 | THE BOYS THAT RUN WITH THE ENGINE. Peter Ploddy, and other oddities |  |
8. THE BOYS THAT RUN WITH THE ENGINE.
We are deceived. There is not so much inequality of
talent as the world supposes. From the earliest ages,
there has been a conspiracy of caste, to blind and to mislead
the mass of mankind, by giving a monopoly of fame
to those who stand in certain positions. To all the rest,
renown has been denied, and they have been content
with a lot, not inevitable, but cunningly imposed; and
thus the world, at every period, has been converted into
a crowd of “stupid starers”—shouters for self-constituted
idols, when, if the truth were known, thousands of those
who submit to be lookers-on, and to be shut from the
historic page altogether, not only possess genius equal to
that of the hero, but, actually, albeit in an humbler field,
give unhonoured manifestations of superior ability. The
difference is, that one man is framed, gilded, and hung
up against the wall, to be looked at and admired, while
another plods along the dusty highway, without attracting
notice. An accident has been wanting. A concurrence
of circumstances has brought about greatness in one
instance, when, in the other, the individual did not happen
to be within range of the breeze of fortune at the
proper moment; and hence, his sails flap idly against the
mast, while the happier ship proudly careers across the
seas. Luck may not be a very euphonical word; but
there is much in luck. Instances of course arise, in
which the individual has not the innate force to improve
his luck, and is, therefore, rather overwhelmed than benefitted
by it. If a man be crank, and lack ballast, he is
swamped by the prosperous gale; but there are many
others who lag behind, only because they need the external
any one stands before our eyes, sparkling with reputation
and glittering with glory—like Gesler's cap upon a pole,
to which all are required to bow—let us shade our eyes
from the effulgence, and do honour rather to the luck,
than to him who has been the subject of it. Let us enquire
whether it has been his own strength of limb, or
the brawny muscle of propitious fortune, which has
borne him up the steep, and let us pay our respects
accordingly.
Glory, in the main, is a delusion. It is too often rather
a concession on our part, than a merit in him to whom it
is accorded. It is not so much the talent we admire, as
the chance which gave room for its exhibition. The
same elements of character might be at our side for a life-time,
and receive no appreciation. It is only when they
are successfully displayed in the arena peculiarly dedicated
to glory, that our wonder is moved. The dexterity
of a Talleyrand may retail dry goods, but who writes the
history of him that wields a yard-stick? The strategic
talent of a Napoleon may be evinced in robbing the
“watermillion” patches of New Jersey; but where is the
O'Meara to note the sayings of one who expiates his
offences in a county jail? Humanity is unjust to itself.
If genius be the thing to be admired, why should it command
our homage more readily when attired in feathers
and embroidery, than when skulking in rags and tatters?
Are the constituents of heroism less worthy when their
owner is in the hands of a constable, than when he is incarcerated
in an island prison like St. Helena? Never
credit it. We are fools to our false views and erroneous
estimates. We are struck by the circumstance, and not
by the essential. The ragamuffin's head has not been
adorned with a laurel wreath—he never, perhaps, caused
an illumination, except when dragged from his thieving
but analyze his actions, put his motives and his achievements
into the crucible of philosophic reflection, and then
determine whether, in a happier sphere, he would not
have stolen “crowns” where he now filches shillings,
and have appropriated empires, instead of “hooking”
boots from an entry. Is it not true, then, that we esteem
the lucks and chances of a man, much more than we
reverence the man himself? Why, even when hero
meets hero, he receives the applause who carries off the
victory, when it is plainly apparent that accident alone
was decisive of the conflict. A chance shot disables the
frigate,—the bugler is killed, and does not call “boarders
to repel boarders,”—an aid-de-camp fails to convey
orders,—a Grouchy does not bring up the reserve in
time,—the success is determined by some petty failure in
the details of a masterpiece of skill, and he is hailed the
great one who stumbles into triumph. Blind luck draws
the bow-string round the neck of genius, and the goose
pecks out the eyes of the eagle.
The same injustice prevails throughout. Why should
familiarity breed contempt, but that we have what may
be called a proclivity to humbug—a disposition to be
deceived? And yet it will always be found, that no man
is a hero to his valet-de-chambre—no, nor to his wife, his
children, or his friends, except in some rare instances.
Who can believe that Peter, by our side,—Peter, whom
we have known from childhood upwards,—Peter, whom
we have rebuked, rebuffed and perhaps cuffed,—who can
think that Peter is a genius? And why not Peter?—who
is inevitably better than Peter? Warriors and statesmen?
