Harrison Street Police Station. Attempted Suicide.
The Police
A Night at Harrison Street Station.
Though honest men sometimes do not seem able to put their fingers upon a policeman at the instant they want him, rogues find far oftener that the policemen are on hand when not wanted.
In the earlier days of police history, when politics were eliminated from the force, the ordinary policeman was more effective, and guarded the “beat” upon which he traveled with a jealous eye. Wander where he might, the ruffian could not get away from the law. This constant surveillance exasperated bad characters. They chafe under the restraint, make feeble efforts to rebel, but it is useless. The power of the police over the evil circles of society is enormous; they have a mortal fear of the force. They know that behind that silver star there resides indomitable courage, and in that close buttoned coat are muscles of iron and nerves of steel.
The “Boiler Avenue Boys” and roughs were all cowards and they knew it. They dare not meet half their weight in righteous pluck.
I have seen a great bully cringe and cry under a policeman’s open-hand cuffing. Very likely he had a bowie-knife, or revolver, or slung-shot—or all three in one, as I saw one night on Fourth avenue—in his pocket at the time, yet he does not attempt to use it on the officer of the law, the occasional exceptions to this are rare and notable. How many times has a single policeman arrested a man out of a crowd, and not one of his fellows raised a finger to help him; they dare not, they have too wholesome respect for law, for that revolver in the pocket; most of all they are awed by the cool courage of the man who dares to face them on their own ground.