第 十一 章 · TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT

. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT

SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the

immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office.

The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two

or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led

beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of

summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which

they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of

whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.

“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the

keys.

“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this

boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the

case.”

“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship

will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he

unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was

searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not

so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and

it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up,

elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our

station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most

trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with

which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried,

found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who

doubts this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated

in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the

innocent cause of all this disturbance.

“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to

himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of

the book, in a thoughtful manner; “something that touches and interests

me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like— Bye the bye,” exclaimed the

old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky,

“Bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”

After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same

meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there,

retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast

amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many

years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be

imagination.”

He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was

not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There

were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost

strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of

young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that

the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to

its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling

back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming

of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond

the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be

set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to

Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s

features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he

awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman,

buried them again in the pages of the musty book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man

with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book

hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the

renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat

behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was a

sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited;

trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with

no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and

sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were

really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good

for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for

libel, and have recovered heavy damages.

The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate’s

desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my name and

address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite

and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading

article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent

decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth

time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State

for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an

angry scowl.

“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the

newspaper. “Who is this fellow?”

“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman,

“my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the

magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a

respectable person, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this,

Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person

who would afford him the required information.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this

fellow charged with?”

“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He

appears against this boy, your worship.”

His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and

a safe one.

“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr.

Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”

“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow;

“and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could

have believed—”

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.

“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the

office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How

dare you bully a magistrate!”

“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another

word. Swear him.”

Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps,

that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed

his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.

“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you

got to say, sir?”

“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s the

policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”

The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the

charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person;

and how that was all he knew about it.

“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the

prosecutor, said in a towering passion.

“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or

do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to

give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will,

by—”

By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed

very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy

book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being

heard—accidently, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived

to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he

had run after the boy because he had seen him running away; and

expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him,

although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he

would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And

I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, “I

really fear that he is ill.”

“Oh! yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none of your

tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”

Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale;

and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang.

“Officer, what’s his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who

was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry;

but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and

knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the

more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.

“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-hearted

thief-taker.

“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well.

Where does he live?”

“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer; again pretending to

receive Oliver’s answer.

“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer:

hazarding the usual reply.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking

round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of

water.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a fool of me.”

“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.

“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.

“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands

instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”

“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in

a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one

dared to stir.

“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable

proof of the fact. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.”

“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in

a low voice.

“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three

months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.”

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were

preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man

of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed

hastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench.

“Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!”

cried the new comer, breathless with haste.

Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a

summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the

character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of

the poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic

tricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are

closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr.

Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest

enter in such irreverent disorder.

“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!” cried

Mr. Fang.

“I _will_ speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out. I saw it

all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put

down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.”

The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was

growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. “Now, man,

what have you got to say?”

“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner

here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman

was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done;

and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.”

Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall

keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact

circumstances of the robbery.

“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.

“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man. “Everybody who

could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody

till five minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.”

“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another

pause.

“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”

“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”

“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.

“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman,

innocently.

“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with

a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have

obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and

disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate

that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a

lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is

discharged. Clear the office!”

“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had

kept down so long, “d—n me! I’ll—”

“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear

the office!”

The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed

out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a

perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his

passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on

the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with

water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole

frame.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a

coach, somebody, pray. Directly!”

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the

seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you.

Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow!

There’s no time to lose.”

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.