Chapter 7: In Piccadilly

It was past eleven. The people, streaming out of the theatres, poured into Piccadilly Circus. The night was fine, so that those on foot were disposed to take their time. The crowd was huge, its constituent parts people of all climes and countries, of all ranks and stations. To the unaccustomed eye the confusion was bewildering; omnibuses rolled heavily in every direction; hansom cabs made efforts to break through what, to the eyes of their sanguine drivers, seemed breaks in the line of traffic; carriages filled with persons in evening-dress made such haste as they could. The pavements were crowded almost to the point of danger; even in the roadway foot-passengers passed hither and thither amidst the throng of vehicles, while on every side vendors of evening papers pushed and scrambled, shouting out, with stentorian lungs, what wares they had to sell.

The papers met with a brisk demand. Strange tales were told in them. Readers were uncertain as to the light in which they ought to be regarded; editors were themselves in doubt as to the manner in which it would be proper to set them forth. Some wrote in a strain which was intended to be frankly humorous; others told the stories baldly, leaving readers to take them as they chose; while still a third set did their best to dish them up in the shape of a wild sensation.

It was currently reported that a Mysterious Stranger had appeared in London. During the last few hours He had been seen by large numbers of people. The occasions on which He had created the most remarkable impressions had been two. At St. John’s Hall the Rev. Philip Evans had been preaching on the Second Coming, when, in the middle of the discourse, a Stranger had appeared upon the platform, actually claiming, so far as could be gathered, to be the Christ. In the operating theatre at St. Philip’s Hospital, just as a subject--a woman--had succumbed under the surgeon’s knife, a Stranger had come upon the scene, and, before all eyes, had restored the dead to life. It was this story of the miracle, as it was called, at St. Philip’s Hospital, which had been exciting London all that day. The thing was incredible; but the witnesses were so reputable, their statements so emphatic, the details given so precise, it was difficult to know what to make of it. And now in the evening papers there was a story of how a riot had taken place outside Messrs. Anthony’s works. The strikers had attacked a blackleg. A stranger had come upon them while they were in the very thick of the fracas; at a word from Him the tumult ceased; before His presence the brawlers had scattered like chaff before the wind. The latest editions were full of the tale; it was in everybody’s mouth.

Christ’s name was in the air, the topic of the hour. The Stranger’s claim was, of course, absurd, unspeakable. He was an impostor, some charlatan; at best, a religious maniac. Similar creatures had arisen before, notably in the United States, though we had not been without them here in England, and Roman Catholic countries had had their share. The story of the dead woman who had been restored to life at St. Philip’s Hospital was odd, but it was capable of natural explanation. To doubt this would be to write one’s self down a lunatic, a superstitious fool, a relic of medieval ignorance. There is no going outside natural laws; the man who pretends to do so writes himself down a knave, and pays those to whom he appeals a very scanty compliment. Why, even the most pious of God’s own ministers have agreed that there are no miracles, and never have been. Go to with your dead woman restored to life! Yet, the tale was an odd one, especially as it was so well attested. But then the thing was so well done that it seemed that those present were in a state of mind in which they would have been prepared to swear to anything.