Chatterbox, 1906 Part 33

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

IV.--A GOOD CONSTABLE.

A hundred years ago the streets of London were very insufficiently guarded. Of police, as we now understand the word, there were none, but at night the public buildings and princ.i.p.al thoroughfares were handed over to the care of aged and decrepit men, called 'Charlies,' who, being too old to work by day, were supposed to be able to take charge of the streets by night!

These 'Charlies' were furnished with staves and lanterns, which were often violently wrenched from them, for it was then a fashionable amus.e.m.e.nt of wild young men of the upper cla.s.ses to 'go on the _ran-dan_,' as it was called--that is, to run up and down the ill-lighted streets, knocking down first one old Charlie and then another, and carrying off the staff and lantern as trophies. A young fellow who managed to upset a wooden watch-house, with a poor old man inside, was very proud of himself indeed, though, maybe, the old 'Charlie' was meanwhile being almost suffocated to death with the watch-house on the top of him.

Besides 'guarding' the streets, these old watchmen had to announce each hour as it struck, and to give the news of the weather; thus: '_Past one o'clock and a windy morning!_' Once, when many Londoners were expecting an earthquake, which had been prophesied for that day, some jesters, returning from a noisy tavern-meeting, frightened the householders by calling out, as they pa.s.sed along the streets, 'Past twelve o'clock, and a fine earthquake!'

It is needless to say that robbery and ill-doings of all kinds were of nightly occurrence, and no decent person was in the streets of the City after dusk except by necessity, for neither life nor property was safe from the ruffians who then roamed about.

So things went on until the time came when Mr. John Sewell, a bookseller, was appointed Constable for the Ward of Cornhill. He was a very energetic man, who had long been ashamed of the state of the City streets, and he determined, now that he was in office, to try and introduce some reforms. The first thing he decided upon was to serve as constable in person, instead of providing subst.i.tutes, which had been always done by former Head Constables.

His friends were shocked at the idea of a respectable bookseller acting as a common constable, but Mr. Sewell was not to be moved from his purpose, a.s.suring them 'that the office of Constable was of too much importance to be executed by every one.'

He first of all put a stop altogether to the wooden watch-houses which were wheeled out every night, and placed against the Bank and other public buildings, and, instead, converted the back room of his shop into a guard-room. Here he and many of his friends would keep watch, when his turn for service came round, which was every fourth night, and they would go the rounds of his ward, seeing that every man was in his proper place. Mr. Sewell so arranged his men that every house in his ward was pa.s.sed by one of them four times in the hour, and he would constantly pay surprise visits to be sure that all were attentive to their duties.

The public executions were his next care, for hangings were in that day, alas! of weekly occurrence. Instead of the ribald scenes and unseemly jokes which accompanied the progress of the unfortunate wretches to Tyburn, Mr. Sewell insisted that a solemn decency should now mark these processions. He had his watchmen dressed in long cloaks, with c.r.a.pe on their hats, which he provided at his own expense; and then, as they marched slowly, two and two, he himself led the procession from Newgate Prison to Holborn Bars, where his authority ended.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Managed to upset a wooden watch-house."]

It is also interesting, in these days of naval volunteers, to find that Mr. Sewell started a 'Proposal for a Marine Voluntary a.s.sociation for Manning the Ancient and Natural Defences of Old England.'

Altogether, this old Cornhill bookseller was a wonderful man, and might have lived in this day instead of a hundred years ago.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Scores of angry bees came buzzing round her."]

OLIVE AND THE BEES.

'I mean to make a study of bees!' said Olive, in an important manner, as she looked up from a big book on natural history which she had been reading for the last ten minutes. 'Listen to this, Charlie,' she went on, addressing her elder brother, who was arranging his fishing tackle; 'it says here, "To such as have leisure, and are desirous of amus.e.m.e.nt, we know of no study which promises a greater degree of satisfaction." I have plenty of leisure these holidays, and I mean to be like Huber, and study bees, and find out wonderful things about them. He was blind, you know, and as I am not blind, I ought to find out a lot more than he did!' Olive finished up, complacently.

Charlie, however, far from being impressed with this speech, only burst out laughing. 'You _are_ conceited!' he exclaimed; 'to think that you, at twelve years of age, are going to beat Huber, who spent a life-time in studying bees! However, there is no doubt you _will_ learn something from them, and by the time you have been well stung you will be able to describe some of their habits,' and he laughed again.

