On still, till there was a cellar vista front and rear, and a sensation upon one of having been in a railway accident, and escaped into the tunnel, while with a shiver one listened for the noise of the approaching trains, and paused to see whether of the lines, up or down, ’twas on. And now an oasis in the great desert. “Refreshments!” a real refreshment room in the long cellar. The first refreshment was for the eye, and that organ rested upon funereal yew decorating the vault-like aisle, while paper roses starred its gloomy green. And the refreshments for the internal economy? There were cards with names of wines upon them, and a melancholy person, most un-Ganymedean of aspect; but who could eat or drink in so depressing a spot, without forced in such a nether region to partake of a diabolical dish presented hot by a tailed imp, and consisting of brimstone, sans treacle?
Again onward, and more refreshments: a coffee room where coffee was not, and the place savouring of mushroom spawn. And again onward, to be startled by an apparition, back from his arch, a very gnome, busy at some fiery task—of what? Glassblowing, and spinning strange silky skeins from his glowing light.
More stalls, more Tunbridge and alabaster fossils, more echoes, more commands not to smoke, more gas light, and more desolate-looking people. Had I an enemy I would delude him into speculating in a stall below there; and then laugh in triumph at the wreck he would soon become, for this must be the home of melancholy mania. And now I stood at last in the southern approach, almost a fac-simile of its Wapping brother: the same smell, the same staircases, the same pictures, but no chalet. So back I turned to make my escape at the other end, which I reached in safety, passed the giant in his cave, a monster who lives upon the bronze extracted from unwary passers-by; and then reaching the top of the many stairs I stood once more gazing at the mouldy pictures, and the foul, fungus-furred wall. Fancy the pictures of the four seasons facing you in an atmosphere which resembled the whole four boiled down, and then served up skimmed, while the pot has boiled over furiously, so as to mingle hydrogen in excess with the smell.
Then with the shout of the chalet giant lingering in my ears, and a sensation as though I were an English Tam O’ Shanter on foot, with the ghosts of all the poor wretches drowned while making the ghastly bore in full pursuit, I passed through the moving doors which said “way out;” composed myself; and walked calmly through the egress turnstile, though the pluffy man looked at me as if he thought I had burglarious intentions, and ought to be searched for fossil pincushions; and then I stood once more in the full light of day.
Of course if ever I travel by East London Line in days to come, I must resign myself to fate, and allow my person to be whistled and shrieked through; but saving such an occasion as that, in the words of Jerry Cruncher, I say—“Never no more—never no more,” will I venture through the melancholy cellar; while in my own I say, that I’ll wager that no man dare walk through at the stilly midnight hour, with the gas extinguished, and none to hear him while he hurries his echoing steps—at least I’m sure that I would not.
Chapter Thirty Two.
A Common Object.
Move on, oh pen! and in words whose hue is murky as his oilskin cape, tell with thy silent gall-dipped nibs of the tyrant of our streets—the Hyde Park hero—the helmet-crowned truncheon bearer—preserver of peace—marshal of erring vehicles—custodian of crime—the great numbered one—the unknown X—the Mayne force regulator—offspring of Peel, but never candid—myrmidon of a mighty law—confiscator of coster mongers’ barrows—dark man dressed in blue—hero of a hundred names and hundred fights. Tell to the great washed and wiped, of this mighty conqueror, who, by a motion of his Berlin glove, sweeps from the muddy face of the street the noisy crowd. Put down naught in malice or extenuation; hide not his faults, his failings, or his fancies; chronicle not the smashing of a glossy Lincoln and Bennett, nor the splitting up the back of a Poole’s surtout, when streets were thronged and Alexandra came; hint not at bribery; but tell of the man and his acts—acts explained in beloved old Carpenter as “substantive; deeds, exploits.” Paint the aspect of the man in tunic blue and headpiece of hardened felt, praised by the custodian of our streets as light. How can we cavil at the Minerva or Britannia-like aspect when the wearer sails down the streets, looking as though he ruled the waves of population, a people who never, never, never, will be slaves. Romanised in mien, he wants but the flowing toga and sandalled shoon to shine as a centurion. What is it to him that small boys scoff? In the full comprehension of his powers he walks erect—gorgeous. Has he not, from earliest times, been object and aim of scurrilous shafts meant for wit, but launched with telling force? Has he not been styled the great absentee, and have not rumours touching mutton been circulated to his disadvantage? What though on wintry night, when bitter blows the boist’rous wind, the wand’rer spies a cheering light behind the area window blind. Who, if a whistle known of old should rouse the culinary maid to beckon down the warrior bold to have his empty stomach stayed, who then would grudge the meal—the kiss—the small beer draught—the smile—embrace? They’re loved by others well, I wis, as him who wears the cotton lace—whose rolling eye—whose nostril wide, and towering form attractive draw, to inward thought—the fire’s warm side—the bliss of love—the chill of law. He has before now descended and been wanted—ascended and been too late. So have generals often; and is there perfection to be found upon this earth? “Nary bit of it.” Palliate, then, the policeman’s weak points, and as none but the brave deserve the fair, let the brave have his desert.