LEICESTER SQUARE.
Here in this very square in one of the houses which form the "Hotel Sabloniere," lived Peter the Great and his boon companion, the Marquis of Carmaerthen; and in this square they have reeled home night after night; the master of all the Russias half-crazy with his potations of strong brandy and red pepper, of which he was passionately fond. Up yonder stairs passed Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, in her powder, hoops, and patches, her train glistening under the glaring lights of the link boys who preceded her sedan chair, to the wedding of John Spencer, first Earl Spencer, and Miss Poyntz—bearing a case of jewels valued at £100,000, and a pair of shoe buckles valued at £30,000, for presentation to the beautiful bride.
The old-fashioned house opposite was the abode of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and the one at the corner of Sydney's Alley was the residence of William Hogarth, the bitterest and yet the truest caricaturist of his day. Here nightly came Samuel Johnson with his huge bulk and big walking-stick, to dogmatize with Reynolds, and with him came his toady, Boswell; and here came Goldsmith to read his "Deserted Village" to his coterie of choice spirits—and here Frederick, the "Good Prince of Wales," as he has been called to distinguish him from all the rest of his title, came to die of a bad cold which he caught walking in Kew Gardens in 1751; and here resided John Hunter, in the house now occupied by a humbug keeping a Turkish bath. It is a place of strange, quaint memories of good and brave, base and ignoble men and women in the past; it is now the Alcedama of licensed vice, the festering spot of all London.
It is now a place where wantons expose their shame; where social rottenness, winked at by the authorities, eats at the heart of a people who publish and read books condemning the depravity of Paris; who, in a pharisaical way, talk of the Mabille and the Quartier Breda, and yet in this very square is the "Royal Alhambra Palace," as it is called in the huge coloredposters; and in the daily advertisements in all of the morning and evening papers of the metropolis, you may read such notices as these:
"The Alhambra—This evening at 8 o'clock, 'Pierrot,' the grand ballet, by Mr. Harry Boleno and troupe.
"The Alhambra—At 9 o'clock, the Christy Minstrels, by Riviere.
"The Alhambra—At 10 o'clock, the magnificent spectacular ballet, 'The Spirit of the Deep;' 10:15, Pitteri, the graceful and world-renowned danseuse, in a new grand pas seul; 10:30, 'The Home of the Naiads;' 11:15, grand Spanish ballet, 'Pepita.' 'God Save the Queen' at 11:45. Prices: Promenade, 1s.; stall and balcony, 2s.; gallery, 6d.; reserved seats, 4s.; new tier of private boxes, 2 guineas, 31s. 6d., and 21s. Closes at 12."
It was a rainy, unpleasant night—such a night as is often met with in London—when I first paid a visit to the Alhambra. The streets were deserted, and few persons were out of their houses, and those who were out took to cover in the cabs, which went madly dashing by, or in the busses, with their advertising signs, that were visible as they passed a lamp—the horses steaming and sweating, and the passengers inside grumbling and cursing their luck because of the bad air within and worse weather without.
THE ROYAL ALHAMBRA PALACE.
Nothing in the streets looked pleasant or cheerful, excepting the windows of the gin-shops with their bright brass and metal pumps, and the gaudy placards giving a list of the beverages for sale in the "publics," where men and women of the humbler class were consuming large quantities of beer and spirits. Passing through the Haymarket, I went down Coventry street, and in a few minutes stood before the gorgeous, gilded façade of the Alhambra. The building is about five stories high, painted of a cream-color, with minarets and gilt vanes and turrets in imitation of the manner of Owen Jones. The attempt to copy the Moresco style is rather absurd in the midst of common-place London. Indeed, it would be hard to find a Court of Lions in the building, and those who look for that most beautifulfeature of the real Alhambra will go away disappointed. There is, however, a Court of Female Tigresses in the gallery up stairs which will compensate the curious for the absence of the Court of Lions. Though the streets were deserted, a large number of cabs stood at the front of the building and crowds of people were getting in and getting out of them.