'I shall not be stung,' said Olive calmly; 'bees are wonderfully intelligent little creatures'--here she was again quoting from the big book--'and they will understand that I have no wish to hurt them, but am only studying their ways.'

'And one of their ways is to sting inquisitive folk,' said Charlie. 'Let me advise you to have Mary's blue-bag handy--the thing she uses on washing-days, you know. Nothing like it for the sting of an angry bee!'

and picking up his fishing-rod, Charlie walked away to the river.

It was the first summer that Olive had spent in the country, and all its sights and scenes were new to her. So now, rejoicing in the freedom of being able to roam about without her hat or jacket, she ran lightly out of the low French window of the sitting-room, and down the path towards a large clump of lemon-coloured foxgloves.

'The bees were in and out of these foxgloves yesterday,' she said, as she stooped over the bed. 'Ah, yes! here is one--buried quite deep in the flower. I must have that bee,' and taking out her handkerchief, she threw it over the flower, and caught the bee in its folds, carrying it in triumph towards the hives, which stood on a shelf under a sunny wall by the high garden gate.

'Now then, dear bee,' said Olive, loosing the bee with all the calmness of ignorance, 'here is your hive; let me see you go in with your load of honey.'

Bees, however, are not creatures to be trifled with, and this one did not mean to go to its hive with its honey-bags only half full. Instead, it turned fiercely on Olive and stung her sharply on the hand.

'Oh! oh! it hurts!' she screamed, and hurrying away, she accidentally upset the straw cover of a hive. Instantly, scores of angry bees came buzzing round her, and Olive ran as she had never run before. But she did not escape without several severe stings, and she was all but fainting with pain and terror when she at last reached the kitchen door and slammed it behind her.

Fortunately, Mary was there, and at once applied the blue-bag, which eased the pain of the stings greatly.

'I only wanted to study the bees,' sobbed Olive, 'and I never meant to offend them, and make them sting me.'

'You had better study obedience, Miss, and leave the bees alone,' said Mary curtly. 'I told you only yesterday to keep away from the hives. If you want to study bees, get the old bee-master to tell you how to set about it.'

Some weeks later, Olive had an opportunity of watching the bee-master when he removed the honey from the hives. He did not get stung, though the bees were all round him, and Olive could not help admiring the fearless way he went to work.

Charlie was right. Olive did learn something from the bees, and one of her lessons was humility. She did not again think she knew all about a subject after reading of the wonderful discoveries of men who had given a life-time to it.

PERHAPS.

Before the dustman comes to me As in my bed I lie, All sorts of curious things I see Up in my nursery high.

I see the little curly flames Jump upwards from the fire; I think they must be playing games, They never seem to tire.

And now and then one leaps so high That all the ceiling glows: Quite suddenly it seems to die-- I wonder where it goes.

Sometimes out in the street I hear The tinkle of a bell, It's first far off, and then quite near; It's pa.s.sing, I can tell;

And then I see a narrow line Of light quite slowly crawl Across the ceiling, till its shine Stops as it meets the wall.

I wonder how it comes, and why, And where it was before, And where it's gone to now, when I Can't see it any more.

Perhaps I'll meet them in my dream, Those curly flames so odd, And see the little narrow gleam Light up the Land of Nod.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 103._)

CHAPTER VI.

'Have they ever found the man who injured d.i.c.k?' asked Alan, as Lady c.o.ke's story came to an end.

'No,' replied Lady c.o.ke sadly, 'never. Not a trace of him ever came to light. Shall I tell you why--or perhaps one of the chief reasons why--the search was discontinued? It is the grandest part of poor d.i.c.k's story,' continued Aunt Betty, putting down her knitting and looking earnestly at the children's interested faces. 'd.i.c.k alone knew who did the cruel deed. During the delirium of illness his nurses were keenly attentive to every word he uttered, hoping he would mention the name of his a.s.sailant. But no! All through the dangerous fever, and all through the suffering, he never gave the smallest hint as to who the man was, or what the quarrel (if there had been one) was about. On recovering his senses he made his father and mother understand, in the halting speech which was all he could manage, that he wished to keep the name of the man a secret; that, should he have mentioned it during his fever, he begged they would respect his desire, and not permit the name to escape them. 'Give him a chance,' he said. He always feared that the knowledge of what he had done might some day drive the man to desperation, and make him become more wicked through horror at his own action.'