"MABEL GREY AT HOME."
And here, I suppose, I may be pardoned for giving a pen and ink description of the interior of her palatial residence at St. John's Wood, Brompton, where she resides, by one who saw and conversed with her there:
home
"MABEL GREY AT HOME."
The salon was about sixty feet long by thirty wide, and the ceiling was probably fifteen feet from the velvet carpet. Velvet decorated the walls, hanging in crimson folds somewhat like the arras hangings that I had seen in some of the mildewed chateaux of the French nobles. There was, in the front of the salon, an immense mirror framed in gold, and inside of the golden frame was a sub-frame of crimson velvet. The lounges, chairs, ottomans, and buffets, were trimmed with velvet of the same warm color. The carpet on the floor was a Gobelin, in which was worked a pictured design of the port of Marseilles, at a cost of two thousand pounds. There were richly carved statues of Parian, bronzes, antique and richly-painted vases, shells standing on golden tripods, caricatures ofdogs' heads, tigers' heads, and the bodies of serpents, with glistening eyes—all of which articles had more or less of the precious metals in their composition. Pictures of Diana of Poictiers, Margaruite de Valois, Theroigne de Mericourt, Anna Boleyn, Louisa de Valliere, and a supposed mistress of John Wilkes Booth, of whom I had never before heard, adorned the walls of the salon.
These were all done in oil, well painted, and magnificently framed. The place of honor, however, was reserved for Ninon de l'Enclos, the mistress of one of the Bourbon Kings. This picture was a beautiful work of art, and represented the famous beauty of the old French Court, reclining opposite a mirror. There was a small figure piece by Meissonier, and a statue of Minerva of pure marble, from whose spear head depended a small but richly chased gas-chandelier, of six burners, that spread a flood of light all over the salon. A hundred thousand dollars would not have purchased the furniture, carpets, statues, paintings, and ornaments, in this gorgeous apartment, to say nothing of the diamonds which covered the neck and arms of the beautiful but frail mistress of the mansion.
And now for Mabel herself. This distinguished personage, as she lounged on the tiger-skin, looked to me a little above the medium height of women; her hair, of a rich, silky brown, full and lustrous, was looped in coils at the top of the back of her head a la Grecque, and was trimmed with small red flowers. From her ears were pendant long, oval, diamond ear-rings, and from her snowy neck was hung a necklace, of pearl shells interwoven with diamonds, worth a monarch's ransom. Her arms were bare and rounded, and her shoulders were decollete. She was attired in a loosely flowing robe of pink velvet—the only thing pink I saw in the apartment—and at her waist was a plain thin cincture of gold. She wore her dress without hoops, which allowed the folds of her costly robe to fall over her shapely limbs in studied yet artistic confusion. On the different fingers of both hands were rings of topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald, amethyst, and opal, fastened by golden keepers. She had crimson slippers, embroidered in gold, and in her righthand she waved lazily, to and fro, a fan of costly feathers. The woman herself was a magnificent animal to look at, with a spice of the tiger shining out of her clear, lustrous eyes.
PERSONNEL.
The neck was well poised and finely cut, as were the face and shoulders. The mouth was large and full of good, white, regular teeth, which she displayed often during the conversation to advantage. The nose was irregular, pert, and snubbish, and her chin was like the cone of a ripe peach. Something there was brazen in this woman's face, despite the magnificence reigning in the apartment. Her voice was loud and sharp, and her gestures were unladylike, though she endeavored to atone for these defects by a studied ease which occasionally lapsed into a masculine freedom. She was continually showing her rings, her fan, and her slippers—and seemed careless of the little prudential details that go to make up the manner of a virtuous woman.
"Anonyma" is, in many respects, a different woman from Mabel Grey. This celebrated Lorette, unlike her frail sisters, has a taste, or perhaps affects to have a taste, for literature. Originally a clergyman's daughter, and born and bred in Sussex, she had, when she came first to London, all the charms of a fresh country girl, and, although exposed for a long time to temptation in her station as a governess in the family of a rich commoner, whose name is now often before the public, she held on her way firmly as she could, and would have succeeded had not she met a man who outraged her by a false or mock marriage.
The poor girl, whose real name is Brandling, when she found that she was deserted with a few pounds in her pocket, went almost mad. But she had to starve or else become what she is now. Her father, overworked in his curacy at £150 a year, and having a family of five children, refused to admit her to his home, and gave as a reason that it would be setting a bad example to his parishioners, which he, as a minister of the Gospel could not do. Driven from her birthplace, with despair in her heart, she fled to London, and, sinking at once into the slough of iniquity, was not heard of for a year, when sheemerged in grandeur at the opera in the company of a wealthy banker, who has since failed and fled the country.
