
270) 
THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 

No living thing can long remain stationary. It either 
goes forward or it speedily dies. ‘This is the law of 
Nature. St. PLeRRE. 
—— 
WHO THAT IS AT ALL acquainted with 
the great thoroughfares of London, is not 
familiar with the stereotyped policeman’s 
phrase—‘ Move on!” We have heard it 
scores of times—many times even in the 
course of a single peregrination,—varied in 
tone and varied in emphasis, according to 
the circumstances and temperament of the 
speakers, but always having the same 
bustling importance and authoritative mean- 
ing. For instance, policeman No. A 1 being 
naturally polite, as policemen should be, 
begs a few decent people gathered about a 
person fainting in the street, to “ Be so good 
as to move on.” No. A 2,aman of quite 
another temper, shouts to a crowd congre- 
gated about a capsized cabriolet, that they 
“really must move on.’’ No. A 3, who re- 
joices in mild measures, and never draws a 
truncheon, or says a harsh thing if he can 
help it, advises, in a confidential sort of way, 
some inquisitive people watching the laying 
down of the telegraph wires in the Strand, 
that the stoppage of the thoroughfare is 
undesirable, and that they had “ better move 
on!” No. A 4, who happens to be on duty 
at Exeter Hall on an oratorio-night, and has 
been much annoyed by the witticisms of a 
crowd of London boys, vociferates,—‘“ Now 
then, move on there, will yer?” And so on 
down to the last number of the division, and 
the last of the divisions themselves, you will 
hear, under all conceivable circumstances, 
characteristic variations of this constantly- 
recurring stock phrase—‘‘ Move onz” 
And this trite and familiar phrase is in 
pretty constant use by other people than 
policemen ; and none know this better than 
they who happen to be temporarily or per: 
manently under the orders of another. 
The schoolboy whining over his lessons, 
and wasting in idleness the hours that should 
be devoted to study, is perfectly familiar 
with the command to “ move on!” uttered 
in tones that mean mischief in case ef non- 
compliance. ‘The parish apprentice, bound 
hand and foot to the will of a tyrannical 
master, half-fed, hardly used, and decidedly 
inclined to laziness, is no less familiar with 
the frequent order to “‘ move on,” enforced 
by an emphasis of kicks or cuffs to aid his 
powers of comprehension and make him 
lively. The forlorn-looking, wizened little 
milliner’s errand -girl that you so often pity 
(bearing in her hands a huge band-box that, 
light as it looks, appears out of all propor- 
tion to her strength), as she patters along 
the streets so hurriedly, ever hears, or seems 
to hear behind her, the shrilly voice of her 



KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
shrewish mistress urging her to “‘ move on!” 
Aye! and even the “first-hand milliner,” as 
the public prints have shown, is but too 
familiar with the everlasting cry, dinned into 
her ears for twenty weary hours out of the 
weary twenty-four. The omnibus conductor 
and driver are all their lives lony without 
rest, even on the “ day of rest,’’ subject to 
the same insatiate demand at the hands of 
their time-keepers, the police, and the public. 
The drudge in the lawyer’s office knows well 
the sound—as well as the miserable “‘ maid 
of all work” in the lodging-house knows it, 
—and hears it rung out every minute of the 
day from the twenty bells she is expected to 
answer. The street-porter, the burly dray- 
man, the Smithfield drover, and the Italian 
image-boy, are all well accustomed to the 
ever-haunting, never-ceasing command by 
impatient Power enjoined on patient Labor, 
to— move on!” 
You meet with it in the streets, in the 
marts of business, amongst the wharves, on 
the railways, in cotton-mills and manutac- 
tories-— 
“¢ Kverywhere—everywhere—over the world;” 
restless as the hyena, insatiable as avarice, 
unresting as the ocean. ‘This island of ours 
is one great kingdom of activity, and “‘ Move 
on!”’ is its mighty monarch. 
Even the house you call your “ castle”-—— 
your own peculiar dwelling, where, if any- 
where, you: may hope to be free from the 
carking cares and incessant cravings of com- 
mercial life,—even the home you love is not 
exempt from the pervading influence and 
dominion of this universal despot. ‘ Move 
on” reigns supreme from cellar to attic, from 
closet to kitchen. You issue the mandate your- 
self freelyto your clerk,your journeyman,your 
laborer, your apprentice, and your errand-boy. 
Your wife does the same to her first-born, her 
second, her third, down to the “ Benjamin” 
of the household. Very properly, too, does 
she say “‘move on” to the sturdy stroller, 
who pleads starvation at her door; to the 
itinerant orchestras on wheels that grind 
Mozart and murder Mendelssohn at her 
windows ; to the parish beadles, bell-ringers, 
and such locustry that swarm upon her with 
the “ compliments of the season’ at Christ- 
mas time; and to the whole tribe of domes- 
tics under her care, more frequently still— 
| as indeed, in all probability, there is but too 
much need. 
Your “ Young Hopeful” uses the phrase 
to his small brothers and sisters, his school- 
fellows and playtellows ; your cook uses it to 
the scullion; the scullion to the “boy” who 
‘‘looks after” your live stock; and he, in 
his turn, finds use enough for it in his own 
department. In short, everywhere in your 
‘‘ old house at home”— 

