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When the Belgians, by their most insane revolution, separated from the
Dutch, they assumed for their national motto the phrase “_L'union fait
la force_” It is difficult to say whether their rebellion towards
the sovereign, or this happy employment of a bull, it was, that so
completely captivated our illustrious countryman, Dan, and excited so
warmly his sympathies for that beer-drinking population. After all,
why should one quarrel with them? Nations, like individuals, have
their coats-of-arms, their heraldic insignia, their blazons, and their
garters, frequently containing the sharpest sarcasm and most poignant
satire upon those who bear them; and in this respect Belgium is only as
ridiculous as the attorney who assumed for his motto “_Fïat justitia_.”
Time was when the chivalrous line of our own garter, “_Honi soit qui mal
y pense_,” brought with it, its bright associations of kingly courtesy
and maiden bashfulness: but what sympathy can such a sentiment find in
these degenerate days of rail-roads and rack-rents, canals, collieries,
and chain-bridges? No, were we now to select an inscription, much rather
would we take it from the prevailing passion of the age, and write
beneath the arms of our land the emphatic phrase, “Push along, keep
moving.”
If Englishmen have failed to exhibit in machinery that triumphant El
Dorado called perpetual motion, in revenge for their failure, they
resolved to exemplify it in themselves. The whole nation, from John o'
Groat to Land's End, from Westport to Dover, are playing cross-corners.
Every body and every thing is on the move. A dwelling-house, like an
umbrella, is only a thing used on an emergency; and the inhabitants of
Great Britain pass their lives amid the smoke of steam-boats, or the din
and thunder of the Grand-Junction. From the highest to the lowest, from
the peer to the peasant, from the lord of the treasury to the Irish
haymaker, it is one universal “_chassée croissée_.” Not only is this
fashionable--for we are told by the newspapers how the Queen walks daily
with Prince Albert on “the slopes”--but stranger still, locomotion is a
law of the land, and standing still is a statutable offence. The hackney
coachman, with wearied horses, blown and broken-winded, dares not
breathe his jaded beasts by a momentary pull-up, for the implacable
policeman has his eye upon him, and he must simulate a trot, though his
pace but resemble a stage procession, where the legs are lifted without
progressing, and some fifty Roman soldiers, in Wellington boots, are
seen vainly endeavouring to push forward. The foot-passenger is no
better off--tired perhaps with walking or attracted by the fascinations
of a print-shop, he stops for an instant: alas, that luxury may cost him
dear, and for the momentary pleasure he may yet have to perform a quick
step on the mill. “Move on, sir. Keep moving, if you please,” sayeth
the gentleman in blue; and there is something in his manner that wont be
denied. It is useless to explain that you have nowhere particular to go
to, that you are an idler and a lounger. The confession is a fatal one;
and however respectable your appearance, the idea of shoplifting is at
once associated with your pursuits. Into what inconsistencies do we fall
while multiplying our laws, for while we insist upon progression, we
announce a penalty for vagrancy. The first principle of the British
constitution, however, is “keep moving,” and “I would recommend you to
go with the tide.”
Thank heaven, I have reached to man's estate--although with a heavy
heart I acknowledge it is the only estate I have or ever shall attain
to; for if I were a child I don't think I should close my eyes at night
from the fear of one frightful and terrific image. As it is, I am by no
means over courageous, and it requires all the energy I can summon to
combat my terrors. You ask me, in all likelihood, what this fearful
thing can be? Is it the plague or the cholera? is it the dread of
poverty and the new poor-law? is it that I may be impressed as a seaman,
or mistaken for a Yankee? or is it some unknown and visionary terror,
unseen, unheard of, but foreshadowed by a diseased imagination; No;
nothing of the kind. It is a palpable, sentient, existent thing--neither
more nor less than the worshipful Sir Peter Laurie.
Every newspaper you take up announces that Sir Peter, with a hearty
contempt for the brevity of the fifty folio volumes that contain the
laws of our land, in the plenitude of his power and the fulness of his
imagination, keeps adding to the number; so that if length of years be
only accorded to that amiable individual in proportion to his merits, we
shall find at length that not only will every contingency of our lives
be provided for by the legislature, but that some standard for personal
appearance will also be adopted, to which we must conform as rigidly as
to our oath of allegiance.
