Move on, oh pen! and in words whose hue is murky as his oilskin cape,
tell with thy silent gall-dipped nibs of the tyrant of our streets--the
Hyde Park hero--the helmet-crowned truncheon bearer--preserver of
peace--marshal of erring vehicles--custodian of crime--the great
numbered one--the unknown X--the Mayne force regulator--offspring of
Peel, but never candid--myrmidon of a mighty law--confiscator of coster
mongers' barrows--dark man dressed in blue--hero of a hundred names and
hundred fights. Tell to the great washed and wiped, of this mighty
conqueror, who, by a motion of his Berlin glove, sweeps from the muddy
face of the street the noisy crowd. Put down naught in malice or
extenuation; hide not his faults, his failings, or his fancies;
chronicle not the smashing of a glossy Lincoln and Bennett, nor the
splitting up the back of a Poole's surtout, when streets were thronged
and Alexandra came; hint not at bribery; but tell of the man and his
acts--acts explained in beloved old Carpenter as "substantive; deeds,
exploits." Paint the aspect of the man in tunic blue and headpiece of
hardened felt, praised by the custodian of our streets as light. How
can we cavil at the Minerva or Britannia-like aspect when the wearer
sails down the streets, looking as though he ruled the waves of
population, a people who never, never, never, will be slaves. Romanised
in mien, he wants but the flowing toga and sandalled shoon to shine as a
centurion. What is it to him that small boys scoff? In the full
comprehension of his powers he walks erect--gorgeous. Has he not, from
earliest times, been object and aim of scurrilous shafts meant for wit,
but launched with telling force? Has he not been styled the great
absentee, and have not rumours touching mutton been circulated to his
disadvantage? What though on wintry night, when bitter blows the
boist'rous wind, the wand'rer spies a cheering light behind the area
window blind. Who, if a whistle known of old should rouse the culinary
maid to beckon down the warrior bold to have his empty stomach stayed,
who then would grudge the meal--the kiss--the small beer draught--the
smile--embrace? They're loved by others well, I wis, as him who wears
the cotton lace--whose rolling eye--whose nostril wide, and towering
form attractive draw, to inward thought--the fire's warm side--the bliss
of love--the chill of law. He has before now descended and been
wanted--ascended and been too late. So have generals often; and is
there perfection to be found upon this earth? "Nary bit of it."
Palliate, then, the policeman's weak points, and as none but the brave
deserve the fair, let the brave have his desert.
Is he not a part of our very being as a nation, the common object of our
crowd? Who knows this better than the playwright, who sends him across
the stage in a long string, like the soldiers or geese of our
childhood's day upon the scissor-working framework; who puts him into
every imaginable difficulty, and bruises, batters, and beats him in a
way most insufferable? But K9 in the gallery sees it all, smiles with
disdain, and looks down upon the get up of his fictitious
representative, who is as true to life as the Franco-Anglais of the
Parisian stage; and seated in plain clothes beside Mary, cook from
Number 34, Eating-street, he nudges that lady, and as the broad hint is
reciprocated, they smile with contempt at the "Guy Fawkes" thing
presented to them.
From whatever point of view the policeman is taken, the first thing
which strikes the observer is the dress; and once more, glancing at his
helmet, is it not everything that it should not be? Perhaps it is
useful, as none other is provided, but it is decidedly not ornamental,
for it is grotesque, hideous, unsightly, and contemptible. It wants the
grandeur of the old Roman, the graceful curve of the Grecian, the
stiffness of the Prussian, the weight of the dragoon's, and the gloss of
the fireman's, while as for comfort--who will put it to the test?
Take his appearance in a street scuffle, an affair in which the police
have, ere now, been engaged; half his time is taken up in endeavouring--
generally unsuccessfully--to keep his helmet in its place, but, as a
rule, it rolls into the gutter, to be crushed by trampling feet.
Feet! Yes, that brings us to his feet, though t'were almost bootless to
name them, since they are often nearly in that condition. The "strong,
serviceable bluchers" supplied by Government contractors always seem to
be made upon the principle of "small profits and quick returns," which
being interpreted means small profit to the wearer and quick return to
elementary constituents.
