Chapter I: Part 1

“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.

N^{o.} 18.] SATURDAY, JULY 27, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._

A DETECTIVE POLICE PARTY.

In pursuance of the intention mentioned at the close of a former paper on “The Modern Science of Thief-taking,” we now proceed to endeavour to convey to our readers some faint idea of the extraordinary dexterity, patience, and ingenuity, exercised by the Detective Police. That our description may be as graphic as we can render it, and may be perfectly reliable, we will make it, so far as in us lies, a piece of plain truth. And first, we have to inform the reader how the anecdotes we are about to communicate, came to our knowledge.

We are not by any means devout believers in the Old Bow-Street Police. To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount of humbug about those worthies. Apart from many of them being men of very indifferent character, and far too much in the habit of consorting with thieves and the like, they never lost a public occasion of jobbing and trading in mystery and making the most of themselves. Continually puffed besides by incompetent magistrates anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and hand-in-glove with the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort of superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in their operations, they remain with some people, a superstition to the present day.

On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the establishment of the existing Police, is so well chosen and trained, proceeds so systematically and quietly, does its business in such a workman-like manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of the public, that the public really do not know enough of it, to know a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with this conviction, and interested in the men themselves, we represented to the authorities at Scotland Yard, that we should be glad, if there were no official objection, to have some talk with the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission being given, a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for a social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at our Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In consequence of which appointment the party “came off,” which we are about to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics as it might for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or disagreeable to respectable individuals, to touch upon in print, our description is as exact as we can make it.

The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader’s fancy, will best represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate for a round table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars arranged upon it; and the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in between that stately piece of furniture and the wall.

It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street are hot and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the Theatre opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are constantly setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and there is a mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then, deafening us for the moment, through the open windows.

Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do not undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the names here mentioned. Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector Wield is a middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a large, moist, knowing eye, a husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his conversation by the aid of a corpulent fore-finger, which is constantly in juxta-position with his eyes or nose. Inspector Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman—in appearance not at all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained schoolmaster, from the Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield one might have known, perhaps, for what he is—Inspector Stalker, never.

The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe that they have brought some sergeants with them. The sergeants are presented—five in number, Sergeant Dornton, Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant Straw. We have the whole Detective Force from Scotland Yard with one exception. They sit down in a semi-circle (the two Inspectors at the two ends) at a little distance from the round table, facing the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a glance, immediately takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in company could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest hesitation, twenty years hence.

The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton, about fifty years of age, with a ruddy face and a high sun-burnt forehead, has the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army—he might have sat to Wilkie for the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is famous for steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from small beginnings, working on from clue to clue until he bags his man. Sergeant Witchem, shorter and thicker-set, and marked with the small pox, has something of a reserved and thoughtful air, as if he were engaged in deep arithmetical calculations. He is renowned for his acquaintance with the swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced man with a fresh bright complexion, and a strange air of simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a light-haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little wiry Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a door and ask a series of questions in any mild character you chose to prescribe to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as innocent as an infant. They are, one and all, respectable-looking men; of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence; with nothing lounging or slinking in their manners; with an air of keen observation, and quick perception when addressed; and generally presenting in their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually leading lives of strong mental excitement. They have all good eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at whomsoever they speak to.

We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest amateur reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspector Wield immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves his right hand, and says, “Regarding the Swell Mob, Sir, I can’t do better than call upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why? I’ll tell you. Sergeant Witchem is better acquainted with the Swell Mob than any officer in London.”

Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we turn to Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen language, goes into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of his brother officers are closely interested in attending to what he says, and observing its effect. Presently they begin to strike in, one or two together, when an opportunity offers, and the conversation becomes general. But these brother officers only come in to the assistance of each other—not to the contradiction—and a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From the swell mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, public-house dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out “gonophing,” and other “schools,” to which our readers have already been introduced. It is observable throughout these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always exact and statistical, and that when any question of figures arises, everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him.

When we have exhausted the various schools of Art—during which discussion the whole body have remained profoundly attentive, except when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way, has induced some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in that direction, behind his next neighbour’s back—we burrow for information on such points as the following. Whether there really are any highway robberies in London, or whether some circumstances not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved party, usually precede the robberies complained of, under that head, which quite change their character? Certainly the latter, almost always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be cautious how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a place of public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a thief,—supposing them, beforehand, strangers to each other—because each recognises in the other, under all disguise, an inattention to what is going on, and a purpose that is not the purpose of being entertained? Yes. That’s the way exactly. Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd. Lying is their habit and their trade; and they would rather lie—even if they hadn’t an interest in it, and didn’t want to make themselves agreeable—than tell the truth.