The girl, from her reticent disposition, her lady-like manner, and the mystery attending her appearance in the world—no one being able to tell her exact position—received the name of "Anonyma" from theSaturday Review. Unlike the other women of her sex, this girl was never formerly seen in the company of any woman whose position was affected by the slightest breath of reproach. In the Park she never made acquaintances, and all notes sent to her were sent back to the writers. To become acquainted with "Anonyma," though the seeker after her intimacy were a prince, it was necessary to have a formal introduction to the lady.
The "Kitten" is a young lady well known at the Cremorne Gardens for her expensive suppers, loud voice, and magnificent pony carriage, before which she drives sometimes a brace of Shetland ponies, three in a tandem. At the Cremorne she always puts ice-cream in her champagne, and never drinks any light or thin wines, as she says that they do not agree with her constitution. I saw her at the Ascot Races in company with Mabel Grey, the "Kitten" being mounted on a splendid roan, which she managed with the skill of an old army officer, and a dozen men belonging to the best known clubs in London were clustering about her, and assisting her to luncheon, looking after the wine, or doing a hundred little errands which women of her character always find for men to do in a public place. The "Kitten" is a blonde, with black eyes, a pretty, babyish face, a dimpled chin, a profusion of golden hair which is not dyed, and a capital seat in the saddle. She is always gloved to a nicety, and her ensemble is of the best kind. She has a pert fashion of saying sharp or impudent things, and this seems to be the chief accomplishment of all this class of shameless women. They know the stable-talk and the slang of the betting ring, and of the hunt, but nothing more. The "Kitten," five years ago—she is now 22—was a coryphee in the ballet of a London theatre, at the magnificent salary of fifteen shillingsa week, and now she has an annuity of £2,000 settled upon her by a young fool of a lord, who has no better use for his money.
The wardrobe of Alice Gordon, another of the Hetairæ, is valued at £12,000. She is a brilliant horse woman.
baby
"BABY HAMILTON."
"BABY HAMILTON."
"Baby Hamilton" is another celebrity of the Half-World. Many stories are told about the recklessness of this girl. She forced her way to a meeting in one of the shires when the hounds were all assembled, and followed the hunt, despite the remonstrances of the master, and regardless of the fact that more than half the ladies who were present left the field on her appearance in a hunting costume. She made a bet while in Paris with a wild young duke that she would get a recognition from the Empress Eugenie. The stake was a thoroughbred of the young duke's which she desired to have for her own use. The bet was made, and while the Empress was riding in the Bois, the "Baby," magnificently dressed and mounted, placed herself in the way of the Empress, and bowed quite reverentially. The Empress looked at her for an instant, and, thinking that it was some English lady of rank, bowed very graciously in return. The young duke—who is, by the way, a relative of the Empress by marriage—saw the salutation. It was too good to keep, and accordingly, before the next night, the "Baby" had to leave Paris, by order of the Prefect of Police.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHEAP LODGING HOUSES.
ONE night, having made an appointment with one of the Scotland Yard detectives, I met him as I had promised, punctually, at the India House, which is situated at the junction of Victoria and Dean streets, Westminster.
Be it remembered, that Westminster is a borough, and sends two Members of Parliament, yet it is a part and a portion of the metropolis of London.
He came muffled in his coat, and, having saluted me, asked me if I was ready to accompany him, to visit some of the low lodgings houses that abound in a certain part of Westminster, at the back of Millbank Prison, which fronts the river between Vauxhall and Lambeth Bridges.
It was the night before the great Derby Race, at which nearly all England is represented, peer and peasant, tradesman, beggar, burglar, and pickpocket. On such a night all the London lodging-houses were sure to be full of tramps.
Briefly, I said I was ready to accompany him and without further conversation we penetrated to the darkest recesses of the borough of Westminster, going down Dean into Orchard street, through Orchard street into New-Pye street, down Great Peter street, through Holland street, and so into a short, dark street, called Medway street, at the back of the Greycoats School.
All these streets which I have named have low lodging houses, and were filled this night with tramps, vagrants, peddlers, itinerant showmen, vagabonds, and thieves. Great Peter street is so called to distinguish it from Little Peter street, and both streets being within a stone's throw of the Abbey of Westminster, derive their names from the dedicatory title of the ancient and world-renowned abbey which was called, at one time, and is yet known in official documents, as the "Abbey Church of St. Peter's, Westminster."
Medway street leads into the Horseferry Road, which is at one end a continuation of Lambeth Bridge, and at the other end is flanked by Holland street.
