THE MAN OF THE CROWD.
Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir źtre seul.
La Bruyčre.
IT was well said of a certain German book that "
er lasst sich nicht
lesen"—it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets
which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their
beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors and looking them
piteously in the eyes—die with despair of heart and convulsion of
throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer
themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man
takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only
into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the
large bow window of the D——- Coffee-House in London. For some months
I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning
strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so
precisely the converse of ennui—moods of the keenest appetency, when
the film from the mental vision departs—the [Greek phrase]—and the
intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition,
as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy
rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived
positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I
felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in
my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the
greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now
in observing the promiscuous company in the room, and now in peering
through the smoky panes into the street.
This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had
been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came
on, the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well
lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past
the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before
been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads
filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up,
at length, all care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in
contemplation of the scene without.
At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn.
I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their
aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded
with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air,
gait, visage, and expression of countenance.
By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied
business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their
way through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled
quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom
of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still
a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces,
and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude
on account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded in
their progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled
their gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile
upon the lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled,
they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with
confusion.—There was nothing very distinctive about these two large
classes beyond what I have noted. Their habiliments belonged to that
order which is pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedly
noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids
and the common-places of society—men of leisure and men actively
engaged in affairs of their own—conducting business upon their own
responsibility. They did not greatly excite my attention.
The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned
two remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash
houses—young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair,
and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage,
which may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of
these persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been the
perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They wore
the cast-off graces of the gentry;—and this, I believe, involves the
best definition of the class.
The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the "steady
old fellows," it was not possible to mistake. These were known by their
coats and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably, with
white cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose
or gaiters.—They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right
ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on
end. I observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both
hands, and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and
ancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation of respectability;—if
indeed there be an affectation so honorable.
There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily
understood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets with which
all great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with much
inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever
be mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness
of wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at
once.
The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily
recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the
desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief,
gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously inornate
clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still
all were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a
filmy dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip. There were two
other traits, moreover, by which I could always detect them;—a guarded
lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of
the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers.—Very often,
in company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat
different in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They may be
defined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They seem to prey
upon the public in two battalions—that of the dandies and that of the
military men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks and
smiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns.
Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker
and deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes
flashing from countenances whose every other feature wore only an
expression of abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars
scowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had
driven forth into the night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids,
upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered
through the mob, looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if in
search of some chance consolation, some lost hope; modest young girls
returning from long and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinking
more tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians, whose
direct contact, even, could not be avoided; women of the town of all
kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal beauty in the prime of her
womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with the surface
of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth—the loathsome and
utterly lost leper in rags—the wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimed
beldame, making a last effort at youth—the mere child of immature form,
yet, from long association, an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her
trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal of her
elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable—some in shreds
and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustre
eyes—some in whole although filthy garments, with a slightly unsteady
swagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces—others
clothed in materials which had once been good, and which even now were
scrupulously well brushed—men who walked with a more than naturally
firm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, whose
eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with quivering fingers, as
they strode through the crowd, at every object which came within
their reach; beside these, pie-men, porters, coal—heavers, sweeps;
organ-grinders, monkey-exhibiters and ballad mongers, those who vended
with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every
description, and all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which
jarred discordantly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the
eye.
As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for
not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (its
gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderly
portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder
relief, as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its
den,) but the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle
with the dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over
every thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid—as
that ebony to which has been likened the style of Tertullian.
The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of
individual faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of
light flitted before the window, prevented me from casting more than
a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar
mental state, I could frequently read, even in that brief interval of a
glance, the history of long years.
With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob,
when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old
man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)—a countenance which
at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the
absolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotely
resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember that
my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it,
would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the
fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey,
to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly
and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of
caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of
blood thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror,
of intense—of supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused, startled,
fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself, "is written within
that bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view—to know
more of him. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and
cane, I made my way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in
the direction which I had seen him take; for he had already disappeared.
With some little difficulty I at length came within sight of him,
approached, and followed him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to
attract his attention.
I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in
stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally,
were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong
glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of
beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a
closely-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped
him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These
observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the
stranger whithersoever he should go.
It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city,
soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had an
odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new
commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the
jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I
did not much regard the rain—the lurking of an old fever in my system
rendering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a
handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man
held his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here
walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never
once turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and bye he
passed into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people,
was not quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a
change in his demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and with
less object than before—more hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed
the way repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so
thick that, at every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely.
The street was a narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for
nearly an hour, during which the passengers had gradually diminished to
about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the
Park—so vast a difference is there between a London populace and that
of the most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a
square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner
of the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his
eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon
those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I
was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of
the square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I
astonished to see him repeat the same walk several times—once nearly
detecting me as he came round with a sudden movement.
In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;
the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With
a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a bye-street
comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he
rushed with an activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so
aged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought
us to a large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger
appeared well acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became
apparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host
of buyers and sellers.
During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this
place, it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach
without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc
over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did
he see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing,
spoke no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare.
I was now utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we
should not part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting
him.
A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting
the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old
man, and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He
hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and
then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less
lanes, until we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we
had started—the street of the D—— Hotel. It no longer wore, however,
the same aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell
fiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale.
He walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a
heavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging through
a great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of
the principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were
thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while
he threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of
his countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon
his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that
he now took the course in which had gone the greater number of the
audience—but, upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the
waywardness of his actions.
As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness
and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a
party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one
dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy
lane little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed
lost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly
a route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very
different from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome
quarter of London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most
deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light
of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were
seen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that
scarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them.
The paving-stones lay at random, displaced from their beds by the
rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters.
The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the
sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands
of the most abandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro.
The spirits of the old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near
its death hour. Once more he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly
a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight, and we stood
before one of the huge suburban temples of Intemperance—one of the
palaces of the fiend, Gin.
It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still
pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of
joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original
bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object,
among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before
a rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the
night. It was something even more intense than despair that I then
observed upon the countenance of the singular being whom I had watched
so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with
a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty
London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildest
amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an
interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and, when we
had once again reached that most thronged mart of the populous town, the
street of the D——- Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle
and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before.
And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist
in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and
during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. And,
as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death,
and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly
in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I,
ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. "This old man," I
said at length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to
be alone. [page 228:] He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to
follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst
heart of the world is a grosser book than the 'Hortulus Animę,' {*1} and
perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that 'er lasst sich
nicht lesen.'"
{*1} The "
Hortulus Animę cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis" of
Grünninger