The moon peeped just then from a bank of cloud, its rays breaking over the disfigured statue in the square, and threw a faint dead glare on the flaunting women who filled the passage leading to the Alhambra; the helmeted policemen; the porters in their black caps trimmed with red bands; the noisy, swearing cabmen disputing about their fares; the horses champing and biting, and the beggar boys and match-women who solicited languid swells to purchase their wares. It is the custom to give a penny to the men or boys who eagerly rush to open the door of your cab, and should you neglect them, they will follow until by wearying you they have achieved their object. There was a little hole in the wall, and a counter or desk, behind which was a sharp-looking young man, whose face seemed hard and cynical under the glare of the gas-jet over his head. Handing this man a shilling, I received a huge circular piece of tin, with a hole and letters punched in its surface. This was the ticket of admission, which I surrendered at the door to a big man in a red uniform, who looked like a Life Guardsman, his breast being all covered with service medals, but for what service I could not tell, or where performed.
Passing a wooden barrier, I caught a glimpse of lights, a stage, and legs of ballet-girls—a noise of many voices came by my ears, a number of young ladies smoking cigarettes opened a way for me to pass, and I stood inside of the Alhambra. I found myself in the promenade, which encircled the ground floor of the house, leaving a large space which was railed in for the wives and families of decent people who wanted to hear the music and see the dancing and pantomime. To walk in and around the promenade costs one shilling. To go inside of the railing in the space—which corresponds with the parquetteat Niblo's, only that the whole floor is level and there is no descent here—will cost another shilling.
I saw a bar and a bar-maid before I got actually into the place from whence the stage could be seen; there was a bar and three bar-maids half-way down the promenade, and there was a bar and two bar-maids down before me in the alcove leading to the Canteen, with a corresponding number of bars and bar-maids in the same positions on the other side of the house.
All these bars had splendid bottles, with various fluids in them, arranged with an eye to effect, making it look like a vast apothecary's window, and there were bright brass beer-pumps all in a row, and pewter and silver and metal pots and tankards, and oval glass frames with pies, sandwiches, and all kinds of lunches to satisfy the thirst and appetites of the audience. The promenade was choked with men and women, walking past each other, looking at the stage, drinking at the bars, chaffing each other in a rough way, and laughing loudly. Although the night was stormy without, the revelry was high within.
Perhaps in this audience of three thousand people, who filled the ground floor and galleries, standing and sitting, and eating and drinking, there might have been fifteen hundred women, all well, and many of them fashionably, dressed and gloved. A sergeant of police with me said:
"If there are 1,500 women here to-night, as I believe there are, you may be sure that there are 1,200 women of the town among that number, Sir."
Twelve hundred unfortunate women in one place of amusement—and half a dozen other places like this, but of an inferior class, are open this rainy, unpleasant night, with a like complement of wretched females recklessly passing the hours that intervene before the dens close at midnight. The crash of sixty pieces of fine music falls on the ear, the glare, the gas, the tinsel on the stage, the well-dressed, fine-faced women around cannot shut out my thoughts of the "Legion of the Lost" who are so merry, so thoughtless, so careless of the morrow—deep in the fallacies of sin and despair.
THE SOCIAL EVIL.
The men who are conversing with these women seem to be of a good class, and spend a good deal of money in refreshments and liquor upon their fair, frail acquaintances. These last are not allowed to go inside of the railing on the ground floor alone, but they do not care for that privilege, as there is plenty to drink outside and more of the company of the male gender. Whenever a woman on the stage capers more vigorously, or flings her leg higher than the others, the applause is loud, long, and continued, and pewter and metal pots are dented in the surfaces of the tables that are ranged before each red-cushioned seat.
The comic singers are the favorites of the audience, however, and are always encored with vociferous enthusiasm. These singers get in a place like the Alhambra as much as ten pounds a week, as the proprietors know well the value of their services. The pantomimes are of the very best kind I ever saw; the dancing is, of its kind, good; the orchestra excellent and full in numbers, the acrobatic performances very fine, and the picture at the close of the pantomime is really superb. Yet with all these excellences combined, if the Alhambra and every Music-Hall-Hell like it in London were suddenly scorched up by a fire from Heaven, it would be the most incomparable benefit ever bestowed upon the English metropolis, and a saving grace to thousands of young English men and women—both in body and soul.
And the reason for this is that women are allowed admission at the door on payment of the price, without the escort of a man. Consequently it is, with the exception of the Argyle, and Holborn Casino, the greatest place of infamy in all London. It is convenient, in a central location, and were women not admitted alone the business of the place would break up. The men under twenty-five years of age, who comprise the largest part of the male audience, would not come were these Formosas debarred from admission. The performance—a first-class one—is not heeded. The chief attraction is the women.