My blue-coated friend said to me, after pulling out a small dark lantern, which he used in these dark rookeries and streets by the water side:
THE WESTMINSTER SLUMS.
"The worst place I can take you to in Westminster, and perhaps in London, Sir, barrin always 'Paddy's Goose,' in Ratcliffe Highway, is the lodging house kept by 'Jack Scrag,' or 'Damnable Jack,' as he is called on account of his swearin'—in Medway street. I can't guarantee that you will bring your watch or pocket-book back, but I will save your life if you get in a row, and that will be as much as I can do. If there are any thieves there they will be afraid of me, but the roughs and tramps, who are out of the law's reach, are up to anything, and will break your leg or arms, or mine either, without talking twice about it."
On our way to the Slums of Westminster I entered a cheap lodging house, in which the lodgers were preparing their evening meal, for which they paid four-pence to the proprietor. A potato was given each person with a small junk of broiled or fried meat, and a tin-skittle full of washy tea or coffee, such as is given to steerage passengers at sea, was handed to the tramps and beggars, who frequented the place.
The room was large and lofty, with smoky rafters, and a number of men, women, and boys, were sitting, standing, and reclining on the floor or on chairs, but nearly all were eating like ravenous beasts from tin-plates or earthen-ware platters.
A man might purchase a herring for a half-penny at any of the refuse sales in the markets, and bring it here and toastit over the huge fire for an additional half-penny, and many of the occupants of this gipsy-looking place were employed in the pleasing occupation of cooking as we left the place on our journey after an adventure.
Medway street, as I have before mentioned, is quite short, and therefore it was not long before I saw a light of more brilliancy than those around it, bursting from the window of the first story of a brick building, the bricks being set off about the windows with trimmings of dark blue stone. Above the door were painted the emblems of the Lion and the Unicorn, which are everywhere displayed in English cities, and a lamp of a square shape projected from the doorway, throwing a dead and unwholsome-like light upon the street and sidewalk. In the window a sign was painted, indicating that lodgings were to be had for four-pence a night for single persons, and also a notification that "boiling water" was "always ready."
AT MR. SCRAGG'S.
The house was probably a hundred years old, as near as I could tell by its old beams, which were bare, the besmeared and notched lintels on which names, effigies, and initials, had been carved, from time immemorial, by lodgers, thieves, and cadgers. There was a bar, and glistening beer-pumps, and pewter noggins, and copper measures, were hung up behind the counter. Against the walls, which were environed by brass railing to keep intruders from making too free or breaking the glasses if a fight should occur, was inscribed on a tin plate of greasy hue the words:
John Scragg & Co.,Wine and Liquor Merchants.Beds, 4d.a Night.
John Scragg & Co.,Wine and Liquor Merchants.Beds, 4d.a Night.
The proprietor, a fellow with beetle brows, a furzy black beard, and a fustian jacket well greased, sat on a worn bench near the beer pump.
"Good evenin, Mr. Scragg," said the detective to the rascally-looking fellow.
meal
A MEAL AT A CHEAP LODGING HOUSE.
"Good evenin—the same to you, Bobby—are you lookin for lodgins to-night?" said he in reply.
"Well, not exzackly—I came with a friend o' mine to take a look at the Crib—have you many lodgers to-night, Jack?"
jack
"DAMNABLE JACK."
"Mayhap a matter o' fifty or more. So you wants to look at the Crib, do ye? Well, I ha' no hobjections so as ye don't disturb my lodgers. They are a precious set o' lambs, and belong to the best families in the Kingdom, so I keeps heverythink quiet, sort a like, as they have a great deal a money bet on the races at the Darby, to-morrow."
"Could you give my friend a bed, to-night, and he'll pay you well. He doesn't want to go back to his hotel it's so far at the West End, and he might lose hiself in this big city.
"Give yer friend a bed? D—n my heyes, I should think I could! A dozen beds if he likes—and yourself, too, me hearty."
"But no pocket-picking, Jack—no 'plant' agin him. Keep hoff yer 'Bug-hunters,' or ye'll get in trouble for it, Jack."
"Do I look like a man 'ud permit sich goings on in my 'Ouse," said Damnable Jack, indignantly, and looking with an injured face at the policeman, "Wot, in my 'ouse, vich is patronized by the Nobility and Gentry? I hopes not. Ye'll not find a man or woman 'ere as would 'crack a case', or 'break a drum,' and the 'Kidsmen' are, all on them, as perlite as young Swells, they is, on me 'onor."
