The Uncommercial Traveller

by Dickens, Charles

  Station, with a Reserve of assistance, is very near at hand. They

  cannot pretend to any trade, not even to be porters or messengers.

  It would be idle if they did, for he knows them, and they know that

  he knows them, to be nothing but professed Thieves and Ruffians.

  He knows where they resort, knows by what slang names they call one

  another, knows how often they have been in prison, and how long,

  and for what. All this is known at his Station, too, and is (or

  ought to be) known at Scotland Yard, too. But does he know, or

  does his Station know, or does Scotland Yard know, or does anybody

  know, why these fellows should be here at liberty, when, as reputed

  Thieves to whom a whole Division of Police could swear, they might

  all be under lock and key at hard labour? Not he; truly he would

  be a wise man if he did! He only knows that these are members of

  the 'notorious gang,' which, according to the newspaper Policeoffice

  reports of this last past September, 'have so long infested'

  the awful solitudes of the Waterloo Road, and out of which almost

  impregnable fastnesses the Police have at length dragged Two, to

  the unspeakable admiration of all good civilians.

  The consequences of this contemplative habit on the part of the

  Executive - a habit to be looked for in a hermit, but not in a

  Police System - are familiar to us all. The Ruffian becomes one of

  the established orders of the body politic. Under the playful name

  of Rough (as if he were merely a practical joker) his movements and

  successes are recorded on public occasions. Whether he mustered in

  large numbers, or small; whether he was in good spirits, or

  depressed; whether he turned his generous exertions to very

  prosperous account, or Fortune was against him; whether he was in a

  sanguinary mood, or robbed with amiable horse-play and a gracious

  consideration for life and limb; all this is chronicled as if he

  were an Institution. Is there any city in Europe, out of England,

  in which these terms are held with the pests of Society? Or in

  which, at this day, such violent robberies from the person are

  constantly committed as in London?

  The Preparatory Schools of Ruffianism are similarly borne with.

  The young Ruffians of London - not Thieves yet, but training for

  scholarships and fellowships in the Criminal Court Universities -

  molest quiet people and their property, to an extent that is hardly

  credible. The throwing of stones in the streets has become a

  dangerous and destructive offence, which surely could have got to

  no greater height though we had had no Police but our own ridingwhips

  and walking-sticks - the Police to which I myself appeal on

  these occasions. The throwing of stones at the windows of railway

  carriages in motion - an act of wanton wickedness with the very

  Arch-Fiend's hand in it - had become a crying evil, when the

  railway companies forced it on Police notice. Constabular

  contemplation had until then been the order of the day.

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  Within these twelve months, there arose among the young gentlemen

  of London aspiring to Ruffianism, and cultivating that muchencouraged

  social art, a facetious cry of 'I'll have this!'

  accompanied with a clutch at some article of a passing lady's

  dress. I have known a lady's veil to be thus humorously torn from

  her face and carried off in the open streets at noon; and I have

  had the honour of myself giving chase, on Westminster Bridge, to

  another young Ruffian, who, in full daylight early on a summer

  evening, had nearly thrown a modest young woman into a swoon of

  indignation and confusion, by his shameful manner of attacking her

  with this cry as she harmlessly passed along before me. MR.

  CARLYLE, some time since, awakened a little pleasantry by writing

  of his own experience of the Ruffian of the streets. I have seen

  the Ruffian act in exact accordance with Mr. Carlyle's description,

  innumerable times, and I never saw him checked.

  The blaring use of the very worst language possible, in our public

  thoroughfares - especially in those set apart for recreation - is

  another disgrace to us, and another result of constabular

  contemplation, the like of which I have never heard in any other

  country to which my uncommercial travels have extended. Years ago,

  when I had a near interest in certain children who were sent with

  their nurses, for air and exercise, into the Regent's Park, I found

  this evil to be so abhorrent and horrible there, that I called

  public attention to it, and also to its contemplative reception by

  the Police. Looking afterwards into the newest Police Act, and

  finding that the offence was punishable under it, I resolved, when

  striking occasion should arise, to try my hand as prosecutor. The

  occasion arose soon enough, and I ran the following gauntlet.

  The utterer of the base coin in question was a girl of seventeen or

  eighteen, who, with a suitable attendance of blackguards, youths,

  and boys, was flaunting along the streets, returning from an Irish

  funeral, in a Progress interspersed with singing and dancing. She

  had turned round to me and expressed herself in the most audible

  manner, to the great delight of that select circle. I attended the

  party, on the opposite side of the way, for a mile further, and

  then encountered a Police-constable. The party had made themselves

  merry at my expense until now, but seeing me speak to the

  constable, its male members instantly took to their heels, leaving

  the girl alone. I asked the constable did he know my name? Yes,

  he did. 'Take that girl into custody, on my charge, for using bad

  language in the streets.' He had never heard of such a charge. I

  had. Would he take my word that he should get into no trouble?

