Chapter XI

by Charles Dickens

　　Treats of Mr. Fang the Police Magistrate; and Furnishes a Slight Specimen of HisMode of Administering JusticeThe offence had been committed within the district, and indeed inthe immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitanpolice office. The crowd had only the satisfaction ofaccompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down aplace called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway,and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, bythe back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned;and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers onhis 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 manwith the keys.'Yes, I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I am not sure thatthis boy actually took the handkerchief. I--I would rather notpress the case.''Must go before the magistrate now, sir,' replied the man. 'Hisworship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, younggallows!'This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door whichhe unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Herehe 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 wasMonday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people,who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. Butthis is little. In our station-houses, men and women are everynight confined on the most trivial charges--the word is worthnoting--in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate,occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, andunder sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubtsthis, compare the two.The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the keygrated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which hadbeen the innocent cause of all this disturbance.'There is something in that boy's face,' said the old gentlemanto himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with thecover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; 'something thattouches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He lookedlike--Bye the bye,' exclaimed the old gentleman, halting veryabruptly, and staring up into the sky, 'Bless my soul!--wherehave I seen something like that look before?'After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with thesame meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard;and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind'seye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain hadhung for many years. 'No,' said the old gentleman, shaking hishead; 'it must be imagination.He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, andit was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealedthem. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of manythat had been almost strangers peering intrusively from thecrowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that werenow old women; there were faces that the grave had changed andclosed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, stilldressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back thelustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming ofthe soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beautybeyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken fromearth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentleglow upon the path to Heaven.But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of whichOliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over therecollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, anabsent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the mustybook.He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from theman with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed hisbook hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presenceof the renowned Mr. Fang.The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fangsat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door wasa sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was alreadydeposited; 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 theback and sides of his head. His face was stern, and muchflushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rathermore than was exactly good for him, he might have brought actionagainst his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavydamages.The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to themagistrate's desk, said suiting the action to the word, 'That ismy 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 aleading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to somerecent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundredand fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of theSecretary of State for the Home Department. He was out oftemper; 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 awaywith the newspaper. 'Who is this fellow?''My name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speaking like agentleman, 'my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire thename of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovokedinsult to a respectable person, under the protection of thebench.' Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as ifin search of some person who would afford him the requiredinformation.'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, 'what'sthis fellow charged with?''He's not charged at all, your worship,' replied the officer. 'Heappears 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 actualexperience, 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 ofthe office!' said Mr. Fang. 'You're an insolent impertinentfellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!''What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'll not hearanother word. Swear him.'Mr. Brownlow's indignaton was greatly roused; but reflectingperhaps, 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 haveyou got to say, sir?''I was standing at a bookstall--' Mr. Brownlow began.'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang. 'Policeman! Where's thepoliceman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what isthis?'The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had takenthe charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on hisperson; 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 tothe 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 standthere, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespectto the bench; I will, by--'By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailorcoughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the formerdropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the wordfrom being heard--accidently, of course.With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlowcontrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise ofthe moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw himrunning away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrateshould believe him, although not actually the thief, to beconnected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with himas justice would allow.'He has been hurt already,' said the old gentleman in conclusion.'And I fear,' he added, with great energy, looking towards thebar, 'I really fear that he is ill.''Oh! yes, I dare say!' said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. 'Come, noneof your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What'syour name?'Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadlypale; 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 repeatedthe inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understandingthe question; and knowing that his not replying would onlyinfuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of hissentence; he hazarded a guess.'He says his name's Tom White, your worship,' said thekind-hearted thief-taker.'Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang. 'Very well, verywell. Where does he live?''Where he can, your worship,' replied the officer; againpretending to receive Oliver's answer.'Has he any parents?' inquired Mr. Fang.'He says they died in his infancy, your worship,' replied theofficer: 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 adraught of water.'Stuff and nonsense!' said Mr. Fang: 'don't try to make a foolof me.''I think he really is ill, your worship,' remonstrated theofficer.'I know better,' said Mr. Fang.'Take care of him, officer,' said the old gentleman, raising hishands 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 thefloor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at eachother, but no one dared to stir.'I knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if this wereincontestable proof of the fact. 'Let him lie there; he'll soonbe tired of that.''How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?' inquired theclerk in a low voice.'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang. 'He stands committed for threemonths--hard labour of course. Clear the office.'The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men werepreparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when anelderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit ofblack, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards thebench.'Stop, stop! don't take him away! For Heaven's sake stop amoment!' cried the new comer, breathless with haste.Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercisea 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 blindwith weeping; they are closed to the public, save through themedium of the daily press.(Footnote: Or were virtually, then.)Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see anunbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.'What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear theoffice!' cried Mr. Fang.'I will speak,' cried the man; 'I will not be turned out. I sawit all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will notbe put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse,sir.'The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter wasgrowing 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 theprisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, whenthis gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by anotherboy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazedand stupified by it.' Having by this time recovered a littlebreath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in amore 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. 'Everybodywho could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could getnobody till five minutes ago; and I've run here all the way.''The prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquired Fang, afteranother 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 oldgentleman, 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 youhave obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious anddisreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself veryfortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute.Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake youyet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!''D--n me!' cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage hehad 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 wasconveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane inthe other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. Hereached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. LittleOliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirtunbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadlywhite; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. 'Calla coach, somebody, pray. Directly!'A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid onthe 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. 'Iforgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jumpin. Poor fellow! There's no time to lose.'The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.