I followed Mr. Scragg through an unpaved hall-way or passage, and into a small court, from which the lodging house keeper diverged to the right, and knocking at a door in an extension of the main building, it was opened to us, and we entered the apartment. The apartment had a low roof, and the stench from the place was most terrible. In a room about fifty feet long by thirty in width, at least sixty persons were sleeping, or sitting up on their coarse, common flock beds, some smoking, others eating and drinking, and a few were playing cards.
There was a high, old-fashioned fireplace, in the apartment, without coals, and the walls of plaster were very dirty, and broken in many places, showing the bare laths.
Prints of highwaymen adorned the walls, among which was conspicuous Claude Duval leaping a five-barred gate on horseback, and a posse of constables, in bobwigs, in full chase. There was also a daub of paint representing the execution of a wife-murderer, at Newgate, and a copy of the murderer's last speech, framed alongside of the other print. These, with a cheap engraving of Sir Robert Peel, completed the list of works of art in the place.
There was a murmur which grew into quite a hub-bub as I entered the apartment, and not a few of the lodgers vented their surprise or disgust at my appearance, jointly with that of the "Peeler," as they called the policeman.
THE DIRTY CADGER.
"Wot the blazes does that Swell want in 'ere," said an old cadger, who was reclining on a bed on the floor, trimming his toe-nails with a jack-knife preparatory to going to bed, muchto the edification of a young girl who sat by his side on the bed, and could not have been more than fifteen years of age.
"Mebbe he's a swell pickpocket, or fogle-hunter (handkerchief thief,)" said the innocent young creature.
"Hit stands to reason he can't be a fogle hunter, 'cos he's with the blessed Peeler," said the Cadger.
"Well, mebbe he's wiring for the perlice," said the young girl, "and wants to ketch some on us for a 'dummy.'"
"Never mind, Moll, he doesn't want us, and we'll go to sleep, cos we've got to be on the tramp, early in the morning, for the Darby."
This man was forty years of age, and the young girl, not more than fifteen years old, was his mistress, as I afterward learned.
The policeman signified to the proprietor, "Damnable Jack," that he wanted to get a bed where we might sleep together for the night.
"I hardly got a bed left but one and ye's are welcome to it, and for that matter it will hold five men and women, if I wanted to put 'em in it. Come here Phil, and give these gents a bed—they wants to taste the blessed sweets of lodgin house life. Give them their fill of it. Put them in the 'Lord Chancellor's' bed. Its the best in the house."
Let it be understood, that all the beds in the apartment were placed upon the bare floor, and that the mattresses were filled with dirty straw, which bulged out of their sides, or rags, and gave the room a close, fetid odor. For covering, there were dirty canvass quilts, made of the same stuff from which sails or potato sacks are fashioned. There were no sheets whatever, and the pillows and bolsters were stuffed as were the mattresses with rags or straw.
Near the fireplace was a bare space of smoothly laid brick, without any pretence of bedding at all, which was chalked out in a number of compartments, and each of these compartments was chalked out for a human being to sleep upon. By reposing on the bare, cold floor, the lodger saved a penny and got his bed for three-pence instead of four-pence.
Among the sixty persons present, there were at least twenty-five women, composed of female tramps, vagrants, prostitutes, coster-girls, and peddlers of different kinds of commodities, which they had to leave in an adjoining room that was locked up by the Deputy Lodging Master until the time of leaving their beds early in the morning, when the merchandise was delivered to its owners.
It was by the advice of an Inspector of Police that I made this essay to sleep in a cheap lodging house. He informed me that it was the only method of obtaining a clear knowledge of the habits and practices of the lodgers.
The "Lord Chancellor's" bed, as Damnable Jack called it, facetiously, was the best, from its appearance, in the room, and was at the farthest corner. It was generally used by the Deputy Lodging Master, and had a little chintz screen around it, and the bed itself, which had comparatively clean sheets and bed-furniture, was elevated a few feet from the floor on a sort of trestle work.
The charge for this bed was a shilling to each of us, and the policeman and myself laid down upon it in our clothes, the policeman having a revolver in his side pocket, upon which he kept his right hand during the night, whether he slept or had his eyes open.
I could not sleep in the terrible hole for several hours, and, in fact, did not think of doing so, as I was eager to watch the proceedings of the Scum of London, of which the lodgers were composed.
Many of the young girls had not retired when we came in, and a few of them now began to divest themselves of their clothing, without shame or compunction on their part, or surprise on the part of their fellow lodgers, excepting that now and then some low-bred ruffian would pour forth a torrent of obscenity when some of the female lodgers exposed portions of their filthy bodies.
