No. 17.1

THIRD SERIES OF LECTURES

DELIVERED IN THE FREE TRADE HALL,

BY THE

REV. A. MURSELL.

"Piccadilly at Noon."

THE dwellers in large cities have little reason to go far from home to see strange and stirring and suggestive sights. People sometimes grow tired of what they call the monotony of home, and go abroad for change of scene, and for the purpose of seeing life. In Manchester, however, there is life enough, and variety enough, too, not half a mile from our own street doors, sufficiently amusing and instructive to set a thoughtful mind at work for a whole lifetime, every time he mingled with the throng who pass along our streets. And there is no doubt that we, this afternoon, shall find more than enough to take up our attention for our customary half hour if we let our thoughts wander through Piccadilly and round the Infirmary gates in the middle of one of our working days. Whenever I come into Piccadilly, I always find that the current of my thoughts is directed suddenly from the themes it might be running on

before, and turned into a more active and less abstract channel. I will tell you what I mean. The other day I was coming down Lever-street, which, as you know very well, is a tolerably quiet street; and as I strode along I was thinking over the engagements of the week, and ruminating first on one thing and then upon another, until I came to the corner where the street turns into Piccadilly, and in turning the corner I ran right into the waistcoat of a stout gentleman, who stumbled up against a man behind him who was carrying a lot of packages upon his shoulder; the concussion brought the packages tumbling upon the ground, and one of them sadly damaged the hat of the corpulent gentleman of whom I had fallen foul. Of course there was a most unnecessary amount of swearing on the part both of the wearer of the hat and waistcoat, and the carrier of the packages; but the adventure at once taught me that it was no use trying to be particularly reflective in Piccadilly, and that it is useless being in a brown study in that locality, since it needs all a man's wits to keep his eyes about him and prevent having his toes trodden on. And yet there is a great deal in that hurried, heated, fevered scene to make a man thoughtful. It is impossible to look upon that quickly-throbbing heart of commerce and enterprise without speculating upon the different emotions which animate that heart. It is a study of no small interest to try to read the thoughts through the faces of those who hurry past. The only people in the street who do not seem excited, more or less, about something, are the cabmen, who, with their red cheeks and brown coats, their wretched cabs, and their dog's-meat looking horses, stand as imperturbably unmoved by all that passes round them as the statue of Sir Robert Peel, which stands in bronze upon its pedestal hard by. The contemplation of the faces of those who pass along a crowded street, is not by any means a similar study to that which is derived from looking round upon a congregated multitude like that which is now assembled here. In a congregation brought together for one purpose, there is

the indication upon almost every face of a similar absorption. There is, of course, diversity of feature and variety of expression, but there is not that strange contrast of emotion visible upon the different faces which we see in the visages of those who throng our streets at business hours. I once saw Piccadilly at noon, however, when there were crowded into it a hundred thousand human beings, collected to look upon a civic spectacle, when all the traces of care seemed wiped away for a time from every face, and each seemed lighted with a common interest. Market-street was hung with evergreens and banners. Bands of music echoed through the streets, and everything wore the aspect of a gala day. Upon the lofty roofs of warehouses and marts, and hotels, hundreds of figures stood straining their eyes towards one spot. Not one of the ten thousand windows which open upon Piccadilly square, but what was garnished with a dozen smiling faces and gay ribbons. And on the pavement, wedged together in a mass compact and vast, were myriads of men, and women, and children; men with new hats, women with new bonnets, children with new hoods. And over all the scene there blazed the noon-day sun, and as its glorious rays burst forth, up leaped the dancing waters of the fountains, showering their silvery beads into the air, and flinging their cool spray upon the breeze, into the hot faces of the crowd. It was a grand sight to see this mighty crowd, much grander than the spectacle which they had come to look upon, namely, the uncloaking of the statue of the Duke of Wellington. But if this sight was startling and grand, Piccadilly did not present at that time half so instructive and suggestive an appearance as it will present at twelve o'clock to-morrow morning, and as it does present at mid-day every day of our lives. A hundred thousand upturned faces looking at a central object, full of hilarity, excitement, and pleasure, is a fine sight to see, but an everflowing tide of human beings, each bearing the heat and burden of the stern realities of life, and each sprightly or downcast

according to the last turn of fortune's wheel, is a sight far more fraught with food for contemplation. It is like a great book with chapters, serious and grotesque; touching, melancholy, mournful; and lively, ludicrous, and comic alternating with each other. Striding along the pavement yonder are three black-bearded and moustached Germans, gabbling away in their euphonious patois, and flinging their arms about with true continental enthusiasm. Their narrow-brimmed hats are slouched over their faces, and their wide peg-tops look uncommonly loose about their persons, and they look altogether rather cross, uncomfortable and jaded. Suddenly , they disappear into the Albion Dining Hall, and are no more visible in Piccadilly for at least an hour and a half. But should you happen to be passing when these gentry come out from their repast, you will at once see a most instructive contrast. Fast as they talked before, they are talking faster now. Their gestures are more energetic, their hats are now stuck rakishly on one side, and their fashionable broad-cloth looks decidedly better filled out than before. The little beggar girl who stands with naked feet and pleading eye outside the door, has learned enough of human nature in the stern school of want to know when is the best time to press her plea for charity. She never followed the hungry gentlemen as they entered the dining room; but as they come smiling and chattering out again, after having feasted royally within, she steals up to their side and begs a halfpenny in piteous tones. She knows she is not so likely to beg in vain of a well-fed as of a hungry man, and that her chances are far better when the gentleman has the flavour of veal cutlet and burnt sherry in his mouth, than when he has no flavour there except the flavour of his appetite. She knows that the springs of human generosity too often lie in the human stomach and not in the human heart; that a man's liberality is contingent rather on his digestion than his kindness, and that beef and beneficence, potatoes and pence, gravy and goodness, mild ale and mercy,

pea soup and Christian charity often go together, and are very closely allied. I don't often call on people for subscriptions to anything, but the other day I accompanied a coloured friend of mine from Canada, who is engaged in collecting funds for fugitive slaves, to the houses of a few gentlemen out Accrington way, and one of these gentlemen had to leave his dinner to attend to us. He not only received us most kindly, but he took a lively interest in our mission, and gave my friend a liberal donation. Now a man who will leave his dinner and hear a begging case detailed to him without first swearing, and then kicking the petitioners out at the street door, is a very good man in all respects. There are not ten men in all Manchester who would do it. I know by experience that it is bad enough to disturb a man at his business; but to disturb him at his dinner is the height of human boldness. I never let a purseproud man insult me without trying to show to him that I am quite as proud as he; but I can thoroughly appreciate the goodness of a man who will get up between meat and pudding, and cheerfully respond to a beggar's petition.

Another rather comic aspect in the Piccadilly drama, is the bye-play of some of the young urchins who sport around the basins of the great fountains in the square. I have seen them knock each other's caps off into the water, and, then, when the aggrieved party seeks to recover his property, ere it floats beyond his reach, dexterously give him a tilt over the side and send him launching off like a young Great Eastern, about as much prepared for "a life on the ocean wave" as that great wooden blunder itself. Then, too, the more juvenile of the actors in the grand "mid-day performance" on the Piccadilly stage are sometimes very facetious at the expense of the hot-chesnut woman at the Portland-street corner. The old lady sits upon a chair so low, that having once settled down, it needs some agility to get up again; so that the active youngsters can play all sorts of pranks without being in much danger of being chastened by anything more than the old