They were not born warriors and statesmen. They were
once little Peters, probably Peters not so promising as
yours. Scurvy little Peters, crying on the stairs—rebuked,
rebuffed and cuffed, no doubt, like him. But we
power of appreciation by that intimate knowledge; and in
this respect, as in all others, it is distance and ignorance
combined, which creates our astonishment. Thus it is,
indeed, that they err, who wish to see the great ones
close at hand; and thus the great ones err, who suffer
themselves unnecessarily to be seen close at hand. He
who really desires to enjoy the enchantment of the drama,
is not wise in thrusting himself behind the scenes. The
tyrant does not become more awful, when it is observed
that his portentous moustache and terrific eye-brow are the
product of a burnt cork; nor are the dancing-girls a whit
more full of fascination, when it appears that their roseate
blushes are the quintessence of brick-dust. And what
literary lion is there, in the long list of those who have
visited our shores, who did not lose his mane by the adventure?—who
did not sink in public estimation, and
gradually decline from the majesty of a quadruped, into
the ordinary two-legged condition of the indigenous man?
Where, in fact, is the exception? Not one. Familiarity
is the “Lion King.” It reduces all such rampant creatures
to the mere household standard, and puts them to
sleep before the fire.
But all these things are nevertheless wrong. Genius
is genius, whether the chance be afforded or not;—it is
still genius, and the same genius, whether its field be
small or great;—it is genius, notwithstanding, however
close it may be in our intimacy, and the truth of our prelude
may be demonstrated in all its branches, by a slight
recurrence to the history of “The Boys that run with the
Engine.”
They are but imperfect observers of human nature, who
look abroad and look upwards, to note character in its
more striking developments. If their study is man, the
true materials for research are best found close at hand.
distance, are seen through a distorting medium. The
so-called chronicles of the times, are but the mirage of
the desert, in which the parties represented often appear
upside down, one swelling to a gigantic stature, while
another dwindles to dwarfish proportions. Motives are
mistaken and results are exaggerated, and he who hopes,
in this way, to arrive at knowledge through the medium
of written records, must, by dint of preparatory study on
the living subject, have learned to separate the reality
from the fictitious. Cabinets and camps are well enough,
to be sure, if we are on our guard against the deceptive
glare which is almost invariably thrown around them—
if we are gifted with that rare discrimination which considers
the man himself, and not his embroidery; but, in
the generality of cases, it is our weakness to regard as
fine birds, all poultry which has been lucky enough to
trig itself out in fine feathers, and hence we are led into
errors innumerable,—our swans are geese, and the turkey
is often degraded to the rank of a buzzard. If, however,
we turn from courts and camps and cabinets, to the
engine houses of a great metropolis, we shall there find
action, and the springs to action,—action as energetic,
and the springs to action as forcible, as are to be seen
any where,—laid open to our view, without gilding and
without guile. Here is manhood in its opening flower,
—in the summer morning of its restlessness. The untrimmed
colt of aspiring ambition prances upon this plain;
a colt which may hereafter be the war-horse, with his
neck clothed in thunder—a more striking adornment,
as must readily be admitted, than even one of Tennent's
best fitting stocks, in all the glory of shining satin.
Diplomacy may perhaps be expanding in this group,
little restrained by the weak embraces of a thread-bare
jacket, and, by its side, stands that emulation, which
with carrying a torch, with bearing the massive
weight of a branch-pipe, with having the head of a rope,
or with having the hand of control upon the tongue of
the carriage. All propelling qualities are developed
here, and “the boys that run with the engine” have
within them every faculty necessary, in a more polished
condition, for the conduct of an empire.
And it is for these reasons, that “the boys that run
with the engine,” are deemed worthy of being sketched
by the cunning hand of the artist, and of having their
mental characteristics pourtrayed in an essay especially
devoted to the subject. Fastidious refinement may turn
its head aside in scorn, to luxuriate upon the historical
novel or the metaphysical romance, to contemplate representations
of man as he is not, and of woman as she ought
not to be; but these things are passing away, and it is to
be the glory of our time to “catch the manners living as
they rise,”—to look upon nothing as beneath its notice
which contributes to modify the dispositions of the
age.
Who, let us ask, is more of a “feature” in the countenance
of the times, as they exist hereabouts, than these juvenile
Rosicrucians—these Ghebers—these modern Fire-worshippers?
Who stand out more prominently on the
face of things than they who, by night and by day, sweep
like the wind along the streets, and, by their obstreperous
clamour, prevent even echo from indulging in a protracted
nap? Who are more active, more courageous, more
constantly on the alert,—who make more noise in the
world, or force their way more readily through every
obstruction, causing all people and all things to give way
before them, than “the boys that run with the engine?”