From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated and horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery of almost all of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the murderers, are here, down to the very last instance. One of our guests gave chase to and boarded the Emigrant Ship, in which the murderess last hanged in London was supposed to have embarked. We learn from him that his errand was not announced to the passengers, who may have no idea of it to this hour. That he went below, with the captain, lamp in hand—it being dark, and the whole steerage abed and seasick—and engaged the Mrs. Manning who _was_ on board, in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he quietly re-embarked in the Government steamer alongside, and steamed home again with the intelligence.

When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a considerable time in the discussion, two or three leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seats. Sergeant Witchem, leaning forward a little, and placing a hand on each of his legs, then modestly speaks as follows:

“My brother officers wish me to relate a little account of my taking Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn’t to tell what he has done himself; but still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as nobody but myself can tell it, I’ll do it in the best way I can, if it should meet your approval.”

We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we all compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention.

“Tally-ho Thompson,” says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting his lips with his brandy-and-water, “Tally-ho Thompson was a famous horse-stealer, couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with a pal that occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out of a good round sum of money, under pretence of getting him a situation—the regular old dodge—and was afterwards in the ‘Hue and Cry’ for a horse—a horse that he stole, down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after Thompson, and I applied myself, of course, in the first instance, to discovering where he was. Now, Thompson’s wife lived, along with a little daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that Thompson was somewhere in the country, I watched the house—especially at post-time in the morning—thinking Thompson was pretty likely to write to her. Sure enough, one morning the postman comes up, and delivers a letter at Mrs. Thompson’s door. Little girl opens the door, and takes it in. We’re not always sure of postmen, though the people at the post-offices are always very obliging. A postman may help us, or he may not,—just as it happens. However, I go across the road, and I say to the postman, after he has left the letter, ‘Good morning! how are you?’ ‘How are _you_?’ says he. ‘You’ve just delivered a letter for Mrs. Thompson.’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘You didn’t happen to remark what the post-mark was, perhaps?’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘I didn’t.’ ‘Come,’ says I, ‘I’ll be plain with you. I’m in a small way of business, and I have given Thompson credit, and I can’t afford to lose what he owes me. I know he’s got money, and I know he’s in the country, and if you could tell me what the post-mark was, I should be very much obliged to you, and you’d do a service to a tradesman in a small way of business that can’t afford a loss.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I do assure you that I did not observe what the post-mark was; all I know is, that there was money in the letter—I should say a sovereign.’ This was enough for me, because of course I knew that Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable she’d write to Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt. So I said ‘Thankee’ to the postman, and I kept on the watch. In the afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of course I followed her. She went into a stationer’s shop, and I needn’t say to you that I looked in at the window. She bought some writing-paper and envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself, ‘That’ll do!’—watch her home again—and don’t go away, you may be sure, knowing that Mrs. Thompson was writing her letter to Tally-ho, and that the letter would be posted presently. In about an hour or so, out came the little girl again, with the letter in her hand. I went up, and said something to the child, whatever it might have been; but I couldn’t see the direction of the letter, because she held it with the seal upwards. However, I observed that on the back of the letter there was what we call a kiss—a drop of wax by the side of the seal—and again, you understand, that was enough for me. I saw her post the letter, waited till she was gone, then went into the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came out, I told him, ‘Now, I’m an Officer in the Detective Force; there’s a letter with a kiss been posted here just now, for a man that I’m in search of; and what I have to ask of you, is, that you will let me look at the direction of that letter.’ He was very civil—took a lot of letters from the box in the window—shook ’em out on the counter with the faces downwards—and there among ’em was the identical letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Office, B——, to be left ’till called for. Down I went to B—— (a hundred and twenty miles or so) that night. Early next morning I went to the Post-Office; saw the gentleman in charge of that department; told him who I was; and that my object was to see, and track, the party that should come for the letter for Mr. Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, ‘You shall have every assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the office; and we’ll take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter.’ Well, I waited there, three days, and began to think that nobody ever _would_ come. At last the clerk whispered to me, ‘Here! Detective! Somebody’s come for the letter!’ ‘Keep him a minute,’ said I, and I ran round to the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle—stretching the bridle across the pavement, while he waited at the Post-Office Window for the letter. I began to pat the horse, and that; and I said to the boy, ‘Why, this is Mr. Jones’s Mare!’ ‘No. It an’t.’ ‘No?’ said I. ‘She’s very like Mr. Jones’s Mare!’ ‘She an’t Mr. Jones’s Mare, anyhow,’ says he. ‘It’s Mr. So-and-So’s, of the Warwick Arms.’ And up he jumped, and off he went—letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so quick after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, by one gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, where there was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of brandy-and-water. He came in directly, and handed her the letter. She casually looked at it, without saying anything, and stuck it up behind the glass over the chimney-piece. What was to be done next?

