilly now, what's the odds that you, for one, wouldn't try to
plug him in the eye?'
'I don't know about me, but I'm inclined to think that there are
others who would endeavour their little best to reach him
thereabouts. Piccadilly at this time of night is hardly the place for
a mysterious anyone to cut a figure to much advantage. I fancy
there'd be ructions. Anyhow, I'd like to see him come.'
Mr. Boyle's tone was grim. His companion laughed; but before the
sound of his laughter had long died out the speaker's wish was
gratified.
All in an instant, without any sort of warning, there was one of
those scenes which occur in Piccadilly on most nights of the week. A
woman had been drinking; she was young, new to her trade, still
unaccustomed to the misuse of stimulants. She made a noise. A female
acquaintance endeavoured to induce her to go away; in vain. The
girl, pulling up her skirts, began to dance and shout, and to behave
like a virago, among the throng of loiterers who were peopling the
pavement. A man made some chaffing remark to her. She flew at him
like a tiger-cat. Directly there was an uproar. There are times and
seasons when it requires but a very little thing to transform those
midnight Saturnalia into chaos. The police hurled themselves into the
struggling throng, making captives of practically everyone on whom
they could lay their hands.
The crowd was in uncomfortable proximity to Mr. Grey and his friend.
It swayed in their direction.
'We'd better clear out of this, Boyle, before there's an ugly rush
comes our way. Let's get across the road. I'm in no humour for
skittles to-night, if you don't mind.'
The speaker glanced smilingly towards the seething throng. It was the
humorous side of the thing which appealed to him; he had seen it so
often before. Boyle diverted his attention.
'Hollo! who's this?'
Someone stepped from the roadway on to the pavement, moving quickly,
yet lightly, so that there was about His actions no appearance of
haste. He held His hands a little raised. People made way to let Him
pass, as if they knew that He was coming, even though He approached
them in silence from behind.
'It's Christ!'
The exclamation was Grey's reply to his friend's query. Boyle,
starting, turned to stare at him.
'Grey, what do you mean?'
'It's Christ! Don't you know Christ when you see him? It's the
mysterious stranger! Why don't you go and lay fast hold on him?'
Boyle stared at his friend in silence. There was that in his manner
which was disconcerting--an obsession. The fashion of his face was
changed; a new light was in his eyes. The big man seemed half amused,
half startled. As he stood and listened and watched, his amusement
diminished, his appearance of being startled grew.
The crowd had given way before the Stranger, making a lane through
which He had passed to its midst; and it was silent. The vehicles
rumbled along the road; from the other side of the street the voices
of newsboys assailed the air; pedestrians went ceaselessly to and
fro; but there, where the noise had just been greatest, all was
still--a strange calm had come on the excited throng.
There were there all sorts and conditions of men and women that had
fallen away from virtue. There were men of all ages, from white
haired to beardless boys; from those who had drained the cup of vice
to its uttermost dregs, yet still clutched with frantic, trembling
fingers at the empty goblet, to those who had just begun to peep over
its edge, and to feast their eyes on its fulness to the brim. There
were men of all stations, from old and young rakes of fortune and
family to struggling clerks, shop-assistants, office-boys, and those
creatures of the gutter who rake the kennels for offal with which to
fill their bellies. Among the women there was the same diversity.
They were of all nations--English, French, German, and the rest; of
all ages--grandmothers and girls who had not yet attained to the age
of womanhood. There were some of birth and breeding, and there were
daughters of the slums, heritors of their mothers' foulness. There
were the comparatively affluent, and there were those who had gone
all day hungry, and who still looked for a stroke of fortune to gain
for them a night's lodging. But they all were the same; they all had
painted faces, and they all were decked in silks and satins or such
other tawdry splendour as by any crooked means they could lay their
hands on which would serve to advertise their trade.
And in the midst of this assemblage of the dregs of humanity the
Stranger stood; and He put to them the question which was to become
familiar ere long to not a few of the people of the city:
'What is it you would do?'
They returned no answer; instead, they looked at Him askance, doubt,
hesitancy, surprise, wonder, awe, revealing themselves in varying
degrees upon their faces as they were seen beneath the paint.
Two policemen had in custody the young woman who had been the
original cause of disturbance. Each held her by an arm. The Stranger
turned to them.
'Loose her.'
Without an attempt at remonstrance they did as He bade. They took
their hands from off her and set her free. She stood before them,
seeming ashamed and sobered, with downcast face, seeking the pavement
with her eyes. But all at once, as if she could not bear the silence
any longer, she raised her head and met His glance, asking:
'Who are you?'
'Do you not know Me?'
'Know you?'
Her tone suggested that she was searching her memory to recall His
face.
'If you do not know Me now that you look on Me, then shall I never be
known to you. Yet it is strange that it should be so, for I am the
Friend of sinners.'
'The Friend----'
The girl got so far in repeating the Strangers words, then suddenly
stopped, and, bursting into a passion of tears, threw herself on her
knees on the pavement at His feet crying:
'Lord, I know You! Have mercy upon me!'
The Stranger touched her with His hand.
'In that you know Me it shall be well with you.'
He looked about him on the crowd.
'Would that you all knew Me, even as this woman does!'
But the people eyed each other, wondering. There were some who
laughed, and others inquired among themselves:
'Who is this fellow? And what is the matter with the girl, that she
goes on like this?'
One there was who cried:
'Tell us who you are.'
'I am He that you know not of.'
'That's all right, so far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough;
it's an insufficient definition. What's your name?'
'Day and night you call upon My name, yet do not know Me.'
'Look here, my friend; are you suggesting that you're anybody in
particular? because, if so, tell us straight out, who? We're not good
at conundrums, and at this time of night it's not fair to start us
solving them.'
The Stranger was silent. His gaze passed eagerly from face to face.
When He had searched them all, He cried:
'Is there not one that knows Me save this woman? Is there not one?'
A man came out from amidst the people, and stood in front of the
Stranger.
'I know You,' he said. 'You are Christ.'