Who are more frequently heard, more often felt, or more
continually seen than these skimmers of the street, and
It would be a gross dereliction of duty to suffer them to
pass unheeded.
The “spirit of fire,” which early seizes upon a considerable
portion of the youth of cities, is so far from
being properly subject to those who have that limited
species of control over them, which is accorded to parents
and guardians, that perhaps it may be said, there is no
other branch of insubordination which causes so much
trouble and uneasiness. To the “boss,” whose apprentices
have reached the state of development necessary for
the reception of the fever, an alarm of fire is a perfect
horror—not because his sympathies with the probable
sufferer are excessive—not because he mourns over the
ragings of the destructive element; but because he knows
that, under such circumstances, his authority is neutralized
and negatived—that his influence is so far gone that
“moral suasion” will not keep his boys to their work,
and that, if he expects that the shop is not to be left to
take care of itself, he must prevent its depopulation by
bringing the strong arm in play. To lock the door is
not sufficient, while windows remain practicable, and
even should the windows be hermetically sealed, egress
by the chimney would not be thought too much of a feat
to meet the call of paramount duty. Should the alarm
come in the night, it is in vain that the “old man”—all
superiors are “old men,” in modern phraseology, and our
standing in that respect is measured by rank, not years—
has made all fast and gone chuckling to bed, with the key
under his pillow. He forgets that sheds and fences and
out-houses are as available to intrepidity as a staircase, and
that “the boy that runs with the engine” can travel over
the exterior of a house with as little embarrassment as if
the laws of gravitation exercised no influence over him—
that, with his jacket under his arm and his boots slung
more cleverly than he; and, while the aforesaid
“boss” notes the heavy eyes and nodding heads
which hang during the day so listlessly over their task,
he never arrives at the true secret until he discovers that
“there was a fire last night.” Little did he dream—
poor unsuspicious soul!—when the midnight bell struck
on his ear, and he turned him again to sleep, after ascertaining
the key to be safe in its snug position—that Tom
and Dick and Ben, and all the rest, were off in triumph,
and that the energies which should have been expended
in his service, according to the articles of apprenticeship,
had been exhausted in extinguishing far distant flames.
He never thought that those hoarse yells, which broke his
rest with momentary dismay, emanated from most familiar
voices, nor that the unintelligible, but none the less fearful
on that account, “waugh-baugh-wulla-balloo!” which
sounded so dreadfully before his door, mingled with the
clanging of the bell and the fitful glancing of torches, was
a derisive cry, uttered for his especial edification, by one
of those whom he believed still to be slumbering in the
garret. Nor when at breakfast time, he told the lads how
loud was the alarm last night, and how the signal indicated
that the danger lay “nor-west,” did he mark the
cunning wink which stole from eye to eye, in mockery
of the ignorance that would give them information upon
a subject so familiar. Why the lads are all so harsh in
their tones, he cannot imagine, unless it be that the influenza
is about; but he does think that the variety of soil
upon their boots, indicates the fact of more previous travel
than he was aware of. At such times also, there are apt
to be unaccountable deficiencies in the quantity of cold
provisions in the cellar, which are scarcely to be attributed
to the gastronomic performances of a single cat. The
amateur fireman, on the return from service, is apt to
essential to the well-being of real estate, he takes
due care to nourish himself accordingly.
The learned may not perhaps have taken due cognisance
of the fact, but, in some divisions of knowledge,
the extent of information obtained by “the boys that run
with the engine,” is well calculated to move our wonder.
The amount of their acquaintance with local topography,
qualifies them to write articles for the Encyclopedia.
Not a court, lane or alley—not a hole nor a corner, in the
vast circumference of the town, which is not considerably
more familiar to them than a glove. They are the Plutarchs
of fire-plugs, knowing the history of each, and the
comparative merits of all. At every conflagration within
their experience, they can tell what engines were in service,
what hose companies had “attachments,” and how
many feet of hose were brought in play—who was earliest
on the ground, and obtained the most effective position,
with many other particulars with which the world, greatly
to its disadvantage, is never likely to become conversant.
If it were the nature of “the boys” to write, the annals
of the parish, as they would record them, could not fail
to form a whole library in itself.
On the score of emulation too, these lads are not to be
surpassed by the most ambitious of ancient or modern
times. Other people are regardful of creature comforts.