The place was swarming with vermin, bed-bugs, roaches, and body parasites, in countless numbers, and this was one reason why many of the female lodgers stripped themselves to lie down,for some of the beds were so thickly packed that it was impossible for the Deputy Lodging Master to pass through the room without treading upon an exposed hand or foot, and in such a case, blasphemous and vile execrations were heaped upon his devoted head by the lodgers. This he bore with the greatest indifference as if he had never heard a word of it. The lodgers hoped by stripping naked to avoid having any of the vermin cling to their clothing—a wise precaution, as I found.
THE SCUM OF LONDON.
Men, women, and children, without regard to age, sex, condition, or kindred, slept together in this room, and as the night advanced the stench from their hot, loathsome bodies, rose like a hellish incense and nearly smothered me with its fumes. There the breath of each lodger was worse than the odor of a charnel house, so that I deemed it a wonder as I sat up in bed looking through a rent in the chintz curtain which enclosed our bed, a lamp burning faintly on a table the while, that sixty of God's creatures could sleep this way night after night, summer and winter, and yet be able to eat, drink, sleep, marry, beget children, and still thrive like deadly nightshade, to poison London and its neighborhood with their reeking effluvia.
About three o'clock in the morning I heard a hammering, squashing sound, and looking from under the chintz curtain, I was first astonished and then disgusted to see a wan-looking, cadaverous personage, from whom the most frightful snoring had proceeded during the early part of the night, hammering with the heel of his shoe at some dark moving objects, which he, every moment, scraped from his bed and placing them on the floor smashed at them in a raging and furious way with his shoe heel, taking care the while to keep up a steady stream of curses from his lips. He saw me looking at him and said:
"Well, neighbor, wot d'ye think of this. I pays four-pence for my bed, and here I am a-fighting to keep off the blessed bugs, for my life. I got myself gloriously drunk last night, to sleep, so that the wipers might not wake me up, but all the gin in Lunnon couldn't make a man sleep while the wermin are in the bed-clothes. I have took out and killed a bushel, more or less, of 'em, in the last half hour, but there's plenty more of 'em, Lord bless you."
This was the keystone of the edifice of my disgust. Too much of a good thing is said to be of no practical benefit to any one, and there was such a richness of bed-bugs and body parasites to be found in "Damnable Jack's" lodging house, that I thought I would not farther trouble his hospitality, and touching the guardian of the place upon the shoulder, who started up in a frightened way as if he were attacked, I left Mr. Scragg's lodgings, and took a walk in the cool morning air as far as Westminster Bridge, where I sat until daybreak, looking at the Parliament House, and the silent river with its numerous craft.
Before I left the accursed place, the policeman pointed to a pail of foul water standing in a corner, that had been fresh over night, and which had now had a thick scum on its top produced by so many poisonous lungs.
It is needless to say that I took a good warm bath early that morning, more than satisfied with my experience of the previous night.
Of this class of lodging houses, there are, in London, I believe, about seventy-five, capable of accommodating any number of lodgers that the proprietors may see fit to stow away in their dens.
Some idea may be formed of the manner in which the poorer classes of the London artisans are herded together from the fact that in the Inner Ward of St. George's Parish the number of families apportioned to the dwellings are so largely in excess of the room which they ought to occupy that all kinds of frightful distempers are common in these hell-dens. I give a table to show how human beings are crowded in this district:
TEN IN A BED.
Among the most munificent philanthropists who have built model lodging houses, for the poor and needy, I may enumerate Miss Burdett Coutts, and George Peabody. The former has expended nearly £500,000 in erecting model lodging houses for the poor, and the amount which was donated for the same purpose by Mr. Peabody exceeded a million and a half of dollars.
george
STATUE OF GEORGE PEABODY.
In speaking of Mr. Peabody, I must not omit to state the fact that the Londoners, to show their appreciation of his philanthropy, have erected to him a magnificent bronze statue at the rear of the Royal Exchange in their city, which was publicly uncovered by the Prince of Wales during the life-time of the late philanthropist.
tailpiece
CHAPTER XLV.
A TRAMP IN THE BY-WAYS.
GREAT as London may believe itself to be in works of benevolence and philanthropy, there are spots in that mighty city which no one should visit without an officer of the law in his company, to warn him from the pitfalls and dangers which will beset his pathway.
One evening, feeling rather dispirited and uncomfortable, while sitting in the coffee-room of the Langham Hotel, a thought struck me that I might find amusement or novelty in some way by taking a tour through the city, and accordingly I called a cabman from the stand, in Upper Regent street, and, determining to make an effort to dissipate the blues, I jumped into the "hansom" and told the driver, an old weather-beaten looking fellow, with a buttoned-up coat and dirty neck-cloth, and wearing a black silk hat, which had once been quite respectable, but was now utterly wrecked—to "drive me anywhere in London—I don't care where as long as I can see something to interest me."