And are these women calculated, by their manner, dress or appearance, to shock or warn people by their degradation?On the contrary they are cheerful, pleasant-looking girls, of quite fair breeding, and of a far better taste in their dress than the honest wives and sweethearts of the mechanics and shopkeepers, who sit in the place of virtue, within the painted railing. These women are satisfied with their lot, and do not repine so long as they have male acquaintances or "friends," as they call them, to give them champagne, moselle, and late suppers of game and native oysters in the Café de l'Europe, or at Barnes's in the Haymarket. Despite the arguments of those who have sought to eradicate the evil, these women, to any great number, never forsake their calling for the life of an honest working-woman. They laugh at such an idea, and will tell you that they could not do without wine, rich food, and costly dresses, even at the fearful price they have given to obtain them.
Besides, there is no field open to them, and suspicion follows every effort for reformation made by the few who have left the life of prostitution to go to hard work or service. They look down upon shop-girls and bar-maids with contempt, and many of them keep servants from the gains of their infamy. Whenever one of these girls happens to notice a stranger who does not seem to know the place, she will not hesitate to walk up to him, take his arm, and ask him: "Come, won't you give me my liquor?"
Many of these women have had no education whatever; still they manage to conceal the fact as much as possible, while others will tell you that they came originally from the workhouse, where they were sent as children, and being thrown on the streets when grown up, had no means of making a living but that which they were compelled to adopt. I spoke to one lady-like girl who seemed to be rather abstracted, and asked her if she were not tired of her present life, and anxious to leave it.
"Tired of my life? You may believe it that I am; but what of that. No one would take me by the hand after leaving this life. I am not such a fool as to jump from the frying pan into the fire. I get tight about twice a week, and then I come here and talk and drink more, and that serves to passaway the time. My friend is in Paris, and he sends me money when I want it. My mother is dead and my father is in America. I don't know where, and I don't care much, for he never bothered himself about me. Are you going to treat?"
I saw this girl walk up to the bar ten minutes after, pushing her way through the crowd, and saw her toss off nearly half a pint of raw gin, or "gin neat," as it is called here, without winking. Such is life. The detective told me that the girl had been one of the flashiest and best-dressed women who visited the Alhambra until a few months before, when she began drinking, and rapidly descended, when she had to pawn all her jewelry.
"WOTTEN WOW."
The songs sung in the Alhambra are not quite as low as those heard in some of the music-halls, and chiefly derive their short popularity from the fact that there is a comic vein in each one. Sentimental songs are not so popular, and do not receive so many encores as the comic ones. A man came on the stage, dressed in the exaggerated costume of a Pall Mall lounger, who sang a song, of which the following is a verse, with a very affected voice and lisp, keeping his body bent in a painful position the while:
THE BEAU OF WOTTEN WOW.
Now evewy sumwah's dayI always pass my time away;Arm in arm with fwiends I go,And stwoll awound sweet Wotten Wow;For that's the place, none can deny,To see blooming faces and laughing eye;And if your hawts with love would glow,Why, patwonize sweet Wotten Wow.
Chorus:
So come young gents and dont be slow,But stylish dwess and each day go,And view the beauties to and fwo,Who dwive and wide wound Wotten Wow.
The chief merit in the singing of this song to the audience—was the affected lisp and farcical airs of the singer, who did his best to imitate the swells who lean over the railings in Rotten Row, when that fashionable drive is crowded with equestriansand foot passengers in the regular London season. The mob liked the satire on the aristocrats and relished all the local hits of the speech and the dress of the ideal do-nothing. Something of a more grotesque nature, and more broadly funny, which was cheered to the echo, was a nonsensical song called the "Royal Beast Show," that seemed to please the men and women in the audience. This song was sung by a man in a blood-red scarf, a pea-green body coat, and green glass goggles. The costume was indicative of nothing under heaven or earth that I ever saw before, but the song was exactly suited to the comprehension of the people, as their shouts of laughter testified:
THE ROYAL BEAST SHOW.
Come, stand aside, good people all, and hear vot I've got to say,But let the little dears come hup, wot's going for to pay.At all the coorts in Europe, we are reckoned quite the go:Then pay yer sixpences, and see the Royal Wild Beast Show.
Chorus.
The cammomiles, the crockodiles, and all that you could wish;The mice and rats, and tabby cats, and other kinds of fish;A dozen sphinxes hupside down and standing hin a row;Hits only sixpence heach to see the Royal Wild Beast Show.
