I have of late been led to wistfully reflect that many of the
illustrators are very clever. In an impatience, which was denoted by a
certain economy of apparel, I went to a window to look upon day-lit
London. There were the 'buses parading the streets with the miens of
elephants. There were the police looking precisely as I had been
informed by the prints. There were the sandwich-men. There was almost
everything.
But the artists had not told me the sound of London. Now, in New York
the artists are able to pourtray sound, because in New York a dray is
not a dray at all; it is a great potent noise hauled by two or more
horses. When a magazine containing an illustration of a New York street
is sent to me, I always know it beforehand. I can hear it coming
through the mails. As I have said previously, this which I must call
sound of London was to me only a silence.
Later, in front of the hotel a cabman that I hailed said to me--"Are you
gowing far, sir? I've got a byby here, and want to giv'er a bit of a
blough." This impressed me as being probably a quotation from an early
Egyptian poet, but I learned soon enough that the word "byby" was the
name of some kind or condition of horse. The cabman's next remark was
addressed to a boy who took a perilous dive between the byby's nose and
a cab in front. "That's roight. Put your head in there and get it
jammed--a whackin good place for it, I should think." Although the tone
was low and circumspect, I have never heard a better off-handed
declamation. Every word was cut clear of disreputable alliances with its
neighbours. The whole thing was as clean as a row of pewter mugs. The
influence of indignation upon the voice caused me to reflect that we
might devise a mechanical means of inflaming some in that constellation
of mummers which is the heritage of the Anglo-Saxon race.
Then I saw the drilling of vehicles by two policemen. There were four
torrents converging at a point, and when four torrents converge at one
point engineering experts buy tickets for another place.
But here, again, it was drill, plain, simple drill. I must not falter
in saying that I think the management of the traffic--as the phrase
goes--to be distinctly illuminating and wonderful. The police were not
ruffled and exasperated. They were as peaceful as two cows in a pasture.
I remember once remarking that mankind, with all its boasted modern
progress, had not yet been able to invent a turnstile that will commute
in fractions. I have now learned that 756 rights-of-way cannot operate
simultaneously at one point. Right-of-way, like fighting women, requires
space. Even two rights-of-way can make a scene which is only suited to
the tastes of an ancient public.
This truth was very evidently recognised. There was only one
right-of-way at a time. The police did not look behind them to see if
their orders were to be obeyed; they knew they were to be obeyed. These
four torrents were drilling like four battalions. The two blue-cloth men
manoeuvred them in solemn, abiding peace, the silence of London.
I thought at first that it was the intellect of the individual, but I
looked at one constable closely and his face was as afire with
intelligence as a flannel pin-cushion. It was not the police, and it was
not the crowd. It was the police and the crowd. Again, it was drill.