They will break away from the most interesting employment,
because dinner is ready, or because the hour has
come when they are in the habit of imbibing tea. When
the time arrives for going to bed, they cease from their
labours and get them to repose. They are slaves to
routine, and must travel continually in the accustomed
circle, or they are wretched in proportion to the extent to
which they have deviated; but it is not so with “the
boys that run with the engine.” The eccentricity is their
weighed in the balance with the pleasure of dragging a
heavy machine through the mud; and, that they may be
first at the engine house, they have often been known, on
the frostiest night, to leap from their warm couches,
rushing forth with their garments in a bundle, to dress
when they had reached their destination. Can disinterestedness,
generous emulation and glowing ambition,
attain a more exalted climax than this? It does not lie
within the range of possibility, and the higher value will
be affixed to it, when it is remembered that many of
these “young youths” have quite another character in the
more ordinary affairs of life. In matters of mere domestic
concernment, they who will labour so strenuously in the
cause of the engine, are, in frequent instances, found to be
in no way addicted to excessive exertion. A night alarm
will draw those from their beds, who are not easily enticed
therefrom at the call of business; and the most
lethargic lounger that ever dozed when he should have
been waking, or that ever skulked when work was at
hand, will cheerfully encounter any toil, if it happen to be
connected with the duties of the hose house.
The leading characteristic, however, of the class to
which we refer, is valour—enterprise, energy and valour.
Where could a nobler combination be discovered?
Next to a fire, the most glorious object to their view, is
a fight. But when both unite—when a fight is found at
a fire, and when the fire lights the way to a fight, who
are happier than “the boys that run with the engine?”
And reason good, if it be true that martial heroism is a
matter worthy of our aspirations. The elements of war
conjoin. The flames crackle—the fierce hurrah goes up
—columns charge—the heavy artillery comes lumbering
through the press—shrieks, groans, imprecations and denunciations,
are mingled thick with blows and thrusts.
sabre, and quick as lightning, cuts “six” upon the head
and shoulders of the foe, stretching him senseless in the
kennel. The massive “spanner” makes short work of
the stoutest tarpaulin, and though the combatants may
long for the bullet, yet those who have had much experience
in the force of projectiles, have discovered that but
for the name of the thing, brickbats are likely to answer
just as well. All the joy of conflict is called forth in
such a field. It is not the distant and cold-blooded courtesy
of scientific manœuvre, where legs usurp the prerogative
of arms—it is the forlorn hope, the escalade, the
storm, the hand-to-hand engagement, developing “the
worth of the individual” and giving scope to personal
prowess—this is what invests it with fascination for the
engine boy; and what more could be accomplished, even
at a Waterloo, than to be picked up for dead and carried
home on a shutter? The essentials of glory are every
one attainable in such a struggle, and it is but that short-sightedness
on the part of the world, to which we have
already alluded, which prevents the proper distribution
of praise. It is true that the scarred veteran obtains no
pension to compensate for his knocks; but does that argue
that they did not smart as much as wounds that are better
paid for? The victor receives neither title nor riband;
but, in all likelihood, he has been quite as cruel, brutal and
oppressive, to the extent of the opportunity, as if he were
honoured with both.
In all associations, whether of men, boys or sheep,
there is invariably a bell-wether—a master spirit; one
who affords colour to their modes of thought, and furnishes
aim for their actions—who warms their spirit when their
courage flags—who lends them enterprise when they
falter, and gives concentration to their efforts. In an extended
sphere, such individuals bestow character on nations
a more confined circle, the personal stamp, though not so
widely spread, is made with equal distinctness. In the
group which forms the subject of our story, such a one
will be seen in the person of Hickey Hammer,—he who
leans against the wall, with club in hand and with a most
majestic sternness in his countenance—he, with the game-cock
look all over him—he, whose combativeness and
destructiveness are so prominent as to render it unavoidable
to wear his hat aslant, that, on one side at least, these
organs may be comparatively cool, to ensure safety to his
friends—he, Hickey Hammer, who has fierceness enough
in his composition to furnish a whole menagerie, and yet
leave sufficient surplus to animate and constitute a warrior.
Were there ample swing for Hickey Hammer—
had we the delights of civil war, or the charms of a revolution,
there would be one more added to the list of
heroes, and another picture would figure in the print shops.
But as it is, Hickey contrives to find some vent for his
inspiration, by getting up a quarrel about once a day, and
nourishing it into a genial combat—otherwise, he would
explode from the attrition of his own fiery spirits. Hickey
Hammer “runs with the engine,” because it goes to fight
fire, and he almost wishes that he were a bucket of water,
to grapple more directly with so fierce a foe. So irresistible
is his call to contend, that he is obliged to gratify
it, whether there be an object present or not. When he
goes to bed at night, or when he rises in the morning, the
exercise of his muscles is an invariable concomitant.
