Reprinted Pieces

by Dickens, Charles

  great-coat. I showed him where to hang it, so that I might have a

  good view of it; and he went away; and I lay under the sofa on my

  chest, for a couple of hours or so, waiting.

  'At last, the same young man came down. He walked across the room,

  whistling - stopped and listened - took another walk and whistled -

  stopped again, and listened - then began to go regularly round the

  pegs, feeling in the pockets of all the coats. When he came to the

  great-coat, and felt the pocket-book, he was so eager and so

  hurried that he broke the strap in tearing it open. As he began to

  put the money in his pocket, I crawled out from under the sofa, and

  his eyes met mine.

  'My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale at

  that time, my health not being good; and looked as long as a

  horse's. Besides which, there was a great draught of air from the

  door, underneath the sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my

  head; so what I looked like, altogether, I don't know. He turned

  blue - literally blue - when he saw me crawling out, and I couldn't

  feel surprised at it.

  '"I am an officer of the Detective Police," said I, "and have been

  lying here, since you first came in this morning. I regret, for

  the sake of yourself and your friends, that you should have done

  what you have; but this case is complete. You have the pocket-book

  in your hand and the money upon you; and I must take you into

  custody!"

  'It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on his

  trial he pleaded guilty. How or when he got the means I don't

  Page 90

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  know; but while he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself

  in Newgate.'

  We inquired of this officer, on the conclusion of the foregoing

  anecdote, whether the time appeared long, or short, when he lay in

  that constrained position under the sofa?

  'Why, you see, sir,' he replied, 'if he hadn't come in, the first

  time, and I had not been quite sure he was the thief, and would

  return, the time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I being

  dead certain of my man, the time seemed pretty short.'

  ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD

  HOW goes the night? Saint Giles's clock is striking nine. The

  weather is dull and wet, and the long lines of street lamps are

  blurred, as if we saw them through tears. A damp wind blows and

  rakes the pieman's fire out, when he opens the door of his little

  furnace, carrying away an eddy of sparks.

  Saint Giles's clock strikes nine. We are punctual. Where is

  Inspector Field? Assistant Commissioner of Police is already here,

  enwrapped in oil-skin cloak, and standing in the shadow of Saint

  Giles's steeple. Detective Sergeant, weary of speaking French all

  day to foreigners unpacking at the Great Exhibition, is already

  here. Where is Inspector Field?

  Inspector Field is, to-night, the guardian genius of the British

  Museum. He is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on every corner of

  its solitary galleries, before he reports 'all right.' Suspicious

  of the Elgin marbles, and not to be done by cat-faced Egyptian

  giants with their hands upon their knees, Inspector Field,

  sagacious, vigilant, lamp in hand, throwing monstrous shadows on

  the walls and ceilings, passes through the spacious rooms. If a

  mummy trembled in an atom of its dusty covering, Inspector Field

  would say, 'Come out of that, Tom Green. I know you!' If the

  smallest 'Gonoph' about town were crouching at the bottom of a

  classic bath, Inspector Field would nose him with a finer scent

  than the ogre's, when adventurous Jack lay trembling in his kitchen

  copper. But all is quiet, and Inspector Field goes warily on,

  making little outward show of attending to anything in particular,

  just recognising the Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance, and

  wondering, perhaps, how the detectives did it in the days before

  the Flood.

  Will Inspector Field be long about this work? He may be half-anhour

  longer. He sends his compliments by Police Constable, and

  proposes that we meet at St. Giles's Station House, across the

  road. Good. It were as well to stand by the fire, there, as in

  the shadow of Saint Giles's steeple.

  Anything doing here to-night? Not much. We are very quiet. A

  lost boy, extremely calm and small, sitting by the fire, whom we

  now confide to a constable to take home, for the child says that if

  you show him Newgate Street, he can show you where he lives - a

  raving drunken woman in the cells, who has screeched her voice

  away, and has hardly power enough left to declare, even with the

  passionate help of her feet and arms, that she is the daughter of a

  British officer, and, strike her blind and dead, but she'll write a

  letter to the Queen! but who is soothed with a drink of water - in

  Page 91

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  another cell, a quiet woman with a child at her breast, for begging

  - in another, her husband in a smock-frock, with a basket of

  watercresses - in another, a pickpocket - in another, a meek

  tremulous old pauper man who has been out for a holiday 'and has

  took but a little drop, but it has overcome him after so many

  months in the house' - and that's all as yet. Presently, a

  sensation at the Station House door. Mr. Field, gentlemen!

  Inspector Field comes in, wiping his forehead, for he is of a burly

  figure, and has come fast from the ores and metals of the deep

  mines of the earth, and from the Parrot Gods of the South Sea

  Islands, and from the birds and beetles of the tropics, and from

  the Arts of Greece and Rome, and from the Sculptures of Nineveh,

  and from the traces of an elder world, when these were not. Is

  Rogers ready? Rogers is ready, strapped and great-coated, with a

  flaming eye in the middle of his waist, like a deformed Cyclops.

