TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A
SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the
immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The
crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three
streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low
archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the
back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they
encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of
keys in his hand.
'What's the matter now?' said the man carelessly.
'A young fogle-hunter,' replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
'Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?' inquired the man with the keys.
'Yes, I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I am not sure that this boy
actually took the handkerchief. I--I would rather not press the case.'
'Must go before the magistrate now, sir,' replied the man. 'His worship will
be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!'
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked
as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing
being found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so
light. It was most intolably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been
tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since
Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are
every night confined on the most trivial charges--the word is worth noting--in
dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious
felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any
one who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in
the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause
of all this disturbance.
'There is something in that boy's face,' said the old gentleman to himself as
he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a
thoughtful manner; 'something that touches and interests me. CAN he be innocent?
He looked like--Bye the bye,' exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very
abruptly, and staring up into the sky, 'Bless my soul!--where have I seen
something like that look before?'
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same
meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring
into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over
which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. 'No,' said the old gentleman,
shaking his head; 'it must be imagination.
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not
easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces
of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering
intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls
that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed
upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old
freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the
smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of
beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only
to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's
features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened;
and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in
the pages of the musty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the
keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once
ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a
bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in
which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the
awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no
great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his
head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit
of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought
action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk,
said suiting the action to the word, 'That is my name and address, sir.' He then
withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of
the head, waited to be questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading
article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his,
and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and
particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out
of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
'Who are you?' said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the
newspaper. 'Who is this fellow?'
'My name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speaking LIKE a gentleman, 'my name,
sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a
gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection
of the bench.' Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in
search of some person who would afford him the required information.
'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, 'what's this fellow
charged with?'
'He's not charged at all, your worship,' replied the officer. 'He appears
against this boy, your worship.'
His worshp knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe
one.
'Appears against the boy, does he?' said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow
contemptuously from head to foot. 'Swear him!'
'Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'and that
is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed--'
'Hold your tongue, sir!' said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
'I will not, sir!' replied the old gentleman.
'Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!'
said Mr. Fang. 'You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a
magistrate!'
'What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'll not hear another word.
Swear him.'
Mr. Brownlow's indignaton was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he
might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and
submitted to be sworn at once.
'Now,' said Fang, 'what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to
say, sir?'
'I was standing at a bookstall--' Mr. Brownlow began.
'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang. 'Policeman! Where's the policeman?
Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?'
The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge;
how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was
all he knew about it.
'Are there any witnesses?' inquired Mr. Fang.
'None, your worship,' replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the
prosecutor, said in a towering passion.
'Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you
not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence,
I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by--'
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very
loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the
floor, thus preventing the word from being heard--accidently, of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to
state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after
the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope that, if
the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be
connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would
allow.
'He has been hurt already,' said the old gentleman in conclusion.
'And I fear,' he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, 'I really
fear that he is ill.'
'Oh! yes, I dare say!' said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. 'Come, none of your
tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?'
Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the
whole place seemed turning round and round.
'What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?' demanded Mr. Fang. 'Officer,
what's his name?'
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was
standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding
him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not
replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity
of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.
'He says his name's Tom White, your worship,' said the kind-hearted
thief-taker.
'Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang. 'Very well, very well. Where
does he live?'
'Where he can, your worship,' replied the officer; again pretending to
receive Oliver's answer.
'Has he any parents?' inquired Mr. Fang.
'He says they died in his infancy, your worship,' replied the officer:
hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with
imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
'Stuff and nonsense!' said Mr. Fang: 'don't try to make a fool of me.'
'I think he really is ill, your worship,' remonstrated the officer.
'I know better,' said Mr. Fang.
'Take care of him, officer,' said the old gentleman, raising his hands
instinctively; 'he'll fall down.'
'Stand away, officer,' cried Fang; 'let him, if he likes.'
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a
fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to
stir.
'I knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of
the fact. 'Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that.'
'How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?' inquired the clerk in a low
voice.
'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang. 'He stands committed for three months--hard
labour of course. Clear the office.'
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to
carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poor
appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and
advanced towards the bench.
'Stop, stop! don't take him away! For Heaven's sake stop a moment!' cried the
new comer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary
and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the
lives, of Her Majesty's subjects, expecially of the poorer class; and although,
within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels
blind with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of
the daily press.(Footnote: Or were virtually, then.) Mr. Fang was consequently
not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent
disorder.
'What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!' cried Mr.
Fang.
'I WILL speak,' cried the man; 'I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I
keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you
must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.'
The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing
rather too serious to be hushed up.
'Swear the man,' growled Mr. Fang. with a very ill grace. 'Now, man, what
have you got to say?'
'This,' said the man: 'I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here:
loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The
robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was
perfectly amazed and stupified by it.' Having by this time recovered a little
breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent
manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.
'Why didn't you come here before?' said Fang, after a pause.
'I hadn't a soul to mind the shop,' replied the man. 'Everybody who could
have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes
ago; and I've run here all the way.'
'The prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquired Fang, after another pause.
'Yes,' replied the man. 'The very book he has in his hand.'
'Oh, that book, eh?' said Fang. 'Is it paid for?'
'No, it is not,' replied the man, with a smile.
'Dear me, I forgot all about it!' exclaimed the absent old gentleman,
innocently.
'A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!' said Fang, with a
comical effort to look humane. 'I consider, sir, that you have obtained
possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances;
and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property
declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will
overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!'
'D--n me!' cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept
down so long, 'd--n me! I'll--'
'Clear the office!' said the magistrate. 'Officers, do you hear?
Clear the office!'
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with
the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of
rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment.
Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned,
and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble
convulsing his whole frame.
'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. 'Call a coach,
somebody, pray. Directly!'
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the
old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
'May I accompany you?' said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
'Bless me, yes, my dear sir,' said Mr. Brownlow quickly. 'I forgot you. Dear,
dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There's no time to
lose.'
The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.
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