“I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and-water (looking pretty sharp at the letter the while), but I couldn’t see my way out of it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but there had been a horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it was full. I was obliged to put up somewhere else, but I came backwards and forwards to the bar for a couple of days, and there was the letter, always behind the glass. At last I thought I’d write a letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that would do. So I wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr. John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what _that_ would do. In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched the postman down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached the Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. ‘Is there a Mr. John Pigeon staying here?’ ‘No!—stop a bit though,’ says the barmaid; and she took down the letter behind the glass. ‘No,’ says she, ‘it’s Thomas, and _he_ is not staying here. Would you do me a favor, and post this for me, as it is so wet?’ The postman said Yes; she folded it in another envelope, directed it, and gave it him. He put it in his hat, and away he went.

“I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter. It was addressed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Office, R——, Northamptonshire, to be left till called for. Off I started directly for R——; I said the same at the Post-Office there, as I had said at B——; and again I waited three days before anybody came. At last another chap on horseback came. ‘Any letters for Mr. Thomas Pigeon?’ ‘Where do you come from?’ ‘New Inn, near R——.’ He got the letter, and away _he_ went—at a canter.

“I made my enquiries about the New Inn, near R——, and hearing it was a solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a couple of miles from the station, I thought I’d go and have a look at it. I found it what it had been described, and sauntered in, to look about me. The landlady was in the bar, and I was trying to get into conversation with her; asked her how business was, and spoke about the wet weather, and so on; when I saw, through an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a sort of parlor, or kitchen; and one of those men, according to the description I had of him, was Tally-ho Thompson!

“I went and sat down among ’em, and tried to make things agreeable; but they were very shy—wouldn’t talk at all—looked at me, and at one another, in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned ’em up, and finding that they were all three bigger men than me, and considering that their looks were ugly—that it was a lonely place—railroad station two miles off—and night coming on—thought I couldn’t do better than have a drop of brandy-and-water to keep my courage up. So I called for my brandy-and-water; and as I was sitting drinking it by the fire, Thompson got up and went out.

“Now the difficulty of it was, that I wasn’t sure it _was_ Thompson, because I had never set eyes on him before; and what I had wanted was to be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it now, but to follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him talking, outside in the yard, with the landlady. It turned out afterwards, that he was wanted by a Northampton officer for something else, and that, knowing that officer to be pock-marked (as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have observed, I found him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand upon his shoulder—this way—and said, ‘Tally-ho Thompson, it’s no use. I know you. I’m an officer from London, and I take you into custody for felony!’ ‘That be d—d!’ says Tally-ho Thompson.

“We went back into the house, and the two friends began to cut up rough, and their looks didn’t please me at all, I assure you. ‘Let the man go. What are you going to do with him?’ ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with him. I’m going to take him to London to-night, as sure as I’m alive. I’m not alone here, whatever you may think. You mind your own business, and keep yourselves to yourselves. It’ll be better for you, for I know you both very well.’ _I_‘d never seen or heard of ’em in all my life, but my bouncing cowed ’em a bit, and they kept off, while Thompson was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they might be coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson; so I said to the landlady, ‘What men have you got in the house, Missis?’ ‘We haven’t got no men here,’ she says, sulkily. ‘You have got an ostler, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, we’ve got an ostler.’ ‘Let me see him.’ Presently he came, and a shaggy-headed young fellow he was. ‘Now attend to me, young man,’ says I; ‘I’m a Detective Officer from London. This man’s name is Thompson. I have taken him into custody for felony. I’m going to take him to the railroad station. I call upon you in the Queen’s name to assist me; and mind you, my friend, you’ll get yourself into more trouble than you know of, if you don’t!’ You never saw a person open his eyes so wide. ‘Now, Thompson, come along!’ says I. But when I took out the handcuffs, Thompson cries, ‘No! None of that! I won’t stand _them_! I’ll go along with you quiet, but I won’t bear none of that!’ ‘Tally-ho Thompson,’ I said, ‘I’m willing to behave as a man to you, if you are willing to behave as a man to me. Give me your word that you’ll come peaceably along, and I don’t want to handcuff you.’ ‘I will,’ says Thompson, ‘but I’ll have a glass of brandy first.’ ‘I don’t care if I’ve another,’ said I. ‘We’ll have two more, Missis,’ said the friends, ‘and con-found you, Constable, you’ll give your man a drop, won’t you?’ I was agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I took Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a defect in the evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and says I’m one of the best of men.”

