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[page 219:]
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THE MAN OF THE CROWD.
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Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir
être seul.
La Bruyère.
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IT was well
said of a
certain
German book that "er lasst sich nicht lesen" — it does not
permit
itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit
themselves
to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of
ghostly
confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes — die with despair
of
heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of
mysteries
which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then,
alas,
the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can
be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime
is
undivulged.
Not long ago, about the closing in of
an evening
in autumn, I sat at the large bow window of the D—— Coffee-House in
London.
For some months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent,
and,
with returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which
are so precisely the converse of ennui — moods of the keenest
appetency,
when the film from the mental vision departs — the xxxxx xx xxxx
xxxx [Greek text] — and the intellect, electrified, surpasses as
greatly
its every-day condition, as does the vivid yet candid reason of
Leibnitz,
the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was
enjoyment;
and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate
sources
of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a
cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself
for the greater part of the afternoon, now in [page 220:]
poring over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in
the room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street.
This latter is one of the principal
thoroughfares
of the city, and had been very much crowded during the whole day. But,
as the darkness came on, the throng momently increased; and, by the
time
the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides of
population
were rushing past the door. At this particular period of the evening I
had never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of
human heads filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion.
I gave up, at length, all care of things within the hotel, and became
absorbed
in contemplation of the scene without.
At first my observations took an
abstract and
generalizing
turn. I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in
their
aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and
regarded
with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air,
gait,
visage, and expression of countenance.
By far the greater number of those
who went by
had
a satisfied business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of
making
their way through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes
rolled
quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no
symptom
of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still
a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces,
and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on
account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded in
their
progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their
gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile upon the
lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled, they bowed
profusely
to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with confusion. — There was
nothing
very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I have
noted.
Their habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed the
decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys,
tradesmen,
stock-jobbers — the Eupatrids and the common-places of society — men of
leisure and men actively engaged [page 221:] in
affairs
of their own — conducting business upon their own responsibility. They
did not greatly excite my attention.
The tribe of clerks was an obvious
one and here I
discerned two remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of
flash
houses — young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled
hair,
and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage,
which may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the
manner
of these persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been the
perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before.
They
wore the cast-off graces of the gentry; — and this, I believe, involves
the best definition of the class.
The division of the upper clerks of
staunch
firms,
or of the "steady old fellows," it was not possible to mistake. These
were
known by their coats and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit
comfortably,
with white cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick
hose or gaiters. — They had all slightly bald heads, from which the
right
ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on
end.
I observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both
hands,
and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient
pattern.
Theirs was the affectation of respectability; — if indeed there be an
affectation
so honorable.
There were many individuals of
dashing
appearance,
whom I easily understood as belonging to the race of swell
pick-pockets,
with which all great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with
much
inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever
be mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness
of wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at
once.
The gamblers, of whom I descried not
a few, were
still more easily recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from
that of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy
neckerchief,
gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously
inornate
clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still
all were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a
filmy dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip. There were two
other
traits, [page 222:] moreover, by which I could
always
detect them; — a guarded lowness of tone in conversation, and a more
than
ordinary extension of the thumb in a direction at right angles with the
fingers. — Very often, in company with these sharpers, I observed an
order
of men somewhat different in habits, but still birds of a kindred
feather.
They may be defined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They seem
to prey upon the public in two battalions — that of the dandies and
that
of the military men. Of the first grade the leading features are long
locks
and smiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns.
Descending in the scale of what is
termed
gentility,
I found darker and deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars,
with
hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose every other feature wore
only
an expression of abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars
scowling
upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth
into the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom
death
had placed a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob,
looking
every one beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance
consolation,
some lost hope; modest young girls returning from long and late labor
to
a cheerless home, and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from
the
glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided;
women of the town of all kinds and of all ages — the unequivocal beauty
in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in
Lucian,
with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth —
the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags — the wrinkled, bejewelled
and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at youth — the mere
child
of immature form, yet, from long association, an adept in the dreadful
coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked
the equal of her elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and
indescribable
— some in shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised
visage
and lack-lustre eyes — some in whole although filthy garments, with a
slightly
unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces
— others clothed in materials which had once been good, and which even
now were scrupulously well brushed — men who walked with a more than
naturally [page
223:] firm and springy step, but whose countenances were
fearfully
pale, whose eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with
quivering
fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which came
within
their reach; beside these, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers, sweeps;
organ-grinders,
monkey-exhibiters and ballad mongers, those who vended with those who
sang;
ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and all
full
of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly upon the
ear,
and gave an aching sensation to the eye.
As the night deepened, so deepened to
me the
interest
of the scene; for not only did the general character of the crowd
materially
alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the
more
orderly portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into
bolder
relief, as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its
den,) but the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle
with the dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over
every thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid — as
that ebony to which has been likened the style of Tertullian.