  Yes, sir, he would do that. So he took the girl, and I went home

  for my Police Act.

  With this potent instrument in my pocket, I literally as well as

  figuratively 'returned to the charge,' and presented myself at the

  Police Station of the district. There, I found on duty a very

  intelligent Inspector (they are all intelligent men), who,

  likewise, had never heard of such a charge. I showed him my

  clause, and we went over it together twice or thrice. It was

  plain, and I engaged to wait upon the suburban Magistrate to-morrow

  morning at ten o'clock.

  In the morning I put my Police Act in my pocket again, and waited

  on the suburban Magistrate. I was not quite so courteously

  received by him as I should have been by The Lord Chancellor or The

  Lord Chief Justice, but that was a question of good breeding on the

  suburban Magistrate's part, and I had my clause ready with its leaf

  turned down. Which was enough for ME.

  Conference took place between the Magistrate and clerk respecting

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  the charge. During conference I was evidently regarded as a much

  more objectionable person than the prisoner; - one giving trouble

  by coming
there voluntarily, which the prisoner could not be

  accused of doing. The prisoner had been got up, since I last had

  the pleasure of seeing her, with a great effect of white apron and

  straw bonnet. She reminded me of an elder sister of Red Riding

  Hood, and I seemed to remind the sympathising Chimney Sweep by whom

  she was attended, of the Wolf.

  The Magistrate was doubtful, Mr. Uncommercial Traveller, whether

  this charge could be entertained. It was not known. Mr.

  Uncommercial Traveller replied that he wished it were better known,

  and that, if he could afford the leisure, he would use his

  endeavours to make it so. There was no question about it, however,

  he contended. Here was the clause.

  The clause was handed in, and more conference resulted. After

  which I was asked the extraordinary question: 'Mr. Uncommercial,

  do you really wish this girl to be sent to prison?' To which I

  grimly answered, staring: 'If I didn't, why should I take the

  trouble to come here?' Finally, I was sworn, and gave my agreeable

  evidence in detail, and White Riding Hood was fined ten shillings,

  under the clause, or sent to prison for so many days. 'Why, Lord

  bless you, sir,' said the Police-officer, who showed me out, with a

  great enjoyment of the jest of her having been got up so

  effectively, and caused so much hesitation: 'if she goes to

  prison, that will be nothing new to HER. She comes from Charles

  Street, Drury Lane!'

  The Police, all things considered, are an excellent force, and I

  have borne my small testimony to their merits. Constabular

  contemplation is the result of a bad system; a system which is

  administered, not invented, by the man in constable's uniform,

  employed at twenty shillings a week. He has his orders, and would

  be marked for discouragement if he overstepped them. That the

  system is bad, there needs no lengthened argument to prove, because

  the fact is self-evident. If it were anything else, the results

  that have attended it could not possibly have come to pass. Who

  will say that under a good system, our streets could have got into

  their present state?

  The objection to the whole Police system, as concerning the

  Ruffian, may be stated, and its failure exemplified, as follows.

  It is well known that on all great occasions, when they come

  together in numbers, the mass of the English people are their own

  trustworthy Police. It is well known that wheresoever there is

  collected together any fair general representation of the people, a

  respect for law and order, and a determination to discountenance

  lawlessness and disorder, may be relied upon. As to one another,

  the people are a very good Police, and yet are quite willing in

  their good-nature that the stipendiary Police should have the

  credit of the people's moderation. But we are all of us powerless

  against the Ruffian, because we submit to the law, and it is his

  only trade, by superior force and by violence, to defy it.

  Moreover, we are constantly admonished from high places (like so

  many Sunday-school children out for a holiday of buns and milk-andwater)

  that we are not to take the law into our own hands, but are

  to hand our defence over to it. It is clear that the common enemy

  to be punished and exterminated first of all is the Ruffian. It is

  clear that he is, of all others, THE offender for whose repressal

  we maintain a costly system of Police. Him, therefore, we

  expressly present to the Police to deal with, conscious that, on

  the whole, we can, and do, deal reasonably well with one another.

  Him the Police deal with so inefficiently and absurdly that he

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  flourishes, and multiplies, and, with all his evil deeds upon his

  head as notoriously as his hat is, pervades the streets with no

  more let or hindrance than ourselves.

  CHAPTER XXXI - ABOARD SHIP

  My journeys as Uncommercial Traveller for the firm of Human-

  Interest Brothers have not slackened since I last reported of them,

  but have kept me continually on the move. I remain in the same

  idle employment. I never solicit an order, I never get any

  commission, I am the rolling stone that gathers no moss, - unless

  any should by chance be found among these samples.