This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his host, and thus delivers himself:

“It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of forging the Sou’ Western Railway debentures—it was only t’other day—because the reason why? I’ll tell you.

“I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder there,” indicating any region on the Surrey side of the river, “where he bought second-hand carriages; so after I’d tried in vain to get hold of him by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that I’d got a horse and shay to dispose of, and would drive down next day, that he might view the lot, and make an offer—very reasonable it was, I said—a reg’lar bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine that’s in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day, a precious smart turn-out, it was—quite a slap-up thing! Down we drove, accordingly, with a friend (who’s not in the Force himself); and leaving my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of the horse, we went to the factory, which was some little way off. In the factory, there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning ’em up, it was clear to me that it wouldn’t do to try it on there. They were too many for us. We must get our man out of doors. ‘Mr. Fikey at home?’ ‘No, he ain’t.’ ‘Expected home soon?’ ‘Why, no, not soon.’ ‘Ah! is his brother here?’ ‘_I_’m his brother.’ ‘Oh! well, this is an ill-conwenience, this is. I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I’d got a little turn-out to dispose of, and I’ve took the trouble to bring the turn-out down, a’ purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.’ ‘No, he an’t in the way. You couldn’t make it convenient to call again, could you?’ ‘Why, no, I couldn’t. I want to sell; that’s the fact; and I can’t put it off. Could you find him anywheres?’ At first he said No, he couldn’t, and then he wasn’t sure about it, and then he’d go and try. So, at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft, and presently down comes my man himself, in his shirt sleeves.

“‘Well,’ he says, ‘this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of yours.’ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘it _is_ rayther a pressing matter, and you’ll find it a bargain—dirt-cheap.’ ‘I ain’t in partickler want of a bargain just now,’ he says, ‘but where is it!’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘the turn-out’s just outside. Come and look at it.’ He hasn’t any suspicions, and away we go. And the first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who knows no more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along the road to show his paces. You never saw such a game in your life!

“When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a stand-still again, Fikey walks round and round it, as grave as a judge—me too. ‘There, Sir!’ I says. ‘There’s a neat thing!’ ‘It an’t a bad style of thing,’ he says. ‘I believe you,’ says I. ‘And there’s a horse!’—for I saw him looking at it. ‘Rising eight!’ I says, rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless you, there an’t a man in the world knows less of horses than I do, but I’d heard my friend at the Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I says, as knowing as possible, ‘Rising Eight.’) ‘Rising eight, is he?’ says he. ‘Rising eight,’ says I. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘what do you want for it?’ ‘Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is five-and-twenty pound!’ ‘That’s very cheap!’ he says, looking at me. ‘An’t it?’ I says. ‘I told you it was a bargain! Now, without any higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell, and that’s my price. Further, I’ll make it easy to you, and take half the money down, and you can do a bit of stiff[1] for the balance.’ ‘Well,’ he says again, ‘that’s very cheap.’ ‘I believe you,’ says I; ‘get in and try it, and you’ll buy it. Come! take a trial!’

Footnote 1:

Give a bill.

“Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to show him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the public-house window to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and didn’t know whether it was him, or wasn’t—because the reason why? I’ll tell you,—on account of his having shaved his whiskers. ‘It’s a clever little horse,’ he says, ‘and trots well; and the shay runs light.’ ‘Not a doubt about it,’ I says. ‘And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without wasting any more of your time. The fact is, I’m Inspector Wield, and you’re my prisoner.’ ‘You don’t mean that?’ he says. ‘I do, indeed.’ ‘Then burn my body,’ says Fikey, ‘if this ain’t _too_ bad!’

“Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. ‘I hope you’ll let me have my coat?’ he says. ‘By all means.’ ‘Well, then, let’s drive to the factory.’ ‘Why, not exactly that, I think,’ said I; ‘I’ve been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we send for it,’ He saw it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and we drove him up to London, comfortable.”