The first one is the Kangaroo, you ought to see him jump;The next one is the Ippopotymus, you ought to see 'is hump;The third one is the Halligator, and he's such a one to crow,He wakes hus hevery morning in the Royal Wild Beast Show.The Donkey in the corner, with the Tiger hon 'is harm,Comes from Hass-iriya, vere once his father kept a farm;That Billy-Goat that's dressed in Pink and valking rayther slow,He's weryHorn-imental in a Royal Wild Beast show.The cammomiles, &c.
After these choice ballads had been sung, there was a ballet in which about fifty young ladies capered and pranced in a Bower of Angels, with a lot of dolphins, just like dolphins and angels in their mutual festivities in the other world: and then the detective who accompanied me, said:
"Would you like to see the Canteen? That's a werry 'igh old game is the Canteen; sort of priveet like."
canteen
CANTEEN OF THE ALHAMBRA.
IN THE CANTEEN.
The Canteen of the Alhambra is situated on the lower floor of the building, under the stage, and has a dark entrance through a door which is supported on swinging hinges. The descent is by a spiral flight of stone steps, and on going through this door, the stranger receives the idea that he is going behind the scenes, which is a great mistake. The proprietors have made the entrance as dark and mysterious as possible, in order to throw a kind of greenroom air about it, which captivates simple people, and induces them to spend more money than they would otherwise. It is, in fact (this Canteen), nothing more than a subterranean bar-room, where men treat to Champagne wine and Moselle cup, the ballet-girls who come down, wrapped in travelling-cloaks; and after each ballet is concluded, flirt, drink, and make eligible acquaintances. The bar is in the form of a half circle, and two very largely framed women were behind it this night, servingthe customers, who sit around on wooden benches. The ceiling is supported by rude posts, and everything is as uncouth as possible; and this gives it an additional charm to countrymen. They feel that they are doing something sinful, something indiscreet, which they would not like to have their wives or relations hear of, and, with the natural perversity of human nature, it is enjoyable to a corresponding degree. The waiters who bring the drinks and cigars from the bar, wear black dress-coats and red plush waist coats.
When I descended to the Canteen, the ballet was still on above us, and I could hear the tramping of the feet of the dancers as they bounded to and fro on the stage boards over my head. There were no ballet girls in the Canteen, but in a few minutes the strains of the dance music died away and down came the coryphees, trooping by twos and threes, their faces painted and chalked, and their white slippers and tights peeping out from the bottoms of the gray waterproof cloaks which they wore. They took their seats in the room on the wooden benches, and it was not long until each ballet girl found her male affinity, and of course the male affinity treated her to whatever the dear creature called for—however expensive. In such a moment, when these angels in tissue condescend to talk to mortals, who could think of expense.
There were a number of soldiers in the room, wearing the uniforms of different regiments, chiefly of the Household troops, with here and there a line private in buff and blue; a rifleman in dark green, or an artilleryman, with his gorgeous red facings and trimmings. But the angels of the ballet never wasted their time on such low people as common soldiers. Their game was much higher, and if they could not get a drink from an officer holding her Majesty's commission, they were content with stray Americans, who have a reputation for reckless liberality. In fact, Americans rank above par in the Canteen market, and are received with due honor.
THE OLD SINNER.
I saw one old gentleman, fully six feet high, with a venerable face and white whiskers, evidently of a respectable position in society, with his arm around the chalked neck of a girl offifteen, whose light brown curls fell in masses over her shoulders, and, while he talked with her, he supplied her quickly-emptied glass with a sparkling wine. The detective said, in explanation of the scene, to me:
sinner
THE OLD SINNER.
"You see, sir, these gals as is down here in the Canteen only gets ten to sixteen shillin' a week for their night's work, and that isn't much. They is only the figurantys, and can't dance a bit; but they gets a bad fashion from the swells who go behind the scenes a drinkin' champagne and sich like, and that fashion leads them to wuss nor hannything that you'll see 'ere. They comes down here and drinks between the balley, and then goes hup on to the stage and dances again, and comes down hagain after the next balley, and by the time the Alhambra closes they are so blessed tight that they are ready for hanythink. I means, of course, the gals as is innocent yet; but the old hands are werry knowin' cards, so they is, bless you."
