What did I read in the London daily papers, in the early days of this last September? That the Police had ‘AT LENGTH SUCCEEDED IN CAPTURING TWO OF THE NOTORIOUS GANG THAT HAVE SO LONG INVESTED THE WATERLOO ROAD.’ Is it possible? What a wonderful Police! Here is a straight, broad, public thoroughfare of immense resort; half a mile long; gas-lighted by night; with a great gas-lighted railway station in it, extra the street lamps; full of shops; traversed by two popular cross thoroughfares of considerable traffic; itself the main road to the South of London; and the admirable Police have, after long infestment of this dark and lonely spot by a gang of Ruffians, actually got hold of two of them. Why, can it be doubted that any man of fair London knowledge and common resolution, armed with the powers of the Law, could have captured the whole confederacy in a week?
It is to the saving up of the Ruffian class by the Magistracy and Police — to the conventional preserving of them, as if they were Partridges — that their number and audacity9 must be in great part referred. Why is a notorious Thief and Ruffian ever left at large? He never turns his liberty to any account but violence and plunder10, he never did a day’s work out of gaol11, he never will do a day’s work out of gaol. As a proved notorious Thief he is always consignable to prison for three months. When he comes out, he is surely as notorious a Thief as he was when he went in. Then send him back again. ‘Just Heaven!’ cries the Society for the protection of remonstrant Ruffians. ‘This is equivalent to a sentence of perpetual imprisonment12!’ Precisely13 for that reason it has my advocacy. I demand to have the Ruffian kept out of my way, and out of the way of all decent people. I demand to have the Ruffian employed, perforce, in hewing14 wood and drawing water somewhere for the general service, instead of hewing at her Majesty’s subjects and drawing their watches out of their pockets. If this be termed an unreasonable15 demand, then the tax-gatherer’s demand on me must be far more unreasonable, and cannot be otherwise than extortionate and unjust.
It will be seen that I treat of the Thief and Ruffian as one. I do so, because I know the two characters to be one, in the vast majority of cases, just as well as the Police know it. (As to the Magistracy, with a few exceptions, they know nothing about it but what the Police choose to tell them.) There are disorderly classes of men who are not thieves; as railway-navigators, brickmakers, wood-sawyers, costermongers. These classes are often disorderly and troublesome; but it is mostly among themselves, and at any rate they have their industrious17 avocations18, they work early and late, and work hard. The generic19 Ruffian — honourable20 member for what is tenderly called the Rough Element — is either a Thief, or the companion of Thieves. When he infamously21 molests22 women coming out of chapel24 on Sunday evenings (for which I would have his back scarified often and deep) it is not only for the gratification of his pleasant instincts, but that there may be a confusion raised by which either he or his friends may profit, in the commission of highway robberies or in picking pockets. When he gets a police-constable25 down and kicks him helpless for life, it is because that constable once did his duty in bringing him to justice. When he rushes into the bar of a public-house and scoops26 an eye out of one of the company there, or bites his ear off, it is because the man he maims gave evidence against him. When he and a line of comrades extending across the footway — say of that solitary27 mountain-spur of the Abruzzi, the Waterloo Road — advance towards me ‘skylarking’ among themselves, my purse or shirt-pin is in predestined peril28 from his playfulness. Always a Ruffian, always a Thief. Always a Thief, always a Ruffian.
Now, when I, who am not paid to know these things, know them daily on the evidence of my senses and experience; when I know that the Ruffian never jostles a lady in the streets, or knocks a hat off, but in order that the Thief may profit, is it surprising that I should require from those who ARE paid to know these things, prevention of them?