The wild effects of the light
enchained me to an
examination of individual faces; and although the rapidity with which
the
world of light flitted before the window, prevented me from casting
more
than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then
peculiar
mental state, I could frequently read, even in that brief interval of a
glance, the history of long years.
With my brow to the glass, I was thus
occupied in
scrutinizing the mob, when suddenly there came into view a countenance
(that of a decrepid old man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)
— a countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention,
on account of the absolute idiosyncracy of its expression. Any thing
even
remotely resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well
remember
that my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he
viewed
it, would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of
the fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original
survey,
to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly
and
paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of
caution,
of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, [page 224:]
of malice, of blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive
terror, of intense — of supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused,
startled,
fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself, "is written within
that bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view — to
know
more of him. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and
cane,
I made my way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in the
direction
which I had seen him take; for he had already disappeared. With some
little
difficulty I at length came within sight of him, approached, and
followed
him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to attract his attention.
I had now a good opportunity of
examining his
person.
He was short in stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His
clothes,
generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within
the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty,
was of beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent
in a closely-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire
which
enveloped him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger.
These
observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the
stranger
whithersoever he should go.
It was now fully night-fall, and a
thick humid
fog
hung over the city, soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This
change
of weather had an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at
once put into new commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas.
The waver, the jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For
my
own part I did not much regard the rain — the lurking of an old fever
in
my system rendering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant.
Tying
a handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man
held his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here
walked
close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never once
turning
his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and bye he passed into
a cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not
quite
so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his
demeanor
became evident. He walked more slowly and with less object than before
— more hesitatingly. He crossed [page 225:] and
re-crossed
the way repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so
thick
that, at every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely. The
street was a narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for
nearly
an hour, during which the passengers had gradually diminished to about
that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the Park
— so vast a difference is there between a London populace and that of
the
most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a square,
brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the
stranger
re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled
wildly
from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those who hemmed
him
in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I was surprised,
however,
to find, upon his having made the circuit of the square, that he turned
and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to see him repeat
the
same walk several times — once nearly detecting me as he came round
with
a sudden movement.
In this exercise he spent another
hour, at the
end
of which we met with far less interruption from passengers than at
first.
The rain fell fast; the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to
their homes. With a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a
bye-street
comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he
rushed
with an activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and
which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a
large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger
appeared
well acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent,
as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers
and sellers.
During the hour and a half, or
thereabouts, which
we passed in this place, it required much caution on my part to keep
him
within reach without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair
of caoutchouc over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At
no
moment did he see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop,
priced
nothing, spoke no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and
vacant
stare. I was now utterly amazed at his behaviour, and firmly resolved
that
we should not part until I had satisfied myself in some measure
respecting
him. [page 226:]
A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and
the company
were fast deserting the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter,
jostled the old man, and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come
over
his frame. He hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for
an instant, and then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked
and people-less lanes, until we emerged once more upon the great
thoroughfare
whence we had started — the street of the D—— Hotel. It no longer wore,
however, the same aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain
fell fiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew
pale. He walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then,
with
a heavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging
through
a great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of
the principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience
were
thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while
he threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony
of
his countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon
his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that he
now took the course in which had gone the greater number of the
audience
— but, upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of
his actions.
As he proceeded, the company grew
more scattered,
and his old uneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he
followed
closely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number
one by one dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow
and gloomy lane little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a
moment,
seemed lost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued
rapidly
a route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very
different
from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter
of
London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable
poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an
accidental
lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen tottering
to
their fall, in directions so many and capricious that scarce the
semblance
of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones lay at
random, [page
227:] displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass.
Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere
teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life
revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the most
abandoned
of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro. The spirits of the
old
man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death-hour. Once
more
he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a
blaze
of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge
suburban
temples of Intemperance — one of the palaces of the fiend, Gin.
It was now nearly day-break; but a
number of
wretched
inebriates still pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a
half
shriek of joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his
original bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent
object,
among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a
rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the
night.
It was something even more intense than despair that I then observed
upon
the countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so
pertinaciously.
Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced
his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly
he fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to
abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The
sun
arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most
thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D—— Hotel, it
presented
an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I
had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid the momently
increasing
confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual,
he walked to and fro, and during the day did not pass from out the
turmoil
of that street. And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I
grew
wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed
at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his
solemn
walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation.
"This
old man," I said at length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime.
He refuses to be alone. [page 228:] He is the
man
of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no
more
of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser
book
than the 'Hortulus Animæ,'* and perhaps it
is but one of the
great
mercies of God that 'er lasst sich nicht lesen.' "
THE END.
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