"That little gal as is just now a takin' that gentleman's address is a werry downy gal, she is. They calls her the 'Daisy,' because she has a fondness for bokays, and she is hup to all sorts of games. She 'ad some kind of a heddykation, when she was a little gal, and I thinks she was a governess or sich like once, and went to the dogs through somebody's fault; and she writes a beautiful hand, she does, and her little game is to send letters to strangers who visit London for the first time and don't know what to do with their money, and full of affekshun and such gammon—and tells them, in the writin' as 'ow sheseed better days and axes their parding for givin' so much trouble—and 'opes they won't think the wuss of her for such freedom or liberty; and then she gets a few pun from the spooney, and she goes on a habsolutely hawful drunk for a few days and doesn't come to the rehearsal—and when the money is all spent she writes more letters and 'umbugs some other spoon. Oh, sheis werrydeep, is the 'Daisy.'"
The "Tulip," the other young girl, according to the story of the policeman, was famous for her aptitude in swearing and drinking "Stout"; otherwise there was nothing of special interest in her character, and her face, though a pretty one, was strongly marked with lines of dissipation. By the time that I was ready to leave the Canteen, having seen all that was worth seeing in the den (for it is a den, and nothing else) which has been the cause of many a promising youth's ruin, it was nearly eleven o'clock.
THE SIX PENNY GALLERY.
We paid another shilling to go up in the "Gallery," where there is not the slightest disguise in the conduct of the females who throng the place. Back of the gallery, in the corridors, where the performance can be seen over the heads of the men who stand in front, are ranged a number of bars, and at each end of this place, which forms a kind of saloon, small tables with marble tops. At these tables a number of men and women sat and drank and laughed, and told each other anecdotes more pointed than polished in their application. The clamor and the smoke made the place unbearable, and the strains of music from the orchestra, playing Weber's "Last Waltz," filled the vast building with its circular galleries, that were heaped one upon another, to the ceiling. Up in the highest gallery of all, where the admittance is only sixpence, the riff-raff were collected. When a woman goes to the six-penny gallery in the Alhambra she is indeed lost beyond all hope of rescue.
I came down disgusted, and on going below stairs to the first tier I found there a kid glove, fan, and bouquet stand. It is the fashion for the young men of this pious city of London, who have more money than brains, when they visit the Alhambra,to buy kid gloves or fans for the unfortunates who throng the place. Quite a trade is done in this way, as some of the swells are not satisfied, when intoxicated, unless they can prevail upon their feminine friends to accept of a slight trifle of their esteem in the shape of a dozen pairs of fine kids in a gilt box. The man at the glove stand told me that business in the season—when people came home from the Continent—was very brisk, and he said that in one night he had sold as many as nineteen dozen kids to be presented to the Formosas of the place.
The detective said to me as we went down stairs: "Suppose we go to the Argyle, in the 'Aymarket, and then finish with the Casino and Barnes's; they'll be very lively just now, I warrant ye, and the fun grows furious near midnight." I assented to this proposal, and we took a cab and went to the Argyle Rooms. The cabby put his tongue in his cheek when I said "Argyle Rooms," and drove us there. I gave him eighteen pence, and he desired to know if I didn't want to borrow the price of admission, because I refused to give him half a crown for a ride of a thousand feet.
tailpiece
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE "ARGYLE," "BARNES'S," AND "CASINO."
IT is a quarter past eleven o'clock and the Haymarket is full of people—men and women jostling each other, many of both sexes being intoxicated; and beggars solicit us at every crossing, doffing their greasy caps and thrusting their dirty paws under our noses in their persistency. The cafes are overflowing with Gauls from across the channel, and when the crowds become too thick to leave the sidewalks passable, the policemen, who are in great numbers here, have to interfere to quell rows every few minutes. They clear the streets in a mild, civil way, very different from the manner of the New York police in like contingencies.
A stranger cannot help being astonished at the vast, almost incalculable, number of unfortunate women who haunt the London streets in this quarter as the hour of midnight approaches. There must be a great rottenness in Denmark where such a state of things can exist, and exist without any surprise on the part of those who witness such scenes nightly. I paid a shilling to enter the Argyle Rooms, and received a tin check, which was given up at the door, as in the Alhambra. The Argyle has not such high architectural pretensions as the Alhambra, but the class of visitors are better in the sense of dress and position. I entered through a side door, and found myself in a carpeted room, handsomely and tastefully furnished and decorated.
THE "ARGYLE ROOMS."