  Lead on, Rogers, to Rats' Castle!

  How many people may there be in London, who, if we had brought them

  deviously and blindfold, to this street, fifty paces from the

  Station House, and within call of Saint Giles's church, would know

  it for a not remote part of the city in which their lives are

  passed? How many, who amidst this compound of sickening smells,

  these heaps of filth, these tumbling houses, with all their vile

  contents, animate, and inanimate, slimily overflowing into the

  black road, would believe that they breathe THIS air? How much Red

  Tape may there be, that could look round on the faces which now hem

  us in - for our appearance here has caused a rush from all points

  to a common centre - the lowering foreheads, the sallow cheeks, the

  brutal eyes, the matted hair, the infected, vermin-haunted heaps of

  rags - and say, 'I have thought of this. I have not dismissed the

  thing. I have neither blustered it away, nor frozen it away, nor

  tied it up and put it away, nor smoothly said pooh, pooh! to it

  when it has been shown to me?'

  This is not what Rogers wants to know, however. What Rogers wants

  to kn
ow, is, whether you WILL clear the way here, some of you, or

  whether you won't; because if you don't do it right on end, he'll

  lock you up! 'What! YOU are there, are you, Bob Miles? You

  haven't had enough of it yet, haven't you? You want three months

  more, do you? Come away from that gentleman! What are you

  creeping round there for?'

  'What am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers?' says Bob Miles, appearing,

  villainous, at the end of a lane of light, made by the lantern.

  'I'll let you know pretty quick, if you don't hook it. WILL you

  hook it?'

  A sycophantic murmur rises from the crowd. 'Hook it, Bob, when Mr.

  Rogers and Mr. Field tells you! Why don't you hook it, when you

  are told to?'

  The most importunate of the voices strikes familiarly on Mr.

  Rogers's ear. He suddenly turns his lantern on the owner.

  'What! YOU are there, are you, Mister Click? You hook it too -

  come!'

  'What for?' says Mr. Click, discomfited.

  'You hook it, will you!' says Mr. Rogers with stern emphasis.

  Both Click and Miles DO 'hook it,' without another word, or, in

  Page 92

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  plainer English, sneak away.

  'Close up there, my men!' says Inspector Field to two constables on

  duty who have followed. 'Keep together, gentlemen; we are going

  down here. Heads!'

  Saint Giles's church strikes half-past ten. We stoop low, and

  creep down a precipitous flight of steps into a dark close cellar.

  There is a fire. There is a long deal table. There are benches.

  The cellar is full of company, chiefly very young men in various

  conditions of dirt and raggedness. Some are eating supper. There

  are no girls or women present. Welcome to Rats' Castle, gentlemen,

  and to this company of noted thieves!

  'Well, my lads! How are you, my lads? What have you been doing

  to-day? Here's some company come to see you, my lads! - THERE'S a

  plate of beefsteak, sir, for the supper of a fine young man! And

  there's a mouth for a steak, sir! Why, I should be too proud of

  such a mouth as that, if I had it myself! Stand up and show it,

  sir! Take off your cap. There's a fine young man for a nice

  little party, sir! An't he?'

  Inspector Field is the bustling speaker. Inspector Field's eye is

  the roving eye that searches every corner of the cellar as he

  talks. Inspector Field's hand is the well-known hand that has

  collared half the people here, and motioned their brothers,

  sisters, fathers, mothers, male and female friends, inexorably to

  New South Wales. Yet Inspector Field stands in this den, the

  Sultan of the place. Every thief here cowers before him, like a

  schoolboy before his schoolmaster. All watch him, all answer when

  addressed, all laugh at his jokes, all seek to propitiate him.

  This cellar company alone - to say nothing of the crowd surrounding

  the entrance from the street above, and making the steps shine with

  eyes - is strong enough to murder us all, and willing enough to do

  it; but, let Inspector Field have a mind to pick out one thief

  here, and take him; let him produce that ghostly truncheon from his

  pocket, and say, with his business-air, 'My lad, I want you!' and

  all Rats' Castle shall be stricken with paralysis, and not a finger

  move against him, as he fits the handcuffs on!

  Where's the Earl of Warwick? - Here he is, Mr. Field! Here's the

  Earl of Warwick, Mr. Field! - O there you are, my Lord. Come

  for'ard. There's a chest, sir, not to have a clean shirt on. An't

  it? Take your hat off, my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed if I was

  you - and an Earl, too - to show myself to a gentleman with my hat

  on! - The Earl of Warwick laughs and uncovers. All the company

  laugh. One pickpocket, especially, laughs with great enthusiasm.

  O what a jolly game it is, when Mr. Field comes down - and don't

  want nobody!

  So, YOU are here, too, are you, you tall, grey, soldierly-looking,

  grave man, standing by the fire? - Yes, sir. Good evening, Mr.