He strikes the air, parries imaginary blows, and passes
through all the action of a “heady fight,” with an energy
that is really alarming. Every door in the house bears
the imprint of his knuckles, and the very tables are splintered
by the weight of his fist. The “cocked hat” is to
him the beau ideal of shapes, and he labours to knock all
venture within reach of his arm, the existing moment
would at once be converted, by a similar process, into
“the middle of next week.”
It will be seen that one of his devoted admirers is endeavouring
to tell him a story about a Mr. Tompkins,
who had recently distinguished himself at a fire, and that
Hickey Hammer listens with his usual scornful impatience.
“Tompkins!” said Hickey, on the occasion referred
to; “well, and who is Tompkins, your great Tompkins?
Now I'll bring this thing to a pint at once; for when
there's so much talk, there's never a bit of fight.”
“I didn't say any thing about fight,” was the trembling
remonstrance of the admirer.
“But you cracked Tompkins up, didn't you, and
Tompkins pretends to be great shakes, don't he? What's
that but fight, I should like to know? Now the thing,
as I said before, is just this, and no more than
this. I don't pretend to be much; but can Tompkins
lick me? Could he lick me any way, fair stand up
and no closing in, or could he do it, rough and tumble
and no letting up? Talking about people is nonsense—
this is the how, to find out what a chap is good for.
Fetch on your Tompkins, and tie my right hand behind
me, if you like—that's all—yes, and he shall have six
cracks at me before I begin. I'm not particular about
odds. When you see this Tompkins, tell him so, and
ask if he or his big brother, if he has got one, or any of
the family, boss and all, would like to knock a chip off
my hat any afternoon. I'll clear them of the law. I
want them to do it—I'd give 'em something if they'd
do it. Just feel my arm—hickory and gum logs! Talk
of your Tompkinses! Who did they ever lick? I don't
even believe they were ever taken up because they were
Sunday, and then show me Tompkins, if you want to see
a man forget what he had for dinner.”
In fact, Hickey Hammer considers himself sent here on
a special mission, to accommodate all customers, and
whenever he hears of a new comer, his first inquiry is
as to the individual's appreciation of his own prowess—
whether, like Tompkins, “he thinks he can lick Hickey
Hammer.” If he does think so, and ventures to say so,
why, Mr. Hammer sees to it that the difference of opinion
may be settled on the spot. So great is his love of truth,
that he cannot bear to leave any one in error upon a
point of such interest and importance. Had Hammer
lived in earlier times, he would have been the very flower
of chivalry—at present, he only rejoices in the distinction
of being “a bird.”
When squabbles are scarce and riots are a little out of
fashion, such events being somewhat epidemic, Mr.
Hammer, following the example of other great men,
makes the circumstance to suit himself, and, gathering a
flock of pupils and proselytes around him, often sets forth
on what he calls the “grand rounds.” This process consists
in taking an evening ramble from one engine house
to another, to have a glance at the collection of boys
there assembled; for each establishment has its separate
set of votaries, who believe that all virtue resides in their
gang, and that all excellence is combined in their engine.
If there are enough present to render the scene impressive,
Hickey Hammer sternly confronts the strangers, and, with
a lowering aspect, thus addresses them:
“Well, my lads, where's the bully?”
“What bully?” is the natural response, from those who
are yet to be indoctrinated into Mr. Hammer's mode of
doing business.
“I want to see the bully of this company—you've got
Tell him to come to supper,” and, that there may be no
mistake as to his meaning, Hickey throws himself into
position, dealing forth experimental blows in the very
face of the bystanders, so nicely calculated as to distance,
that they are enabled to feel the “whiff and wind,” without
experiencing personal detriment, the insult being
assault enough, though rather constructive than positive,
and having no taint of battery.
If a bully be forthcoming, which is not often the case
upon an emergency so sudden and unexpected, the consequences
are obvious. The combat either comes off at
once, or is fixed for a more convenient spot and a subsequent
meeting. But, should the assailed party be without
a champion, Hickey challenges any two, or more, if
they like to undertake him, and this mode of proceeding
generally results in a set-to all round, requiring a constabulary
suppression, and furnishing material for many a
tale of traditionary narrative, in which Hickey Hammer
figures as the hero; in consequence whereof, all “the
boys that run with the engine,” of which Hickey Hammer
may be regarded as the patron, are Hickey Hammerites
in word and deed. They roll their trowsers up
higher than other boys—they roar louder than other
boys; they take the engine out on Sundays, and, if they
cannot get a fight in any other way, they dash deliberately
into every “carriage” that passes. Rare boys are “the
boys that run with the engine”—the choice and master-spirits
of the time.
| THE BOYS THAT RUN WITH THE ENGINE. Peter Ploddy, and other oddities | |