The saloon is nearly as large as Irving Hall, in New York, but lit up in a splendid manner with handsome chandeliers, which depend from the lofty ceiling, the gas jets burning in a deep glow through the shining metal stalactites that ornament the chandeliers. A splendid band of fifty instruments is stationed in the gallery at the further end of the room, and the music is of the best kind. The leader is attired in full evening dress, as is also every fiddler in the band, and the wave of the chef's baton is as graceful as that of Julien, when he was in his prime. Women, dressed in costly silks and satins and velvets, the majority of them wearing rich jewels and gold ornaments, are lounging on the plush sofas in a free and easy way, conversing with men whose dress betoken that they are in respectable society. A number of these are in full evening dress, wearing their overcoats, and a few of them have come from the clubs, a few from dinner parties, and a greater number from the theatres or opera.
They are not ashamed to be seen here by their acquaintances—far from it; they think this is a nice and clever thing to do, and, as no virtuous woman ever enters this place, there is no danger of meeting those who own a sisterly or still dearer tie, and who might cause a blush to redden the cheeks of these charming young men. Across the lower end of the room an iron railing is stretched, and this keeps the vulgar herd from mingling with the elite of the abandoned women who frequent the Argyle. Three-fourths of the ground space is devoted to dancing, and inside this railing sets are formed at a signal from the band above.
The charge for admission below, where I stand with the detective surveying this strange scene, is but a shilling, while the entrance fee to the gallery is two shillings, and this admits, as I am told by a servant, to all the privileges of the place whatever they may be. Even in vice the "horrid spirit of caste" prevails. It is chiefly clerks and tradesmen who are dancing in the shilling place, and at the end of each dance, be it waltz or quadrille, the man who has danced is expected to refresh his partner with a copious draught of beer, or a glass of plain gin.These women all take their gin without water, and smoke cigarettes if some one will pay for them. Inside the railing it is different.
The bars here are furnished with great splendor, and the calls for champagne are incessant. The women call champagne "fizz," and ale "swill." All around the room cushioned seats or benches are placed so that those who have done dancing may rest themselves and drink. There are liquor counters in every corner of the room, and a good business is done, the bar-maids being kept actively employed all the time while the music is playing. Upstairs there is another gallery and a fine bar, and here the really fast women congregate, to look over the balconies, but never condescending to mix among the vulgar dancers, excepting when their reason is gone through intoxication. These women all carry expensive fans, and their trains are as long as the train of a Countess in a reception at St. James's. There is a handsomely fitted up alcove to the right of the bar, and this alcove is ornamented with panels, on which are painted such pictures as "Europa and the Bull," "Leda," "Bacchus and Silenus;" and here are a number of women and men with Venetian goblets foaming full of champagne before them. Standing at the entrance to the alcove, is a stout, florid-faced woman, vulgar in appearance, with incipient moustachios at the corners of her lips. She is covered with jewelry, and her fingers, fat, red, and unshapely, glitter with diamonds.
This is the famous "Kate Hamilton," who was at one time the reigning beauty of her class, and has now degenerated into a vile pander. She is surrounded by a cluster of girls, and they are all in an animated discussion with her. The detective introduces me to this famous, or rather infamous, Messalina, and her first question is, "Will you stand some 'Sham?'" The next is to make inquiry about a number of New York politicians and sporting men who have patronized her den, somewhere in the Haymarket, while doing the foreign tour. She is most business-like and brief, this fetid old wretch, and has a speaking acquaintance with every man in the saloon.
THE HAYMARKET BY NIGHT.
While we are standing looking at her and her friends, the room is darkened, the gas being almost extinguished, and a chemical, light-colored flame irradiates the room like a twilight at sea, and the entire female population rush below to join in the last, wild, mad shadow-dance of the night. Around and around they go in each other's arms, whirling in the dim, uncertain, graveyard light, these unclean things of the darkness, shouting and shrieking, totally lost to shame—their gestures wanton as the movements of an Egyptian Almee and mad as the capers of a dancing dervish. Then the hall is darkened, the band ceases playing, the waiters finish the remains of the uncorked champagne bottles, the women dash madly down the carpeted stairs and into the streets with their male companions, and are whirled away with the cabs, which wait in long rows before the entrance of the Argyle, to the purlieus of Pimlico and the sensual shades of St. John's Wood, at Brompton.
