Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches - George Manville Fenn

But then comes the order: onward goes the fat inspector, and in goose step come his followers. Truncheons are drawn, men posted, and order reigns, for the crowd falls back—sometimes—but always loudly “chaffs.” The policeman heeds not this though, for he knows the reward of merit, that is the common reward, and remembering all this at other times, he moves on the muffin boy, who revenges himself by yelling his wares with renewed energy as soon as he has turned the corner, while again law smiles contemptuously, and directs his attention to the orange girl and moves her off the pavement. Reward: a queer name; a grimace; and as soon as his back is turned, a handful of orange-peel scattered upon the slabs for the benefit of the passengers.

Watch the policeman on duty in one of the parks, and see with what jealous eye he looks after each nursemaid and her little flock, and how closely he follows when Mary or Hann wander by accident amidst the trees with Mars. The constable has no business to keep on passing and repassing with austere mien, robbing the lovers of their sweets, but he does so not from a personal hatred, but from an instinctive dislike—a class-like jealousy. He gazes upon the soldier as any game-loving squire would cast his eye upon a poacher even though encountered a hundred miles from his estate, for were the constable in power, Mars would be doomed to a life of celibacy. He forgives the maidens whom he knows to be attracted by the garish uniform, and he pities them for their weakness, but decides in his own mind that they require protection—such protection as a policeman could give them. Sometimes the soldier is encountered when promenading the pave with an eye upon some especial house in the policeman’s beat. Now he may not have personal friends at more than half-a-dozen houses on his beat, but he holds every house as being under his surveillance, and his jealous eye follows the guard’s every movement. He hunts him step by step as though a burglary were imminent, and so thoroughly disarranges the plans of the parties interested, that at last Mars slinks off with lowered crest, while the man in blue beats together his Berlin gloves, and crows internally over his discomfited adversary.

Who has not admired the mounted policeman? But is it not taking him at a disadvantage, and seeing him suffering under untoward circumstances over which he has no control, not even being able to control his horse? But he was never meant to be upon a horse. What is he there for? And of what use can he be? He looks most thoroughly out of place, and, to do him justice, quite ashamed of himself. Like the soldier of the ballad, he presents himself in public “with a helmet on his brow, and a sabre at his thigh;” but, sinking the helmet, what does he want with a sword—a policeman with a sword? But we are not sure that it is a sword. May it not be a Quaker or theatrical representation of the military sabre? We never knew any one yet who had seen it out of its sheath, or who had been blinded by its flash, so that after all it may be but a sham. If one takes a trip across the channel, emulating the daring of a Josef Sprouts, and then making the best of one’s way to “Paris in France,” there is no surprise felt at the sight of cocked hats, cocked—very fiercely cocked—moustachios, and swords belted upon gendarme or sergent de ville. The sword there seems appropriate—suited to the national character—the staff for thick-headed boss-frontal Bull, and the skewer or spit for the Gallic frog or cock. If John Bull, as a mob, gets excited, the powers that be consider him to be all the better for a little hammering about the head, while prick of sword or cut of sabre would goad him to madness. In La France, au contraire, blows cause the madness. Jean or Pierre, if “nobbled” upon the sconce, would rave about the affront put upon his honour. Men ready to cry Mourir pour la Patrie, can pocket no blows. Here, then, is shown the wisdom of supplying the French man of order with a sword; a cut or thrust acts not as a goad, but surgically, for it lets out the mad revolutionary blood, and Jean or Pierre goes home the better for his lancing.