This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange air of simplicity, to tell the “Butcher’s story.” But we must reserve the Butcher’s story, together with another not less curious in its way, for a concluding paper.

“SWINGING THE SHIP.”
A VISIT TO THE COMPASS OBSERVATORY.

The noble ship with her floating battery of heavy guns, her hundreds of seamen, smart and brave, her powder, shot, and shell for destroying an enemy, and her tons of provender to supply her crew; with her anxious captain and aspiring lieutenants, mates, middys, warrant officers, and her pipeclayed marines are on board. The long pennon whips the winds; the hurry, bustle, and noise of preparation has subsided into the quietude of everything in its place; when the word passes that she is “Ready for Sea.”

Next morning the newspapers find just a line and a half in their naval corner for the announcement,—“Her Majesty’s ship Unutterable, 120 guns, went out of harbour yesterday. After she has been swung, and had her compasses adjusted, she will sail for the Pacific.”

“_Swing_ a hundred and twenty gun ship?” says the good citizen interrogatively to himself, as he devours his coffee and his newspaper at breakfast. He pays his taxes and is proud of Britannia and the British navy, but his admiration of the nautical does not help him to a solution. “After she has been swung!” he repeats, and then more immediate affairs draw off his attention, and he leaves the Unutterable to undergo the mysterious. He turns to the debates.

Naval officers are of course more wise on the point, and some of them have more knowledge of the operation than liking for it. It’s apt to spoil the paint now and then, and gives trouble, and upsets some of their arrangements. Many, it must be confessed, have more experience than science in their composition, and when they let out their true feeling, indulge, perhaps, in a half growl, in which the words “new-fangled” and “deal of trouble” might be heard. But the operation goes on nevertheless, and little doubt but the toil is forgotten and the growl repented when—far, far at sea, a murky sky shuts out the sun and the stars, and forbids heaven to tell the navigator where he is—with a waste of waters, hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles around him, he has nought but his figures and his little trembling needles of magnetised iron to guide him on his way; to direct him wide of the sunken rock and the sandy shoal as he nears the wished-for coast.

The loss of British ships by wreck has been stated at between five and six hundred in a year—or about “a ship and a half-a-day.” This terrible loss has been ascribed to many causes—to the tides and currents of the ocean; to imperfect logs; inaccurate charts; unsteady steerage; inattention to the lead; stress of weather; defective ships, and defective management; but last, if not greatest, says Captain Johnson, who gives this catalogue of sources of disaster, we have the errors of the compass. These errors were noticed—now nearly a couple of centuries ago, and from those days to the present time careful mariners have often called attention to the subject. “Officers in charge of convoys during the war,” continues Captain Johnson, “will probably remember the care with which the general signal was displayed at sunset, to steer a given course during the night,” with what alacrity that signal was repeated by the ships of war in their stations, and answered by every merchant-vessel in the fleet; and they will also possibly remember with what surprise,—nay, indignation,—they observed when daylight came, almost the entire convoy dispersed over the ocean as far as the eye could reach, and mayhap a suspicious looking stranger or two escorting those farthest away, further astray, in despite of all the shots fired during a morning watch to recall them. That such dispersements were in part attributable to the differences of the compasses in each ship, there can be no doubt; but the greatest delinquents in this particular, in all probability, were not the merchant vessels, but rather the ships of war; _the attractive power of their guns upon the compasses_ being now a well-known and constantly proved fact.

The Apollo frigate, and forty merchantmen of her convoy, in 1803 were wrecked together on the coast of Portugal, when they believed themselves to be two hundred miles to the westward. The error of the frigate’s compasses is believed to have been the cause of the disaster; and a similar belief exists with respect to the dreadful wrecks of our line of battle ships on the coasts of Jutland and Holland in 1811. The wreck of the Reliance, Indiaman, on the coast of France, when one hundred and nine lives were lost, in 1842, is another painful accident ascribed to errors of the compasses induced by the presence on board of a large iron tank forty-six feet long, the attraction of which had been overlooked—for a hollow tank has a magnetic influence as great as a solid mass of the same external dimensions—and such a mass would weigh four hundred and sixty-eight tons.