The night has closed, a full English moon floats silently in the heavens, white snowy powder hangs over our heads like a film of lace—the clock-tower at Westminster Palace booms out the hour of midnight over the dark surface of the Thames, and we escape from the bustle of that vile dancing hall with gladness.
"Now," said my conductor, "let's go down in the Haymarket to Barnes's, and look at that for a few minutes, and then we will go to the Casino, in the Holborn, for a finish, if you please, sir."
Down through Coventry street, past the cafés again, which are preparing to close, and now we are in the Haymarket, one of the worst quarters of London. This street is wide, beginning at Coventry street and running down for a distance of about 1,400 feet to the "bottom," ending at the line where Pall Mall begins. They always say the "bottom" or "top" of a street in London, never "east" or "west." If there be a place in London that is deserving of notice, it is the Haymarket. Hundreds of years ago, the washerwomen of the village of Charing, just below us, and now one of the great business centres of London, used to bring their dirty linen hereto cleanse it, and then dry it on the green fields in the Haymarket.
The green fields of the Haymarket have long ago been covered over with theatres, opera-houses and palatial shops, and now not all the washerwomen in England could cleanse the immoral sewage that streams through the Haymarket night after night—through the snows of winter, the heated nights of July, and August, and the fragrance of May. Here, at this chemist's door, formerly a tennis court, Charles II., his brother, the Duke of York, Sedley, Rochester, and the rest of the wild, reckless lot, used to come to play their favorite game; and here sat Mistress Gwynne, Portsmouth, Mrs. Hyde, Louise de Queroailles, Frances Stewart, and other dissolute beauties of the merry monarch's court, applauding the feats of skill performed by their lovers. In the theatre formerly standing on the site of the present Haymarket Theatre, and opposite to Her Majesty's Opera House, with its long, drab colonnades and dark shops imbedded in the arcades, Foote and glorious Garrick woke the passions of all who were intellectual and noble in the Addisonian age of England.
Here was the public house kept by Broughton, the champion of England, who has been forever immortalized by Hogarth—just off Cockspur street; and here was his swinging sign-board, having a portrait of himself, battered and bruised, in a cocked hat and wig, with the legend on the sign-board—
"Hic Victor Cæstus artemque repono."
Think of a modern prize buffer attempting to quote from the classics. Cibber wrote a show-bill for Broughton once, which I reproduce, as a specimen of advertising skill:
"At The New Theatre"In the Haymarket, on Wednesday. The 29th of This Instant April,
"At The New Theatre
"In the Haymarket, on Wednesday. The 29th of This Instant April,
"The Beauty of the Science of Defence will be shown in a Trial of Skill between the following Masters, viz., Whereas, there was a battle fought on the 18th of March last, betweenMr. Johnson, from Yorkshire, and Mr. Sherlock, from Ireland, in which engagement they came so near as to throw each other down. Since that rough battle the said Sherlock has challenged Johnson to fight him, strapt down to the stage, for twenty pounds; to which the said Johnson has agreed; and they are to meet at the time and place above mentioned, and fight in the following manner, viz., to have their left feet strapt down to the stage, within reach of each other's right leg; and the most bleeding wounds to decide the wager. N.B.—The undaunted young James, who is thought the bravest of his age in the manly art of boxing, fights himself the stout-hearted George Gray for ten pounds, who values himself for fighting at Tottenham Court. Attendance to begiven at ten, and the Masters mount at twelve. Cudgel-playing and boxing todivertthegentlemenuntil the battle begins.
"N.B.—Frenchmen are requested to bring smelling bottles."
Think only of these wigged nobles and their clients, the boxers, in knee-breeches and wigs, going to a battle, and think of the Frenchmen who were compelled to bring smelling-bottles to keep their stomachs in order, and who will not say that even in prize-fighting the Nineteenth century has brought progress, as in every other scientific matter?
AT "BARNES'S."
We are now at Barnes's, a famous night house, or, rather, an infamous night house, in the Haymarket. When the dancing places and music-halls of the metropolis close, this door remains open to catch all stray night birds who can find no other resting place. The place is an ordinary drinking saloon, with a confectionery and pastry counter, and the attendants are five or six over-dressed young ladies, all of whom have their hair dyed of a light color, and are very free and chatty in their manner. These girls are well supplied with jewelry and lockets. Their salary is not large enough to furnish them with the trinkets, as they only get one pound five shillings a week; yet they manage to dress expensively, and Champagne is so common to their palates that they have become indifferent to it and it absolutely palls upon them. Yet there is a percentage on every bottle that is consumed here, and consequently they do their best to sell Moet & Chandon at ten shillings a bottle to the customers—and will even drink with them.
haymarket
IN THE HAYMARKET.