The driver, a well known character, who bore the title of "Old Smudge" among his brethren on the cab stand, and who was always in trouble with the police, replied:
"Where shall I take you, Sir? Would you like to take a look at the river? Or, mayhap you might wish to see a dog fight, or a ratting match—the Americans are partial to ratting matches—I know some on 'em are!"
"Take me anywhere," said I from the recesses of the cab in which I had ensconsced myself.
THE LONDON CABBIES.
These London Cabbies are, as a general thing, the most provoking and abusive fellows in the world, but their usefulness cannot be denied by any person who has experienced the delight of having a cab to hail when attacked suddenly by the often recurring rain storms, which serve to keep the atmosphere of Great Britain's capital in a state of perpetual moisture. There are two kinds of Cabs—the "hansom," a two wheeled vehicle, which falls back on its wheels, and is drawn by a single horse, the cabman sitting over your head with the reins elevated in his hands, and stretching through a metal ring in the roof to the collar of the horse. Then there are folding doors which can be closed to keep mud and dust from entering the cab, and a movable window fastened to the interior of the roof that can be hoisted or let down at will, and is most serviceable in case of rain or other inclement weather.
cabby
"OLD SMUDGE"—THE CABBY.
Then there is the "four wheeler," as it is called, a cab which is also drawn by one horse, but is built something after the fashion of the American coupe or brougham. This vehicle has four wheels, and is more comfortable and roomy than the "Hansom." The rates for transportation are higher, however, and the four-wheelers are used by a better class of people. There are six thousand one-horse cabs registered in London, of which number 2,352 are "six day" cabs, whose proprietors do not allow of their use on Sundays; and of "seven day" cabs,which are constantly traversing the streets, there are as many as 3,366. These cabs are all licensed, and their owners pay, annually, into the Municipal Treasury as large a sum as £10,000. The legal rate of fare in a "hansom," is sixpence a mile, and for a "four-wheeler," one shilling per mile, but the cabbies charge strangers any fare they can get.
cab
"A HANSOM CAB."
"Leave me alone, Sir, and I'll show you some of the sights of Lunnon town," said "Old Smudge," in a hoarse voice from the top of the cab in reply to my anxious enquiry as to where we were traveling. We were then some distance from the West End of the City, and from the noises which every few minutes attracted our attention, I fancied that the cab was being driven in the direction of the Thames. I saw, dimly, the masts of the shipping and the Docks, with their adamantine fronts frowning down upon me.
The cab was stopped suddenly, and the horse was broughtup on its hind legs by a jerk of the reins from "Old Smudge," who was already in conversation at the door of a beer shop, which was illuminated, and had a large number of rough-mannered customers standing around its entrance. They were a sufficiently hard looking set to make a stranger think of his safety.
"This is 'Jack Barley's "Convivial Pup,"' Sir," said the cabman to me as I climbed out of the "hansom." "This is the finest rat-pit in Lunnon, Sir."
A SOIREE AT A RAT PIT.
I had often heard of Mr. Barley before, and now I saw him face to face, a most villainous and repulsive looking beast with a scarcely healed cicatrice in his jaw, and a couple of bleary holes under his black brows, miscalled eyes. Mr. Barley was famous in his way, and enjoyed distinction among a certain class. None could tell the breed of a dog, the age of a spaniel, the pluck of a terrier, or the gouging and milling abilities of a middle weight bruiser, with Professor Barley. In such matters his judgment was final and conclusive along the Thames bank for some distance.
The proprietor escorted us through a small bar, which was ornamented with the usual sporting emblems found in low London tap rooms, and after descending a stone stairs, I found myself in a room beneath the ground floor, with small circular benches ranged in a cramped fashion to the ceiling. On these seats about one hundred men, of all grades in the sporting class, were seated. There were a few "gentlemen," God save the mark, a brace of attorney's clerks, an officer of some line regiment, and the rest of the audience were of a miscellaneous character.
There was a rat pit below the benches, a square enclosure with a board fence about four feet high, enclosing it, the boards being whitewashed, and the flooring of the pit having sawdust scattered over it.
The only light in this dreary and subterraneous den came from six greasy, unvarnished tin lanterns, in which half a dozen of cheap tallow candles were fixed, and these flickered and sputtered with great malevolence on the rascally faces of the men who swarmed around the pit.
