Fighting the Flames | Page 5

description of music, which costs little
and expresses much.
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we

regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness,
and jollity; its antiquity--having begun no doubt with Adam--or its
modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or
exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly
by the little birds that "warble in the flowering thorn."
The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to
draw the reader's attention at present, is that which was exemplified one
November night (the same November night of which mention has been
made in the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress
through the streets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow
of St. Paul's by the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cook's
window.
Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into his
empty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyes full
on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishing owl.
Being poor--so poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of the
realm--he stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout of
limb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food with
inexpressible energy.
The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crow--a sable melody
high in public favour at that time--the familiar strains of which he
delivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as he
continued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and
'busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral,
and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from
the crevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing
upwards on the dome, and played around the golden cross that
glimmered like a ghost in the dark wintry sky.
The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat
that night chanced to be St. Paul's Churchyard. That sedate guardian of
the night, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the
thoroughfare, sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in
the chorus where Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about,
spun him round and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his

knuckles, at the same time advising him to move on.
"Oh!" exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deep
concern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, "I hope I
didn't hurt you, bobby; I really didn't mean to; but accidents will
happen, you know, an' if you won't keep your knuckles out of a feller's
way, why--"
"Come," muttered the policeman, "shut up your potato-trap for fear you
catch cold. Your mother wants you; she's got some pap ready for you."
"Ha!" exclaimed the small boy, with his head a little on one side, as
though he were critically inspecting the portrait of some curious animal,
"a prophet it is--a blue-coated prophet in brass buttons, all but choked
with a leather stock--if not conceit. A horacle, six fut two in its
stockin's. I say, bobby, whoever brought you up carried you up much
too high, both in body and notions. Wot wouldn't they give for 'im in
the Guards, or the hoss-marines, if he was only eight inches wider
across the shoulders!"
Seeing that the policeman passed slowly and gravely on without
condescending to take further notice of him, the small boy bade him an
affectionate farewell; said that he would not forget to mention him
favourably at head-quarters, and then continued his progress through
the crowded streets at a smart pace, whistling Jim Crow at the top of
his shrill pipe.
The small boy had a long walk before him; but neither his limbs, spirits,
nor lips grew weary by the way. Indeed, his energies seemed to
increase with every step, if one might judge from the easy swagger of
his gait, and the various little touches of pleasantry in which he
indulged from time to time; such as pulling the caps over the eyes of
boys smaller than himself, winking at those who were bigger, uttering
Indian war-whoops down alleys and lanes that looked as if they could
echo, and chaffing all who appeared to be worthy of his attentions.
Those eccentricities of humour, however, did not divert his active mind
from the frequent and earnest study of the industrial arts, as these were
exhibited and exemplified in shop-windows.

"Jolly stuff that, ain't it?" observed another small boy, in a coat much
too long for him, as they met and stopped in front of a chocolate-shop
at the top of Holborn Hill, where a steam-engine was perpetually