THE MAN OF THE CROWD.

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.

La Bruyère.

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 Animæ,' {*1} and perhaps it is but one of the great
mercies of God that 'er lasst sich nicht lesen.'"

{*1} The "Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis" of Grünninger