These errors in the needle that guides the ship, so dangerous in their results, at last attracted official attention in England. Inquiries were extended in various directions, and it was found that “in some ships the deviation was small; in others it was large enough to cause the loss of a ship, even during a short run; whilst in others, again, from the position of some iron stancheon, bolt or bar, or stand of arms, the error might be changed in the opposite direction; so that the deviation in one vessel was not a guide to its amount or direction in another; and that there was no other remedy but ascertaining the fact by direct experiment in each ship.” These facts were recognised by a committee of English officers, appointed to investigate the matter, one of whom was the Captain Johnson whom we have already quoted, and of whose subsequent labours we shall have further presently to speak.

With these words of explanatory preface, let us set out on a visit to the establishment where the dangers of those afloat are sought to be lessened by scientific investigations on shore.

About two miles and a half eastwards from the Greenwich Observatory, in the picturesque parish of Charlton, and on the extreme corner of the high land that runs from Blackheath, till it juts out close upon the banks of the Thames—stands the building we are in search of. Those who may try to discover it will probably find some little difficulty in the task, for the place is unpretending in outward aspect, and is little known in the neighbourhood; has never before been publicly described—except, perhaps, in those unread publications called Blue Books, and in the technical volume of the naval officer who has charge of this sanctum of science.

It is called the Compass Observatory; and its locality may probably be more completely indicated by saying that it is not very distant from, though on a far higher level than that corner of the Woolwich Dockyard whence the great chimney soars up like a rival monument to that on Fish Street Hill, and where the engine that sets the Dockyard Machines in motion hums like a bee of forty-horse power. When the place is reached, those who expect to see “a public building,” will be disappointed; those who like to find that Science may abide in small and humble places, will be pleased. A long strip of newly-reclaimed land, a detached brick house, and in its rear, an octagonal wooden structure of little greater outward pretensions than a citizen’s “summer house,” make up the whole establishment.

Passing under the pleasant shade of two fine oak trees, and then between a collection of very promising roses, we enter the house. Once inside, we see that the spirit of order, regularity, and neatness, is there paramount. The exactitude requisite for scientific observation, gives a habit of exactness in other things. In one room we perceive a galvanic battery ready for experiments; a disc of iron for showing a now defunct mode of steadying the vibrations of the compass; a specimen of the mixed iron and wood braced together as they are now employed in the construction of first-class ships of the Royal Navy, like the Queen’s Yacht; and more, interesting than all the rest, a copper bowl, contrived by Arago, for stilling the irritability (so to speak) of the magnetic needle.

The French astronomer and ex-minister of the Provisional Government here claims our admiration of his scientific skill, and his work suggests the reflexion how much more pleasant the calm pursuit of nature’s laws must be to such a man, than the turbulent effort to enact rules and constitutions for an impetuous and changeable people. Passing from this room to another, we find books, and charts, and maps, on which are laid down the magnetic currents over the great oceans, and amongst its instrumental relics, a magnetic needle that belonged to poor Captain Cook. It is a plain small bar of steel in a rough wooden case, but to the mariner who loves his craft and its heroes, this morsel of iron has an interest greater than the most perfect of nautical inventions—for Cook was a seaman who achieved great ends with humble means and from humble beginnings. A third room is full of compasses of all sorts, sizes, and kinds, from China, from Denmark, from France; from the most rude and simple, to the most complex and finished. All the schemes and plans ever proposed for improving this useful invention are here preserved. Many of the contrivances have been discovered more than once. A sanguine theorist completes what to him is perfectly new. Certain that he is to be immortalised and enriched, he sets off to the Observatory with his treasure, to reveal his grand secret, and receive the anticipated reward. He is shown into the compass-room, and there,—horror of horrors,—upon the table, amidst a host of others, there is an old discarded instrument the very counterpart of his own! It was made, and tried, and discarded, years ago.

From the main brick building we pass through another line of roses, and under a bower, boasting some fifty different varieties of that charming flower, to the wooden structure in the rear, which is, in fact, the Observatory.

This building is entirely free from iron. It is approached by stone steps; the door has a pure copper lock, which being opened by a copper key, swings on copper hinges to admit the visitor after he has first cleared the dirt from his shoes upon a copper scraper. Nearly facing the door is a stove to keep up the temperature in cold weather. It looks black enough, and has a black funnel. When the visitor is told that Captain Johnson has his coat-buttons carefully made without any iron shank concealed under their silken cover; and that his assistant, Mr. Brunton, repudiates buttons to his jacket altogether, and has pockets guiltless of a knife; he is apt to turn to the stove, and hint the presence there of the forbidden metal.