Did not some great man--a city fortifier--once declare that there was
nothing like leather? How true: how striking! But how much more so is
the increased significance given to the adage when we say there is
nothing like contractor's leather? There is nothing like it anywhere,
and considering its wondrous durability, why should not some firm
commence making papier mache boots? They would be equally durable, far
cheaper, while, as to fit, that does not matter, since Government
contractors evidently believe that police bunions have no existence,
while corns never crop out from legal toes.
Then, again, his tunic and trousers. Shoddy should not be named in
connexion with the material, since the invisible blue is decidedly a
degree more durable, for there is in it an elasticity, doubtless owing
to its canvas-like--sampler canvas-like structure. To many this airy
fabrication may look like deceit, but that is but a harsh construction
to place upon such openness; while as to the strength of the cloth, the
giving nature is intentional, for opposed as the police so often are to
numbers, they need the activity and unholdability of the savage, who
oils his body to elude inimical grasps. Hence, then, the weakness of
police cloth, which gives way to the slightest drag. Here may the
ignorant exclaim--"What a pity!" Not at all, for the offending party
pays the damage, since it is a most heinous crime to damage a
policeman's uniform. As to the cut of the suit, and the coolness or
warmth, they are the arrangements of the same wise and paternal
government, who so justly and equitably arrange the promotion in the
army. If the policeman shivers he can put on his great-coat, and if it
rains, over that his oilskin cape; and what more can he want? Ignorance
may again interpose, and say, why not give him a thoroughly good warm
suit for winter, and a lighter one for summer? But then, ignorance was
always prone to make strange remarks, and our subject remains buttoned--
stuffy--tight.
Touching his truncheon, description is needless, since ample knowledge
is gained of that instrument in street troubles.
Taking the policeman, then, from external points of view, he is not in
appearance imposing, though by nature very. He is belted, buttoned, and
laced; numbered like an auction lot; and, as a rule, powerfully
whiskered; but he looks made up; there is a bastard military tournure
about him, evidently the introduction of some official martinet. The
drilling does not seem to fit our civil (?) friend, for there is either
too much or not enough. But we don't want him formed into squares, or
three deep, or in line for a charge, for he always seems to act best
"upon his own hook," as Vulgus has it, he being rather given to passing
judgment upon his sworn foe--passing judgment and remarks too, for is
not the man in blue contemned? But why, when his nod suffices to
disperse a crowd--he, the man so opposed in appearance to the fiercely
moustached and cocked-hatted gendarme of the Gallic shore? Is it
because he is unarmed save by the power of the law, and that ashen staff
that will make mistakes! And yet the majesty of the law accompanies him
everywhere, and emanates from his person at every movement--a visible
invisibility--a halo threatening a storm to evil doers. But he is
contemned and made the sieve to catch the flying chaff of our streets.
From whence comes the bitter hatred between the powers civil and
military, if it does not proceed from the coquetries of the fair sex?
It might be supposed that "Mars would always be in the ascendant"
[Zadkiel], but it is not so; "law, civil power, and exeketive" is far
ahead, but never in conjunction with the fiery planet. "Them solgers
ain't good for much," says civil law, and he holds them in profound
contempt--a contempt evidently engendered by rivalry. Go to the opera
in the Haymarket, and behold both warriors at the entrance. Mars, all
pipeclay, belts, buttons, and bayonets, rifles, ramrods, and regulation,
standing like an image to do nothing, and doing it most effectually,
while Bobby, all bustle, beatitude, and blueness, is hurrying about
amongst rival charioteers and gorgeous footmen, keeping order most
sublime, and making perfection out of chaos. But for the numbered one,
somebody's carriage would stop the way all night from the fierce block
that would ensue; though no one seems to see all this, while looks from
all quarters indicate that our subject is an enemy to society at large.