  Field! - Let us see. You lived servant to a nobleman once? - Yes,

  Mr. Field. - And what is it you do now; I forget? - Well, Mr.

  Field, I job about as well as I can. I left my employment on

  account of delicate health. The family is still kind to me. Mr.

  Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind to me when I am hard up.

  Likewise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a trifle from them

  occasionally, and rub on as well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr. Field's

  eye rolls enjoyingly, for this man is a notorious begging-letter

  writer. - Good night, my lads! - Good night, Mr. Field, and

  thank'ee, sir!

  Clear the street here, half a thousand of you! Cut it, Mrs.

  Page 93

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  Stalker - none of that - we don't want you! Rogers of the flaming

  eye, lead on to the tramps' lodging-house!

  A dream of baleful faces attends to the door. Now, stand back all

  of you! In the rear Detective Sergeant plants himself, composedly

  whistling, with his strong right arm across the narrow passage.

  Mrs. Stalker, I am something'd that need not be written here, if

  you won't get yourself into trouble, in about half a minute, if I

  see that face of yours again!

  Saint Giles's church clock, striking eleven, hums through our hand

  from the dilapidated door of a dark outhouse as we open it, and are

  stricken back by the pestilent breath that issues from within.

  Rogers to the front with the light, and let us look!

  Ten, twenty, thirty - who can count them! Men, women, children,

  for the most part naked, heaped upon the floor like maggots in a

  cheese! Ho! In that dark corner yonder! Does anybody lie there?

  Me sir, Irish me, a widder, with six children. And yonder? Me

  sir, Irish me, with me wife and eight poor babes. And to the left

  there? Me sir, Irish me, along with two more Irish boys as is me

  friends. And to the right there? Me sir and the Murphy fam'ly,

  numbering five blessed souls. And what's this, coiling, now, about

  my foot? Another Irish me, pitifully in want of shaving, whom I

  have awakened from sleep - and across my other foot lies his wife -

  and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their three eldest - and

  their three youngest are at present squeezed between the open door

  and the wall. And why is there no one on that little mat before

  the sullen fire? Because O'Donovan, with his wife and daughter, is

  not come in from selling Lucifers! Nor on the bit of sacking in

  the nearest corner? Bad luck! Because that Irish family is late

  to-night, a-cadging in the streets!

  They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of them sit

  up, to stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming eye, there

  is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded, from a grave of rags. Who

  is the landlord here? - I am, Mr. Field! says a bundle of ribs and

  parchment against the wall, scratching itself. - Will you spend

  this money fairly, in the morning, to buy coffee for 'em all? -

  Yes, sir, I will! - O he'll do it, sir, he'll do it fair. He's

>   honest! cry the spectres. And with thanks and Good Night sink into

  their graves again.

  Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets, and our other new streets,

  never heeding, never asking, where the wretches whom we clear out,

  crowd. With such scenes at our doors, with all the plagues of

  Egypt tied up with bits of cobweb in kennels so near our homes, we

  timorously make our Nuisance Bills and Boards of Health,

  nonentities, and think to keep away the Wolves of Crime and Filth,

  by our electioneering ducking to little vestrymen and our

  gentlemanly handling of Red Tape!

  Intelligence of the coffee-money has got abroad. The yard is full,

  and Rogers of the flaming eye is beleaguered with entreaties to

  show other Lodging Houses. Mine next! Mine! Mine! Rogers,

  military, obdurate, stiff-necked, immovable, replies not, but leads

  away; all falling back before him. Inspector Field follows.

  Detective Sergeant, with his barrier of arm across the little

  passage, deliberately waits to close the procession. He sees

  behind him, without any effort, and exceedingly disturbs one

  individual far in the rear by coolly calling out, 'It won't do, Mr.

  Michael! Don't try it!'

  After council holden in the street, we enter other lodging-houses,

  Page 94

  Dickens, Charles - Reprinted Pieces

  public-houses, many lairs and holes; all noisome and offensive;

  none so filthy and so crowded as where Irish are. In one, The

  Ethiopian party are expected home presently - were in Oxford Street

  when last heard of - shall be fetched, for our delight, within ten

  minutes. In another, one of the two or three Professors who drew

  Napoleon Buonaparte and a couple of mackerel, on the pavement and

  then let the work of art out to a speculator, is refreshing after

  his labours. In another, the vested interest of the profitable

  nuisance has been in one family for a hundred years, and the

  landlord drives in comfortably from the country to his snug little

  stew in town. In all, Inspector Field is received with warmth.

  Coiners and smashers droop before him; pickpockets defer to him;

  the gentle sex (not very gentle here) smile upon him. Half-drunken

  hags check themselves in the midst of pots of beer, or pints of

  gin, to drink to Mr. Field, and pressingly to ask the honour of his

  finishing the draught. One beldame in rusty black has such

  admiration for him, that she runs a whole street's length to shake