Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches

by George Manville Fenn

Is he not a part of our very being as a nation, the common object of our crowd? Who knows this better than the playwright, who sends him across the stage in a long string, like the soldiers or geese of our childhood’s day upon the scissor-working framework; who puts him into every imaginable difficulty, and bruises, batters, and beats him in a way most insufferable? But K9 in the gallery sees it all, smiles with disdain, and looks down upon the get up of his fictitious representative, who is as true to life as the Franco-Anglais of the Parisian stage; and seated in plain clothes beside Mary, cook from Number 34, Eating-street, he nudges that lady, and as the broad hint is reciprocated, they smile with contempt at the “Guy Fawkes” thing presented to them.

From whatever point of view the policeman is taken, the first thing which strikes the observer is the dress; and once more, glancing at his helmet, is it not everything that it should not be? Perhaps it is useful, as none other is provided, but it is decidedly not ornamental, for it is grotesque, hideous, unsightly, and contemptible. It wants the grandeur of the old Roman, the graceful curve of the Grecian, the stiffness of the Prussian, the weight of the dragoon’s, and the gloss of the fireman’s, while as for comfort—who will put it to the test?

Take his appearance in a street scuffle, an affair in which the police have, ere now, been engaged; half his time is taken up in endeavouring—generally unsuccessfully—to keep his helmet in its place, but, as a rule, it rolls into the gutter, to be crushed by trampling feet.

Feet! Yes, that brings us to his feet, though t’were almost bootless to name them, since they are often nearly in that condition. The “strong, serviceable bluchers” supplied by Government contractors always seem to be made upon the principle of “small profits and quick returns,” which being interpreted means small profit to the wearer and quick return to elementary constituents.

Did not some great man—a city fortifier—once declare that there was nothing like leather? How true: how striking! But how much more so is the increased significance given to the adage when we say there is nothing like contractor’s leather? There is nothing like it anywhere, and considering its wondrous durability, why should not some firm commence making papier maché boots? They would be equally durable, far cheaper, while, as to fit, that does not matter, since Government contractors evidently believe that police bunions have no existence, while corns never crop out from legal toes.

Then, again, his tunic and trousers. Shoddy should not be named in connexion with the material, since the invisible blue is decidedly a degree more durable, for there is in it an elasticity, doubtless owing to its canvas-like—sampler canvas-like structure. To many this airy fabrication may look like deceit, but that is but a harsh construction to place upon such openness; while as to the strength of the cloth, the giving nature is intentional, for opposed as the police so often are to numbers, they need the activity and unholdability of the savage, who oils his body to elude inimical grasps. Hence, then, the weakness of police cloth, which gives way to the slightest drag. Here may the ignorant exclaim—“What a pity!” Not at all, for the offending party pays the damage, since it is a most heinous crime to damage a policeman’s uniform. As to the cut of the suit, and the coolness or warmth, they are the arrangements of the same wise and paternal government, who so justly and equitably arrange the promotion in the army. If the policeman shivers he can put on his great-coat, and if it rains, over that his oilskin cape; and what more can he want? Ignorance may again interpose, and say, why not give him a thoroughly good warm suit for winter, and a lighter one for summer? But then, ignorance was always prone to make strange remarks, and our subject remains buttoned—stuffy—tight.

Touching his truncheon, description is needless, since ample knowledge is gained of that instrument in street troubles.

Taking the policeman, then, from external points of view, he is not in appearance imposing, though by nature very. He is belted, buttoned, and laced; numbered like an auction lot; and, as a rule, powerfully whiskered; but he looks made up; there is a bastard military tournure about him, evidently the introduction of some official martinet. The drilling does not seem to fit our civil (?) friend, for there is either too much or not enough. But we don’t want him formed into squares, or three deep, or in line for a charge, for he always seems to act best “upon his own hook,” as Vulgus has it, he being rather given to passing judgment upon his sworn foe—passing judgment and remarks too, for is not the man in blue contemned? But why, when his nod suffices to disperse a crowd—he, the man so opposed in appearance to the fiercely moustached and cocked-hatted gendarme of the Gallic shore? Is it because he is unarmed save by the power of the law, and that ashen staff that will make mistakes! And yet the majesty of the law accompanies him everywhere, and emanates from his person at every movement—a visible invisibility—a halo threatening a storm to evil doers. But he is contemned and made the sieve to catch the flying chaff of our streets.

From whence comes the bitter hatred between the powers civil and military, if it does not proceed from the coquetries of the fair sex? It might be supposed that “Mars would always be in the ascendant” (Zadkiel), but it is not so; “law, civil power, and exeketive” is far ahead, but never in conjunction with the fiery planet. “Them solgers ain’t good for much,” says civil law, and he holds them in profound contempt—a contempt evidently engendered by rivalry. Go to the opera in the Haymarket, and behold both warriors at the entrance. Mars, all pipeclay, belts, buttons, and bayonets, rifles, ramrods, and regulation, standing like an image to do nothing, and doing it most effectually, while Bobby, all bustle, beatitude, and blueness, is hurrying about amongst rival charioteers and gorgeous footmen, keeping order most sublime, and making perfection out of chaos. But for the numbered one, somebody’s carriage would stop the way all night from the fierce block that would ensue; though no one seems to see all this, while looks from all quarters indicate that our subject is an enemy to society at large.

Again, compare the civil and military powers upon a grand occasion, when royalty visits the city; when every pinnacle, post, pale, rail, corner, crevice, or coign of vantage is seized by the many headed, surging and swaying backwards and forwards to catch a glimpse of the expected pageant. Here, perhaps, we have squadrons of horse artillery—troopers braided, busbied, and plumed, with jingling arms and accoutrements, sent to keep the way, while the civil power watches them backing their horses, making them prance and curvet and thrust back the crowd, which only closes in as they pass, while the policeman looks down in contempt upon their evolutions.