This is a great place for rump-steaks and native oysters—late at night, and a good business is done here in those articles of food. The oysters are small, black, and have a bitter, copperish taste. A New Yorker, used to Sounds and East Rivers, would leave them in disgust; but Englishmen, whose throats are parched with the liquors they get at the Argyle and in the Haymarket, prefer them to the most luscious Saddle Rocks. There is a large screen in the center of the room, the bar glitters with costly mirrors, and behind the screen are a number of small boxes partitioned off, and having red plush seats. In these are several noisy women, inflamed with liquor, eating and drinking and hallooing at their male companions. One girl, in a black silk dress, with her hair hanging down in disorder, is crying drunk at one of the tables, and has just spilled a bottle of wine over her handsome dress. She is cursing the waiter, who is also drunk, with much earnestness of purpose, and as soon as she sees the detective she halloos at him in a harsh voice:
THE "HOLBORN CASINO."
"I say, Bobby, you don't want me, do you?" I 'avent done nothink, although I wos wonst in Newgate for taking a swell's watch, which he guv to me for my wedding present, as was just four year ago, come Micklemas Goose. I wish I could throw meself in the Thames, but I 'aven't got the 'art—
"'Hoh, my 'art is in the 'IghlandsA follerin the vild roe.My 'art is in the 'Ighlands,Wheresomdever I—go—I go."
"Ah! that's a rum customer," said the policeman; "she's fly to heverythink. Now, hif that gal ain't watched this night, she is jest as likely to go to London Bridge and throw her blessed body hoff into the dirty water as not. They always goes to Lunnun Bridge when they want to make way with themselves—it's so lively like."
"Now," said the policeman, "I would hadvise you to make the finish at the 'Casino,' in the 'Olborn, afore you go to your hotel, sir, and then you may say you've seen the best of the bad places of Lunnun. The Casino is hopen till one o'clock to-night, I think, and we'll just be in time for the best dance."
We took a cab again, which dashed up Coventry street, through Cranbourne street, into Long acre, and up Drury Lane, past the old theatre of that name, and in a few minutes we descended in the wide, open space of the Holborn, before the entrance of the Casino, the fashionable dance-house of London. The street was lined with cabs, and policemen were thick in the vicinity of the entrance, ordering the men and women just coming out to pass on, and keep the street clear, a duty which gained for them a great deal of abuse from the intoxicated women, who did not want to pass on by any means. The entrance to this place is through a gaudy, gilded vestibule and down a descent of four or five steps to a spacious marble floor, which was covered with dancers. The whole interior was gilded, gold leaf and white predominating above all other colors.
The band, as at the other places of evil resort, was placed inthe farthest end gallery, and was an excellent one. The leader wore white kids and the musicians white vests, and the crash of the instruments was almost deafening, filling the large space with a wild and not unpleasing harmony. Attendants in evening dress were on the floor, making up sets and soliciting the habitues of the place to dance with the female partners, which were easily found for them. A high balcony ran all round the hall, which is 100 feet by 75 in dimension, and in the corners of the saloon, up and down stairs, were cafés and refreshment bars, which were crowded with customers. The entrance to this place is only one shilling, and the class of visitors is of a superior kind to those who go to any other dance-house in London.
The saloon was really a magnificent one, rich and tasteful in its decoration, and the women were well and neatly dressed, and very quiet and well-behaved in their manner. Every woman wore nice gloves, high-heeled boots, and all of them had the lace frill or ruff now prevalent in London around their necks. They also wore charms and lockets and gold watches, and every one was attended by a cavalier. The men were smoking cigars and flirting, and a number of foreigners were present and danced incessantly, just as they would at the Mabille or any Continental garden. In fact, this is the only place in London, with the exception of Cremorne Gardens, that in any way approaches the mad gaiety of the Mabille.
Still, there is a certain English decorum observed here, and any girl who would get drunk or lift her skirts too high would be expelled instantly by the master of ceremonies, assisted by the policemen who are to be found scattered all over the place. Some of the girls will go up and ask for partners to dance with them, and then, if the latter wish to give them liquor,—well and good, but they will not solicit it, because these women affect the fashionable lady as much as their limited resources will allow.