A few days ago a miserable creature, a tailor we believe, some decimal
fraction of humanity, was brought up before Sir Peter on a trifling
charge of some kind or other. I forget his offence, but whatever it was,
the penalty annexed to it was but a fine of half-a-crown. The prisoner,
however, who behaved with propriety and decorum, happened to have long
black hair, which he wore somewhat “_en jeune France_” upon his neck
and shoulders; his locks, if not ambrosial, were tastefully curled, and
bespoke the fostering hand of care and attention. The Rhadamanthus of
the police-office, however, liked them not: whether it was that he
wore a Brutus himself, or that his learned cranium had resisted all the
efficacy of Macassar, I cannot say; but certain it is, that the tailor's
ringlets gave him the greatest offence, and he apostrophised the wearer
in the most solemn manner:
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“I have sat,” said he, “for------,” as I quote from memory I sha'n't say
how many, “years upon the bench, and I never yet met an honest man with
long hair. The worst feature in your case is your ringlets. There is
something so disgusting to me in the odious and abominable vice you
have indulged in, that I feel myself warranted in applying to you the
heaviest penalty of the law.”
The miserable man, we are told, fell upon his knees, confessed his
delinquency, and, being shorn of his locks in the presence of a crowded
court, his fine was remitted, and he was liberated.
Now, perhaps, you will suppose that all this is a mere matter of
invention. On the faith of an honest man I assure you it is not. I have
retrenched considerably the pathetic eloquence of the magistrate, and I
have left altogether untouched the poor tailor's struggle between
pride and poverty--whether, on the one hand, to suffer the loss of
his half-crown, or, on the other, to submit to the desecration of
his _entire_ head. We hear a great deal about a law for the rich, and
another for the poor; and certainly in this case I am disposed to think
the complaint might not seem without foundation. Suppose for a moment
that the prisoner in this case had been the Honourable Augustus
Somebody, who appeared before his worship fashionably attired, and
with hair, beard, and moustache far surpassing in extravagance the poor
tailor's; should we then have heard this beautiful apostrophe to “the
croppies,” this thundering denunciation of ringlets? I half fear not.
And yet, under what pretext does a magistrate address to one man, the
insulting language he would not dare apply to another? Or let us suppose
the rule of justice to be inflexible, and look at the result. What havoc
would Sir Peter make among the Guards? ay, even in the household of her
Majesty how many delinquents would he find? what a scene would not the
clubs present, on the police authorities dropping suddenly down amongst
them with rule and line to determine the statute length of their
whiskers, or the legal cut of their eye-brows? Happy King of Hanover,
were you still amongst us, not even the Alliance would insure your
mustachoes. As for Lord Ellenborough, it is now clear enough why he
accepted the government of India, and made such haste to get out of the
country.
Now we will suppose that as Sir Peter Laurie's antipathy is long hair,
Sir Frederick Roe may also have his dislikes. It is but fair, you will
allow, that the privileges of the bench should be equal. Well, for
argument's sake, I will imagine that Sir Frederick Roe has not the
same horror of long hair as his learned brother, but has the most
unconquerable aversion to long noses.
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What are we to do here? Heaven help half our acquaintance if this should
strike him! What is to be done with Lord Allen if he beat a watchman! In
what a position will he stand if he fracture a lamp? One's hair may be
cut to even shaved clean off; but your nose.--And then a few weeks,--a
few months at farthest, and your hair has grown again: but your nose,
like your reputation, can only stand one assault. This is really a
serious view of the subject; and it is a somewhat hard thing that the
face you have shown to your acquaintances for years past, with pleasure
to yourself and satisfaction to them, should be pronounced illegal, or
curtailed in its proportions. They have a practice in banks if a forged
note be presented for payment, to mark it in a peculiar manner before
restoring it to the owner. This is technically called “raddling.”
Something similar, I suppose, will be adopted at the police-office, and
in case of refusal to conform your features to the rule of Roe, you will
be raddled by an officer appointed for the purpose, and sent forth upon
the world the mere counterfeit of humanity.
What a glorious thing it would be for this great country, if, having
equalized throughout the kingdom the weights, the measures, the miles,
and the currency, we should at length attain to an equalization in
appearance. The “facial angle” will then have its application in
reality, and, instead of the tiresome detail of an Old Bailey trial,
we shall hear a judge sum up on the externals of a prisoner, merely
directing the attention of the jury to the atrocious irregularity of his
teeth, or the assassin-like sharpness of his under-jaw. Honour to you,
Sir Peter, should this great improvement grow out of your innovation;
and proud may the country well be, that acknowledges you among its
lawgivers!
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Let men no longer indulge in that absurd fiction which represents
justice as blind. On the contrary, with an eye like Canova's, and a
glance quick, sharp, and penetrating as Flaxman's, she traces every
lineament and every feature; and Landseer will confess himself
vanquished by Laurie. “The pictorial school of judicial investigation”
will now become fashionable, and if Sir Peter's practice be but
transmitted, surgeons will not be the only professional men who will
commence their education with the barbers.