Look at this group at a street corner. Number one is a shirking fellow of five-and-twenty, in an ill-favoured and ill-savoured suit, his trousers of corduroy, his coat of some indiscernible groundwork for the deposition29 of grease, his neckerchief like an eel30, his complexion31 like dirty dough32, his mangy fur cap pulled low upon his beetle33 brows to hide the prison cut of his hair. His hands are in his pockets. He puts them there when they are idle, as naturally as in other people’s pockets when they are busy, for he knows that they are not roughened by work, and that they tell a tale. Hence, whenever he takes one out to draw a sleeve across his nose — which is often, for he has weak eyes and a constitutional cold in his head — he restores it to its pocket immediately afterwards. Number two is a burly brute34 of five-and-thirty, in a tall stiff hat; is a composite as to his clothes of betting-man and fighting-man; is whiskered; has a staring pin in his breast, along with his right hand; has insolent35 and cruel eyes: large shoulders; strong legs booted and tipped for kicking. Number three is forty years of age; is short, thick-set, strong, and bow-legged; wears knee cords and white stockings, a very long-sleeved waistcoat, a very large neckerchief doubled or trebled round his throat, and a crumpled36 white hat crowns his ghastly parchment face. This fellow looks like an executed postboy of other days, cut down from the gallows37 too soon, and restored and preserved by express diabolical38 agency. Numbers five, six, and seven, are hulking, idle, slouching young men, patched and shabby, too short in the sleeves and too tight in the legs, slimily clothed, foul-spoken, repulsive39 wretches40 inside and out. In all the party there obtains a certain twitching41 character of mouth and furtiveness42 of eye, that hint how the coward is lurking43 under the bully44. The hint is quite correct, for they are a slinking sneaking45 set, far more prone46 to lie down on their backs and kick out, when in difficulty, than to make a stand for it. (This may account for the street mud on the backs of Numbers five, six, and seven, being much fresher than the stale splashes on their legs.)
These engaging gentry47 a Police-constable stands contemplating48. His 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 professed49 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 Police-office reports of this last past September, ‘have so long infested’ the awful solitudes50 of the Waterloo Road, and out of which almost impregnable fastnesses the Police have at length dragged Two, to the unspeakable admiration51 of all good civilians52.
The consequences of this contemplative habit on the part of the Executive — a habit to be looked for in a hermit53, but not in a Police System — are familiar to us all. The Ruffian becomes one of the established orders of the body politic54. 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 mustered55 in large numbers, or small; whether he was in good spirits, or depressed56; whether he turned his generous exertions57 to very prosperous account, or Fortune was against him; whether he was in a sanguinary mood, or robbed with amiable58 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 — molest23 quiet people and their property, to an extent that is hardly credible59. 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 riding-whips 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.
Within these twelve months, there arose among the young gentlemen of London aspiring60 to Ruffianism, and cultivating that much-encouraged social art, a facetious61 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 shameful62 manner of attacking her with this cry as she harmlessly passed along before me. MR. CARLYLE, some time since, awakened63 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 abhorrent64 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 prosecutor65. 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 flaunting66 along the streets, returning from an Irish funeral, in a Progress interspersed67 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 custody68, 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 potent69 instrument in my pocket, I literally70 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 Inspector71 (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 suburban72 Magistrate73 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 courteously74 received by him as I should have been by The Lord Chancellor75 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 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 apron76 and straw bonnet77. She reminded me of an elder sister of Red Riding Hood78, 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 enjoyment79 of the jest of her having been got up so effectively, and caused so much hesitation80: ‘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 testimony81 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 lengthened82 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 disorder16, 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 admonished83 from high places (like so many Sunday-school children out for a holiday of buns and milk-and-water) 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 exterminated84 first of all is the Ruffian. It is clear that he is, of all others, THE offender85 for whose repressal we maintain a costly86 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 inefficiently87 and absurdly that he flourishes, and multiplies, and, with all his evil deeds upon his head as notoriously as his hat is, pervades88 the streets with no more let or hindrance89 than ourselves.
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1
euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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besets
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| v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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despoiling
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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15
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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infamously
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| 不名誉地 | |
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molests
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| n.骚扰( molest的名词复数 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵v.骚扰( molest的第三人称单数 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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scoops
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| n.小铲( scoop的名词复数 )；小勺；一勺[铲]之量；（抢先刊载、播出的）独家新闻v.抢先报道( scoop的第三人称单数 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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furtiveness
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| 偷偷摸摸，鬼鬼祟祟 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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51
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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62
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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63
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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84
exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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inefficiently
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| adv.无效率地 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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