The Shadow of Great Britain

History teaches us about those noble and free individuals who dare to speak the whole truth before the Monarch, and only those with true courage have the right to do so. Their honesty often bears fruit, sometimes leading to their downfall, but never tarnishing their reputation.

——Jacob Grimm ”My Dismissal”

The surface of the Thames River glistens with an iron hue on a winter afternoon, the wind sweeping the fog across the river, causing masts to emit low sounds.

But today at the London Pier, though still filled with the chaotic scene of vendors shouting, carriages rumbling, and workers hollering, the pier is also crowded with many middle-class people who seem out of place here.

Those gentlemen and ladies who usually appear in Jermyn Street, Regent Street, Green Park, or the library reading rooms are mostly unfamiliar with the smell of tides at the pier, nor are they accustomed to porters running by them with crates on the wet cobblestone paths.

Since morning, people have been gathering with the latest issues of The Times, Morning Paper, Westminster Review, and Economist specials under their arms along the riverbank.

They tread on cobblestones darkened by the tides, hesitating slightly as their heels touch down, with a hint of disdain.

Several ladies carefully lift their skirts, afraid of accidentally staining their new dresses. A few older gentlemen simply place their canes horizontally in front of them, as if to separate themselves from the port workers running around with carts.

Rather than coming for business, one might speculate they were swept here by some wild wind.

They nod and greet each other, discussing neither the price of cotton nor new trade company routes, but rather the insightful articles by Mr. John Stuart Mill in the Westminster Review, and Sir Arthur Hastings’s Police Bill Draft alleged to infringe Human Rights.

19th-century satirical cartoon ”Britannia Has Her Own Tsar”

A slightly plump gentleman folds The Times into thirds, revealing a line of dense black English titles on the cover.

As he shakes the newspaper, he explains to the lady beside him: ”Look, it’s this article that scolds those autocratic small states in Germany thoroughly... How does it go again? Ah, yes, betrayal of the constitution first destroys the university podiums, followed by the destruction of everyone’s civil rights.”

The lady nods understandingly, albeit superficially, as she tightens her shawl a little more. Clearly, she is more interested in the new hat veils worn by the ladies around them than her husband’s talk of ”podiums” and ”civil rights.”

Not far from them, several younger gentlemen gather, speaking in hushed tones, unable to hide their inner excitement: ”Did you hear? Those professors are supposed to arrive today.”

”Which ones?”

”The ones in the newspaper who were driven out from campus...”

”Oh, oh, I know who you’re talking about now.”

He deliberately swallows back the names of the professors, savoring that sense of mystery that circulates only among peers.

A nearby young man with a monocle expresses regret: ”Such a pity the cartoon printed in The Times is so poor, one can’t make out what they look like. I really want to know if these true ’martyrs,’ when standing in front of us, are as ’solemn’ as depicted in the newspaper.”

The real dock workers are somewhat bewildered.

A sturdy man, having just unloaded cargo from his shoulder, wipes his sweat and gestures towards the crowded people: ”See them? This bunch sure doesn’t look like they’re here to work.”

His companion smokes leisurely and replies: ”Probably some bigwig is coming, right? Not that we have anything to do with them.”

They finish talking and walk away, their figures quickly swallowed by the next load of cargo in the flow of daily life.

As for the gentlemen and ladies in warm wool coats, holding special editions in their hands, they resemble a flock of migratory birds settled momentarily on the riverbank, neither belonging to this muddy space, yet with every reason to occupy the best vantage point.

Time passes by second by second.

Some take out their watches to check the time, others stomp impatiently, only to immediately realize they’re standing in an undignified pool of water, hastily moving aside.

Just then, the echo of boots stepping on cobblestones suddenly arises from the end of the riverbank.

The first to notice the oddity is a young gentleman squeezed to the back row by the crowd.

He frowns, turns his head to look, and soon others follow his gaze.

Only to see several squads of uniformed police slowly approaching from the street corner, their marching footsteps creating a crisp rhythm on the cobblestones.

”Scotland Yard people?”

Someone mutters quietly, a mixture of surprise and mild displeasure in their tone.

Leading the group is a Police Superintendent riding a gentle chestnut thoroughbred, the silver buckles on his shoulder epaulets icy under the winter’s subtle glow.

He raises his hand to signal, and the officers behind him immediately spread out along the riverbank, inserting themselves between the crowd and the warehouses, evidently aiming to clear several safe passageways between the pier and the streets.

As an agency that’s been established for eight years, Londoners are increasingly accustomed to Scotland Yard stepping in to maintain order when crowds gather.

Unfortunately, their timing isn’t ideal today.

Given the current push for the new Police Bill, and given that those gathered here are not just ordinary London citizens, but rather these middle-class individuals with a clear bent towards Liberalism, the officers weren’t going to receive much of a welcome today.