I heard a squealing noise, and I saw a lad bring in a long and huge flat wire cage, which was swarming with gray, black, and brown rats. Way was made for the youth to enter the pit with his cage of live rodents. Jumping in he opened the cage, and thrusting his forearm fearlessly through the door he drew forth, one by one, over fifty large and ferocious rats and threw them in a heap in the pit. These animals ran about in a confused way for a few minutes, and looked with an almost human and beseeching look into the murderous faces which were gathered around the pit. Then another cage was handed to the young man, and the same ceremony was performed again until there were one hundred and five rats in the centre of the pit.
rats
"ONE HUNDRED RATS IN NINE MINUTES."
There was to be a match for fifty pounds, the proprietor of the pit having matched his dog "Skid," a wiry and ferret-eyed little terrier, to kill one hundred rats in nine minutes. Bets were now made against and for the dog, that he would or would not kill the rats in the time named, and the excitement ran high as the little venomous dog was placed in thepit carefully by his master amid considerable applause from the roughs.
"SKID'S" BATTLE WITH THE RATS.
It was simply disgusting to witness that dreadful little terrier run at each rat, shake him for a second or two in the air and then drop him quite dead on the floor of the pit, while the roughs encouraged him to his work with shouts when the rat was destroyed quickly, but occasionally when a big and ferocious rat was attacked and showed fight in return, and when the terrier seemed to hang back for a moment, a perfect storm of curses and obscene epithets were rained on the unfortunate canine. Before five minutes had elapsed the whitewashed board sides and flooring of the Rat Pit were daubed with splashes of blood, and the little terrier was foaming at the lips, and his glossy hide was flecked with dark smudgy stains. When eight minutes and forty seconds had elapsed, "Skid" snapped the neck of the last rat, and now there was nothing left in the pit but a large pool of blood on which sawdust was quickly heaped, and a bleeding mass of heaving and dying rats.
Great cheering rewarded the efforts of "Skid," who was taken up tenderly, almost lovingly by his master; and now being very sick at the stomach from the disgusting sight I left the place and took the cab, cogitating the while on what I had seen.
Disgusting as the sight of the rat butchery had proved, I afterwards learned that some two hundred men earn a living in London, and its suburbs, in catching rats alive for the use of the rat-pits. Of this number a great many, however, are paid extra by persons who wish to drive the vermin from their dwellings, and have no means of doing so but by calling in professional rat-catchers.
Some fifteen or twenty of these professional rat-catchers pursue their dangerous calling in the London sewers, preferring to catch those found in drains to the house rats, who are not as ferocious as the former. Beside, the sewer rat will fight a terrier longer and more savagely than a house rat, and as this affords good sport, the sewer rat is at a premium in the market.
catcher
THE RAT CATCHER.
These rat-catchers traverse the sewers by night, and carrylanterns and a long wire basket with lids and a handle of the same material. They use ointment which they rub on their hands and with this same composition they cover their arms, which is very distasteful to the rats, who will not bite at any human flesh that is anointed with this preparation. These men wear large slouch hats, and pursue their calling in all seasons, to make a living. Often they have terrible battles with the enraged colonies of rats, and not a few of the rat-catchers have been over-powered in the sewers when attacked, and their bones whiten many of the brick beds and slimy crevices of these dark and dismal underground passages.
"PADDY'S GOOSE," RATCLIFFE HIGHWAY.
The cab driver now desired to know if I would like to visit "Paddy's Goose," a den in "Ratcliffe Highway," one of the worst of the bad districts of London. This place is frequented by sailors of all nations, who visit the spot to dance with the abandoned women, that are hired by the proprietors of these resorts to entice the foolish seafaring men just discharged from their vessels, with more money than they are able to take care of.
goose
"PADDY'S GOOSE."
"Paddy's Goose," or the "White Swan," as it is called by its owner, is perhaps the most frightful hell-hole in London. The very sublimity of vice and degradation is here attained, and the noisy scraping of wheezy fiddles, and the brawls of intoxicated sailors are the only sounds heard within its walls. It is an ordinary dance house, with a bar and glasses, and adirty floor on which scores of women of all countries and shades of color may be found dancing with Danes, Americans, Swedes, Spaniards, Russians, Negroes, Chinese, Malays, Italians, and Portuguese, in one wild hell-medley of abomination.
The proprietor of this den is undoubtedly the most desperate villain I ever saw outside of a prison gate, a man whose face is scarred and corrugated by the foot-prints of the Devil, whose servant he has been for many years, and yet I was informed that this scoundrel was tolerated, nay, encouraged by the government, from the fact that he had great influence among English seamen. This man during the Crimean War hired steamers, with bands of music, and served the Admiralty as a "crimp" for enlisting sailors, or rather for trapping them by drugging them first and then "burking" them off to the men-of-war, which needed fresh complements of seamen.
