The Mysteries of London, v. 2/4

by George W. M. Reynolds

For of every ten persons, nine are proceeding in that direction.

Reader, let us pause for a moment and examine the details of the scene to which we allude: for Greenwood has slackened his pace—his eye has caught sight of Bow clock—and he perceives that he is yet too early to commence the visits which he intends to make in certain quarters.

And first, gentle reader, behold that young man with the loose taglioni and no undercoat: he has a devil-me-care kind of look about him, mingled with an air of seediness, as if he had been up the best part of the night at a free-and-easy. He is smoking a cigar—at that hour of the morning! It is impossible to gaze at him for two seconds, without being convinced that he is an articled clerk to an attorney, and that he doesn't care so long as he reaches the office just five minutes before the "governor" arrives.

But that old man, with a threadbare suit of black, and the red cotton handkerchief sticking so suspiciously out of his pocket, as if he had something wrapped up in it,—who is he? Mark how he shuffles along, dragging his heavy high-lows over the pavement at a pace too speedy for his attenuated frame: and see with what anxiety he looks up at the clock projecting out far overhead, to assure himself that he shall yet be at his office within two minutes of half-past nine—or else risk his place and the eighteen shillings a week which it brings him in, and on which he has to support a wife and large family. He is a copying clerk in a lawyer's office—there can be no doubt of it; and the poor man has his dinner wrapped up in his pocket-handkerchief!

Do you observe that proud, pompous-looking stout man, with the large yellow cane in his hand, and the massive chain and seals hanging from his fob? He is a stockbroker who, having got up a bubble Railway Company, has enriched himself in a single day, after having struggled against difficulties for twenty years. But, see—a fashionably-dressed gentleman, with a little too much jewellery about his person, and a rather too severe swagger in his gait, overtakes our stout friend, and passes his arm familiarly in his as he wishes him "good morning." There is no mistake about this individual: he is the Managing-Director of the stockbroker's Company, and was taken from a three-pair back in the New Cut to preside at the Board. Arcades ambo—a precious pair!

Glance a moment at that great, stout, shabbily-dressed man, whose trousers are so tight that they certainly never could have been made for him, and whose watery boiled-kind of eyes, vacant look, and pale but bloated face, denote the habitual gin-drinker. He rolls along with a staggering gait, as if the effects of the previous night's debauch had not been slept off, or as if he had already taken his first dram. He is on his way to the neighbourhood of the Bank, where he either loiters about on the steps of the Auction Mart, or at the door of Capel Court, or else proceeds to some public-house parlour "which he frequents." His business is to hawk bills about for discount; and, to hear him speak, one would believe that he could raise a million of money in no time—whereas he has most likely the pawn-ticket of his Sunday's coat in his pocket.

And now mark that elderly, sedate, quiet-looking man, whose good black suit is well-brushed and his boots nicely polished. He compares his heavy gold watch with the clock of Bow church, and is quite delighted to see that his time is correct to a second. And now he continues his way, without looking to the right or the left: he knows every feature—every shop—every lamp-post of Cheapside and the Poultry too well to have any farther curiosity about those thoroughfares—for he has passed along that way every morning, Sundays excepted, during the last twenty years. Are you not prepared to make an affidavit that he is a superior clerk in the Bank of England?

But we must abandon any farther scrutiny of the several members of the crowd in Cheapside—at least for the present; because it is now half-past nine o'clock, and Mr. Greenwood has reached Cornhill.

Here he paused—and sighed,—sighed deeply.

That sigh told a long and painful history,—of how he had lately been rich and prosperous—how he had lost all by grasping at more—how he was now reduced almost to the very verge of penury—and how he wondered whether he should ever be wealthy and great again!