“Ah, ah!” is the reply, it looks like iron sure enough; but the fireplace, the chimney, the poker, the shovel, are all alike. Nothing but copper, copper, pure copper. This suggests an anecdote. When the operations in this Compass Observatory were first commenced, there was found to be a small variation in the magnet. The instruments were readjusted; their character was investigated, their construction re-examined; other observations were made—but still the variation continued. Pockets were searched for knives; the garden looked over to see that no stray spade or rake had been left outside the building, yet near enough for mischief. Nothing could be discovered. At length the _brass_ bolt on the window was suspected; and though brass had a good character, not being thought capable of coaxing the magnet from its truth, it was, in despair of finding any other delinquent, unscrewed from its position. No sooner was this done, than the wayward needle returned to its true position; the brass bolt was ejected in disgrace, and no morsel of the brazen metal has since been allowed to show itself within the precincts of the building sacred to the mysterious fluid that draws the iron needle to the North.

Once inside the Observatory, the first impression is one of isolation and quietude. Look up to the wooden roof, and you see two shutters, to be opened when an observation is to be made upon a star. Through the floor rise three pedestals of masonry, built solidly from the earth, and isolated from the Observatory floor, so that no vibration may be communicated to them. All three stand in a row, running north and south. The object of two of them is to support with complete steadiness and truth two instruments for determining, at any moment of time, the exact magnetic north, whilst the third pedestal holds one by one the compasses brought there to be tested. The most northern of these three narrow stone tables is, in fact, a bed of trial—a place of ordeal—whilst the other two support the instrumental judges, who are to pass sentence upon the fluttering needles brought under their unyielding gaze. The test is a severe one. It is easy, with proper means, to get the true magnetic north with a fixed instrument on shore, but to make something that shall tell it with equal truth upon the deck of a ship, as it heaves and tosses, and plunges on the sea, is a very different thing. Yet, instruments equal to such triumphs of skill are obtained, and in this place it is that their qualities are first investigated. The south pedestal has upon it a tall tube of glass, within which there hang some long fibres of untwisted silk, supporting a magnetic tube so beautifully poised, that it obeys without let or hindrance its natural tendency towards the magnetic north. This tubular magnet has at one end a glass on which a scale and figures are engraved, but so fine and small as to be with difficulty seen by the naked eye. The second pedestal supports a telescope, with which the observer looks down the tubular throat of the magnet towards this tiny scale on the glass at its extremity. Our friends, the “spiders,” have contributed some lines to the telescope, and the centre one of these crosses the exact figure showing the magnetic position at the moment.

With this figure in his mind, the telescope and the observer’s eye are poised in the opposite direction, through the window of the Observatory, towards a spot some half mile to the north, called Cox’s Mount; an eminence on which a wall has been raised to bear a numbered scale similar to that on the magnet—with this difference—that the one is very minute, and the other very large. To the corresponding figure on the distant wall the instrument is directed, and being thus pointed towards the true magnetic north, it is brought to bear upon the pivot of the compass—which by this time occupies a place on the top of the third pedestal to be tested. Without a complex description, and the free use of scientific terms, it would be perhaps impossible to convey a thoroughly exact conception of the steps of the whole process. Such a detail would be not only too technical, but unnecessary, here. It will be enough in general terms to say, therefore, that the indication obtained from a star, or from the instrument on the south pedestal, called the collimator, is, by means of the instrument in the centre, combined with a mark upon a distant object, and then brought down to prove the true powers of the compass placed on the third pedestal. It is a beautifully exact operation. The silence of isolation, the steadiness of stone tables and practised operators, the most beautifully constructed instruments, are combined to ensure accurate realities as a result. The tests are so varied, and so often repeated, that no error can escape, and the compass, when it leaves the building to begin its adventures afloat, commences its career with an irreproachable character as a Standard Compass of the Royal Navy—to be, on board the ship of war to which it is sent, a kind of master instrument of reference, by which ruder and cheaper compasses may be checked and regulated.