Again, compare the civil and military powers upon a grand occasion, when
royalty visits the city; when every pinnacle, post, pale, rail, corner,
crevice, or coign of vantage is seized by the many headed, surging and
swaying backwards and forwards to catch a glimpse of the expected
pageant. Here, perhaps, we have squadrons of horse artillery--troopers
braided, busbied, and plumed, with jingling arms and accoutrements, sent
to keep the way, while the civil power watches them backing their
horses, making them prance and curvet and thrust back the crowd, which
only closes in as they pass, while the policeman looks down in contempt
upon their evolutions.
But then comes the order: onward goes the fat inspector, and in goose
step come his followers. Truncheons are drawn, men posted, and order
reigns, for the crowd falls back--sometimes--but always loudly "chaffs."
The policeman heeds not this though, for he knows the reward of merit,
that is the common reward, and remembering all this at other times, he
moves on the muffin boy, who revenges himself by yelling his wares with
renewed energy as soon as he has turned the corner, while again law
smiles contemptuously, and directs his attention to the orange girl and
moves her off the pavement. Reward: a queer name; a grimace; and as
soon as his back is turned, a handful of orange-peel scattered upon the
slabs for the benefit of the passengers.
Watch the policeman on duty in one of the parks, and see with what
jealous eye he looks after each nursemaid and her little flock, and how
closely he follows when Mary or Hann wander by accident amidst the trees
with Mars. The constable has no business to keep on passing and
repassing with austere mien, robbing the lovers of their sweets, but he
does so not from a personal hatred, but from an instinctive dislike--a
class-like jealousy. He gazes upon the soldier as any game-loving
squire would cast his eye upon a poacher even though encountered a
hundred miles from his estate, for were the constable in power, Mars
would be doomed to a life of celibacy. He forgives the maidens whom he
knows to be attracted by the garish uniform, and he pities them for
their weakness, but decides in his own mind that they require
protection--such protection as a policeman could give them. Sometimes
the soldier is encountered when promenading the pave with an eye upon
some especial house in the policeman's beat. Now he may not have
personal friends at more than half-a-dozen houses on his beat, but he
holds every house as being under his surveillance, and his jealous eye
follows the guard's every movement. He hunts him step by step as though
a burglary were imminent, and so thoroughly disarranges the plans of the
parties interested, that at last Mars slinks off with lowered crest,
while the man in blue beats together his Berlin gloves, and crows
internally over his discomfited adversary.
Who has not admired the mounted policeman? But is it not taking him at
a disadvantage, and seeing him suffering under untoward circumstances
over which he has no control, not even being able to control his horse?
But he was never meant to be upon a horse. What is he there for? And
of what use can he be? He looks most thoroughly out of place, and, to
do him justice, quite ashamed of himself. Like the soldier of the
ballad, he presents himself in public "with a helmet on his brow, and a
sabre at his thigh;" but, sinking the helmet, what does he want with a
sword--a policeman with a sword? But we are not sure that it is a
sword. May it not be a Quaker or theatrical representation of the
military sabre? We never knew any one yet who had seen it out of its
sheath, or who had been blinded by its flash, so that after all it may
be but a sham. If one takes a trip across the channel, emulating the
daring of a Josef Sprouts, and then making the best of one's way to
"Paris in France," there is no surprise felt at the sight of cocked
hats, cocked--very fiercely cocked--moustachios, and swords belted upon
_gendarme_ or _sergent de ville_. The sword there seems appropriate--
suited to the national character--the staff for thick-headed
boss-frontal Bull, and the skewer or spit for the Gallic frog or cock.
If John Bull, as a mob, gets excited, the powers that be consider him to
be all the better for a little hammering about the head, while prick of
sword or cut of sabre would goad him to madness. In _La France, au
contraire_, blows cause the madness. Jean or Pierre, if "nobbled" upon
the sconce, would rave about the affront put upon his honour. Men ready
to cry _Mourir pour la Patrie_, can pocket no blows. Here, then, is
shown the wisdom of supplying the French man of order with a sword; a
cut or thrust acts not as a goad, but surgically, for it lets out the
mad revolutionary blood, and Jean or Pierre goes home the better for his
lancing.