I did not stay long in this Devil's-Tavern, and I am sure my readers will excuse me from going into particular mention of the beastliness and orgies I saw there.
tide
"WAITING FOR THE TIDE."
Dismissing "Old Smudge" with a fee that seemed to meet his approbation, I turned my steps in the direction of the river, not doubting for a moment but that I should find further food for reflection. I came upon the Thames suddenly as a vision, and saw it stretching out in all its dark and terrible beauty, just above Shadwell. I had taken my seat on an old dismasted hulk that lay some distance off in the river, and which I had reached with considerable difficulty by clambering from bowsprit to bowsprit amongthe silent shipping, on whose masts and canvas God's silent stars shone brightly down.
WAITING FOR THE TIDE.
I had not been sitting long there when a clumsy-looking and broad-bottomed boat passed me, directly below the hulk, one man pulling in the boat while another leaned over and seemed to support something, dark and bulky in shape, from the stern of the wherry.
A chill came over me, and in a faint voice I asked the man what he had in the skiff?
"Oh, yer honor, we were Waiting for the Tide below Bridge. We goes out every night, me and Tim, to look for bodies—we gets twenty shillings a-piece for them, and all we can find, and Tim's got a dead 'un now, and 'praps he's got a good haul, for there's a sparkling ring on Its finger,—mayhap yer honor would like to buy it."
Trailing slowly in the water was a lifeless corpse, and the boatman was tearing a bright object from its stiff forefinger.
Hastily I rose and turned my face away from the River which had given up its dead in this startling manner.
I went home thoroughly cured of the blues, and saw no more "sights" that night.
tailpiece
CHAPTER XLVI.
ENGLISH LITERATURE AND JOURNALISM.
ENGLISH literature is one of the mainstays of our present civilization. Wherever the English language is spoken or understood, or wherever English thought predominates, English books are read, and the names of English authors are held in reverence. And second only to the power of English books is the power of the English press, which immediately after French journalism, represents the most trained culture and best talent employed in the Fourth Estate of our times.
London ranks, as I have said, in the second place, as far as her journalism is concerned. London journalists have not yet attained that high influence, both social and political, in the State, which is freely yielded to young and middle-aged men whose services are known to be of value on the Parisian journals of ability and circulation.
But the men who think for England, and who write its books, do not need to fear comparison with the same class in any other land in breadth of thought or influence on the masses of mankind. I shall make but a brief mention of a few of England's worthies in the paths of literature, and shall only speak of those who are best known by their works in America.
john
JOHN RUSKIN—ART CRITIC.
Twenty-eight years ago, articles of wonderful force, beauty, and breadth of tone, began to appear from some unknown pen, in the literary journals of London. These articles attracted notice from the best minds as they advocated a new and startling theory in art—the theory of Pre-Raphaelitism, as it has since been called. The author of these articles was John Ruskin—since become so famous—then in his twenty-fourth year. Ruskin was the son of a wealthy London merchant, and, unlike most men of genius he has never known any of the bitter struggles of poverty. From his boyhood he has been accustomed to elegance and plenty, the society of refined men and women, and his mind has been enlarged by almost incessant and instructive travel. He was very fond of the true and beautiful in Nature, and it is recorded of him, that when a child he had one favorite spot—Friar's Crag, in Derwentwater, which overhung a lake,—and here he was brought daily by his fond nurse, who secretly gratified the child's taste for the picturesque by allowing him to hang over the brow of the cliff, and when permitted to do so he would gaze for hours with intense joy and mingled awe into the depths of the dark waters below, hanging on by the grassy roots which bloomed on the surface of the cliff. He had always a feeling of awe and heart hunger in the presence of mountains, and, at fifteen years of age, he had ascended the summits of the most elevated hills in England. A landscape delighted him, while belle lettres and mathematics only wearied his retrospective soul. At twenty, his reflective and practical powers had increased by the incessant traveling which he undertook, having visited every European city of note, but in all these travels Venice always remained dear to his heart. At Oxford he was a gentleman-commoner of Christ Church, where he carried off the Newdigate prize for a poem called "Salsette and Elephanta," a fragment now forgotten, and was graduated double fourth class in 1842. Among his teachers in landscape painting, which he loved with all his great heart, he had such men as Copely Fielding, Harding and Prout. His great admiration was for Turner, however, and this love led him to the field of art criticism, in defence of that eminent painter.