An Anecdote
by Richard H. Horne (uncredited).
Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.1 #18 (27 Jul 1850).
A benevolent old gentleman—the late Mr. Harcourt Brown of Beech Hall—was plodding his way home to his hotel from a ramble in the suburbs of London; and having made a bold attempt at "a short cut," soon found himself lost in a maze of squalid streets, leading one into the other, and apparently leading no where else. He inquired his way in vain. From the first person, he received a coarse jest; from another, a look of vacant stupidity; a third eyed him in dogged silence. He stepped with one foot into several wretched little shops; but the people really seemed to know nothing beyond the next street or alley, except one man, a dealer in tripe, of a strange, earthy colour, who called over his shoulder, "Oh, you're miles out o' your way!" The only exception to the general indifference, rudeness and stupidity, was a thin sallow-cheeked man, who had a fixed smile on his face, and spoke in rather an abject cringing tone of obsequiousness, and even walked up one street and down a second to show Mr. Brown the way. But it soon became evident that he knew nothing about the matter, and he slunk away with the same fixed unmeaning smile.
In this state of affairs Mr. Brown buttoned up his coat, and manfully resolved to work his way out of this filthy locality by walking straight forward.
Trudging onward at a smart pace, the worthy gentleman presently heard the sound of sobbing and crying, and behind the boards of a shed at the side of a ruined hovel he saw a girl of some nine or ten years of age, clasping and unclasping her hands in a paroxysm of grief and apprehension. "Oh, what shall I do?—what shall I do?" sobbed the child.
She started with terror as Mr. Brown approached, and hid her head in the folds of her little apron; but on being assured by the mild voice of Mr. Brown that he had no thought of hurting her, she ventured to look up. She had soft blue eyes, flaxen hair of silvery glossiness, pretty features; and, notwithstanding the stain of tears down a cheek which had a smear of brickdust upon it, had a most innocent and prepossessing face.
"What is the matter, my little girl?" inquired Mr. Brown.
The child turned one shoulder half round, and displayed the red and purple marks of blows from a whip or stick.
"What cruel wretch has done this?" asked Mr. Brown. "Tell me, child; tell me directly."
"It was mother," sobbed the child.
"Ah—I'm sorry to hear this. Perhaps you have been naughty?"
"Yes, Sir;" answered the child.
"Poor child," ejaculated Mr. Brown; "but you will not be naughty again. What was your offence. Come, tell me?"
"I shook it, Sir; oh, yes, it 's quite true; I did shake it very much."
"What did you shake?" inquired Mr. Brown.
"I shook the doll, Sir."
"The doll! Oh, you mean you shook the baby; that, certainly was naughty of you;" said Mr. Brown.
"No, Sir; it was not the baby I shook—it was the doll; and I'm afraid to go home—mother will be sure to beat me again."
An impulse of benevolence led Mr. Brown's hand to search for his purse. Had he tried the wrong pocket? His purse was on the other side. No, it was not—it must be in this inner pocket. Where is Mr. Brown's purse? It is not in any of his pockets! He tries them all over again. And his pocket-book!—chiefly of memorandums, but also having a few bank-notes. This is gone too—and his silk handkerchief—both his handkerchiefs!—also his silver-gilt snuff-box, filled with rappee only five minutes before he left the hotel this morning—he is certain he had it when he came out—but it is certainly gone! Every single thing he had in his pockets is gone.
The child also—now she is gone! Mr. Brown looks around him, and yonder he sees the poor child flying with frequent looks behind of terror,—and now a shrill and frightful voice causes him to start. Turning in that direction, the sudden flight of the little girl is immediately explained. Over the rubbish and refuse, at a swift, wild pace, courses a fiendish woman, with a savage eye and open mouth, her cheeks hollow, her teeth projecting, her thin hair flying like a bit of diseased mane over her half-naked shoulder; she has a stick in her hand, with which she constantly threatens the flying child, whom her execrations follow yet more swiftly than her feet.
Mr. Brown remained watching them till they were out of sight. He once more searched all his pockets, but they were all empty. He called to mind the man with the fixed smile on his hollow cadaverous cheek, and several other faces of men whom he had casually noticed in the course of the last half hour, thinking what a pity it was that something could not be done for them. He now began to think it was a very great pity that
something had not already been done for them or with them, for they had certainly "done" him. Poor Mr. Brown!
Some six or seven months after this most disagreeable adventure, it chanced that Mr. Brown was going over the prison at Coldbath Fields, accompanied by the Governor. As they entered one of the wards, the voice of a child sobbing, attracted the ears of our philanthropist. In answer to his inquiries, the Governor informed him that it was a child of about eleven years of age, who had been, detected in the act of picking a lady's pocket in one of the most crowded thoroughfares.
On a few kind words being spoken to her, she looked up; and in the blue eye, glossy flaxen hair, and pretty features, Mr. Brown at once recognised the little girl who had "shaken the doll."
"This child is an innocent creature!" cried he, turning to the Governor, "the victim of ignorance and cruel treatment at home. I recollect her well. Her mother had beaten her most shamefully; and the last glimpse I had of her was in her flight from a still more savage assault. And for what crime do you suppose?"
"For not picking pockets expertly, I dare say;" replied the Governor.
"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Mr. Brown. "Would you believe it, Sir; it was for nothing more than a childish bit of pretence-anger with her doll, on which occasion she gave the doll a good shaking. Mere pretence, you know."
"My dear Sir," said the Governor, smiling, "I fancy I am right, after all. She was beaten for not being expert in the study and practice of pocket-picking at home. You are not, perhaps, aware that the lesson consists in picking the pockets of a figure which is hung up in the room, in such a way that the least awkwardness of touch makes it shake, and rings a little bell attached to it. This figure is called the 'doll.' Those who ring the bell, shake it in emptying its pockets, are punished according to the mind and temper of the instructor."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Mr. Brown, "to what perfection must the art be brought! Then it is all accounted for. The sallow gentleman with the fixed smile must have been master of the craft of not shaking the doll, when he took my purse, pocket-book, snuff-box, and both handkerchiefs from me, without my feeling so much as the motion of the air!"