Just as the history of the stars and of the variations of the magnet is registered and posted up at the Greenwich Observatory, so is that of the compasses entered up here. Every compass that passes its examination may be said to receive its commission, and be appointed to a ship. Its number is taken; its vessel and destination are noted, and, subsequently, its length of service. On its return home from successive trips, it comes back to this place, when its character is again investigated and note made of any loss of magnetic power, of any deviations it may have exhibited, how it may have lost and how gained, and of any other circumstances showing either improvement or deterioration. Now and then one is blacklisted, but this seldom happens; the greatest loss yet noted being 30 minutes. The Standard Compasses cost, when made new, with tripod and all complete, 25_l._ each. After they have been some years in service afloat, they are sent into hospital for overhaul and repair. This costs generally 4_l._ or 5_l._, and they are then again as good as ever, and ready to guide another ship on her way over the mighty waters. The scientific part of the fittings of a ship of war, though of greatest value, are thus of lowest cost. A Standard Compass is, indeed, a beautiful result of human ingenuity. Generations of seamen and men of science have discussed the best form and materials, and the best mode of suspending the needle, that it may most freely and truly follow its mysterious love for the north. From the days of the old adventurers round the globe, to the date of the last voyages to the Arctic regions, successive sea captains have thought, and watched, and suggested, and the Standard Compass of the English Navy combines, it is believed, all that is best in all their thinking. After the Observatory was established, and one of its duties had been defined to be to pursue investigations on the deviation of the needle, it was thought desirable to have specimens of the instruments used in the war ships of other naval nations. With the open liberality that unites in brotherhood the scientific men of all countries, France and Denmark sent specimens of what their best men had succeeded in perfecting for the use of their navies. These instruments are very good, and attract deserved attention in the observatory-collection of specimens. The Frenchman is scientific, simple, and with an excellent contrivance for a moveable agate plane to avoid friction in the motion of the needle. The Dane is a good substantial instrument, even more excellently finished than the compasses issued to our navy.

The English Compass is, however, believed with good reason to be the best yet contrived. It has grown up to its present excellence by slow degrees. Human ingenuity has been taxed to its utmost, and it has passed to its present perfection through the various trials of needles of all sorts of shapes swung in all sorts of ways, and by springs, and floating cards, modifying the instrument to the varying conditions of a small boat tossing on waves, or a line of battle ship jarring under the recoil of a broadside. And now we find our Compass-needle made of iron that, being got from the Swedish mines, has travelled to Strasbourg to be prepared for clock springs; thence to Paris, to be still more highly wrought by the watchmaker; and then to London, to take its sea-going shape. Four bars of this choice metal, or of shear-steel of equally fine quality, are ranged edgewise under a card, thickened and stiffened yet kept transparent by a sheet of mica, brought from the Russian mines; this card moves upon a point made of a metal harder than steel, and incapable of corrosion; and which sometimes, under the name of Iridium, but more correctly under that of “native alloy,” is found by the refiners as they smelt the platinum and silver gained from the Ural Mountains or the mines of Spain. The Iridium or alloy comes to the workshop in the tiniest of glass bottles—bottles as small round as a goose-quill, and about an inch long—in morsels not much bigger than a pin’s head, and weighing each less than half a grain. Some of these prove too soft, some too spongy, some too brittle, but at last one is found hard and good, and it is soldered upon the pivot, that, when sharpened and polished, is to work upon a cap, formed of a ruby, brought from the East. A bowl of the metal suggested by the French philosopher being prepared, from the produce of the mines of Cornwall; and the science of the English philosopher, and the skill of the English workman, having brought all these things into their proper shape and places; we have, as the result, the Standard Compass, whose fitness to guide her Majesty’s ship the Unutterable, we have just seen tested by Captain Johnson at the Woolwich Compass Observatory.

Our favourite newspaper has just stated that that gallant ship “is now at Greenhithe waiting to have her compasses adjusted.” So, then, the instruments so accurate at the Observatory a few days ago, are all wrong again on shipboard. Just so. The moment they get to their places afloat, their fidelity to the north wavers,—in one ship more, in another less; but in all in a greater or smaller degree in proportion to the quantity of iron used in the construction of the vessel, and the nearness of that metal to the compasses; in proportion to the number of the iron guns and the total weight of metal carried; to the length of the funnel in steamships, and to the condition of that funnel whether upright or hauled down. All this is both new and strange enough. We have learnt already what loss of ships convoyed and ships wrecked has arisen from these deviations: deviations long neglected on board all vessels and to this hour unrecognised or unattended to in our mercantile marine! Since the Royal Navy, however, has a scientific officer, Captain Johnson, especially employed in attending to the important duty of adjusting the compasses: let us go with him and his assistant, Mr. Brunton, from the Compass Observatory to the anchorage at Greenhithe, and see how he will “swing” the gallant line of battle ship, the Unutterable.