  Some half a year ago, I found myself in my idlest, dreamiest, and

  least accountable condition altogether, on board ship, in the

  harbour of the city of New York, in the United States of America.

  Of all the good ships afloat, mine was the good steamship 'RUSSIA,'

  CAPT. COOK, Cunard Line, bound for Liverpool. What more could I

  wish for?

  I had nothing to wish for but a prosperous passage. My salad-days,

  when I was green of visage and sea-sick, being gone with better

  things (and no worse), no coming event cast its shadow before.

  I might but a few moments previously have imitated Sterne, and

  said, '"And yet, methinks, Eugenius," - laying my forefinger

  wistfully on his coat-sleeve, thus, - "and yet, methinks, Eugenius,

  'tis but sorry work to part with thee, for what fresh fields, . . .

  my dear Eugenius, . . . can be fresher than thou art, and in what

  pastures new shall I find Eliza, or call her, Eugenius, if thou

  wilt, Annie?"' - I say I might have done this; but Eugenius was

  gone, and I hadn't done it.

  I was resting on a skylight on the hurricane-deck, watching the

  working of the ship very slowly about, that she might head for

  England. It was high noon on a most brilliant day in April, and

  the beautiful bay was glorious and glowing. Full many a time, on

  shore there, had I seen the snow come down, down, down (itself like

  down), until it lay deep in all the ways of men, and particularly,

  as it seemed, in my way, for I had not gone dry-shod many hours for

  months. Within two or three days last past had I watched the

  feathery fall setting in with the ardour of a new idea, instead of

  dragging at the skirts of a worn-out winter, and permitting

  glimpses of a fresh young spring. But a bright sun and a clear sky

  had melted the snow in the great crucible of nature; and it had

  been poured out again that morning over sea and land, transformed

  into myriads of gold and silver sparkles.

  The ship was fragrant with flowers. Something of the old Mexican

  passion for flowers may have gradually passed into North America,

  where flowers are luxuriously grown, and tastefully combined in the

  richest profusion; but, be that as it may, such gorgeous farewells

  in flowers had come on board, that the small officer's cabin on

  deck, which I tenanted, bloomed over into the adjacent scuppers,

  and banks of other flowers that it couldn't hold made a garden of

  the unoccupied tables in the passengers' saloon. These delicious

  scents of the shore, mingling with the fresh airs of the sea, made

  the atmosphere a dreamy, an enchanting one. And so, with the watch

  aloft setting all the sails, and with the screw below revolving at

  a mighty rate, and occasionally giving the ship an angry shake for


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  resisting, I fell into my idlest ways, and lost myself.

  As, for instance, whether it was I lying there, or some other

  entity even more mysterious, was a matter I was far too lazy to

  look into. What did it signify to me if it were I? or to the more

  mysterious entity, if it were he? Equally as to the remembrances

  that drowsily floated by me, or by him, why ask when or where the

  things happened? Was it not enough that they befell at some time,

  somewhere?

  There was that assisting at the church service on board another

  steamship, one Sunday, in a stiff breeze. Perhaps on the passage

  out. No matter. Pleasant to hear the ship's bells go as like

  church-bells as they could; pleasant to see the watch off duty

  mustered and come in: best hats, best Guernseys, washed hands and

  faces, smoothed heads. But then arose a set of circumstances so

  rampantly comical, that no check which the gravest intentions could

  put upon them would hold them in hand. Thus the scene. Some

  seventy passengers assembled at the saloon tables. Prayer-books on

  tables. Ship rolling heavily. Pause. No minister. Rumour has

  related that a modest young clergyman on board has responded to the

  captain's request that he will officiate. Pause again, and very

  heavy rolling.

  Closed double doors suddenly burst open, and two strong stewards

  skate in, supporting minister between them. General appearance as

  of somebody picked up drunk and incapable, and under conveyance to

  station-house. Stoppage, pause, and particularly heavy rolling.

  Stewards watch their opportunity, and balance themselves, but

  cannot balance minister; who, struggling with a drooping head and a

  backward tendency, seems determined to return below, while they are

  as determined that he shall be got to the reading-desk in midsaloon.

  Desk portable, sliding away down a long table, and aiming

  itself at the breasts of various members of the congregation. Here

  the double doors, which have been carefully closed by other

  stewards, fly open again, and worldly passenger tumbles in,

  seemingly with pale-ale designs: who, seeking friend, says 'Joe!'

  Perceiving incongruity, says, 'Hullo! Beg yer pardon!' and tumbles

  out again. All this time the congregation have been breaking up

  into sects, - as the manner of congregations often is, each sect