VIIIEXPERIENCES IN LONDONCustoms and Climate Very Unlike Our Own.—No Laughter in Restaurants.—Clever Cabbies.—Oddities in Fire-fighting.—The “Rogues’ Gallery” in Scotland Yard.—“Petticoat Lane.”—A Cemetery for Pet Dogs.—Dogs Who are Characters.—The Professional Toast-master.—Solemn After-dinner Speakers.—An Autograph Table-cloth.—American Brides of English Husbands.
Customs and Climate Very Unlike Our Own.—No Laughter in Restaurants.—Clever Cabbies.—Oddities in Fire-fighting.—The “Rogues’ Gallery” in Scotland Yard.—“Petticoat Lane.”—A Cemetery for Pet Dogs.—Dogs Who are Characters.—The Professional Toast-master.—Solemn After-dinner Speakers.—An Autograph Table-cloth.—American Brides of English Husbands.
So many London customs seem strange to an American that I venture to mention a few experiences of my own by way of preparation, for no American knows when he may be nominated for the presidency or get a chance to go to Europe.
The first thing to impress a person from thisside of the Atlantic is the climate, which is generally depressing to any one accustomed to the dazzling sunshine, brilliant skies and champagne quality of our atmosphere. Everything seems heavy and solemn by comparison, and life appears to be a serious matter to all whom one meets, although the truth is that the English enjoy life heartily and give ten times as much attention to sports and amusements as we do.
I went one day into a restaurant where a great many people were dining, yet absolute silence prevailed, instead of the buzz of chatter and laughter of a French or American restaurant. I asked a waiter,
“Doesn’t any one ever laugh here?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Sometimes we ’ave complaints, sir.”
But there is so much of interest in even the ordinary street sights that a visitor soon forgets smoke, dampness and gloom. The first natives to accost an American are the “cabbies,” and they are a never-failing source of amusement to me. They abound in natural wit, and are past-masters of sarcasm. One of the sharpest bits I ever heard was told about an old cabby and one of his younger fellows. The former was a master of whip and rein; he boasted that he knew every foot of London and declared that although he had been in many tight places he had never failed todrive out smoothly. One day, however, he lost control of his horse and ran into a young cabby’s outfit. The younger man looked him over condescendingly, contemptuously, and then asked,
“Well? An’ ’ow doyoulike London?”
A friend of mine once took a cab drawn by an animal which was bony in the extreme. The driver was hailed by the Jehu of a passing cab with,
“Oi saiy, Bill, I see yer goin’ to ’ave a new ’orse.”
“’Oo told yer so?”
“W’y, I see y’ve got the framework there.”
Not all the quick-tongued cabbies are professionals. At one time it was a fad of young “bloods” in London to drive cabs, apparently for the purpose of enriching their slang vocabulary by exchanging remarks with “regulars” whom they could provoke into freedom of speech. Sometimes decently born and fairly educated young men from the rural districts, who have handled horses at home and know no one in London whom they would be ashamed to face from a driver’s seat, try cab-driving as a business. They can hire a horse and cab for five shillings a day; London fares are small and some days they are few, but many men “tip” the drivers, especially those who say smart things that appear to be impromptu, so amateur cabbies sometimes make much more than a living.
London’s fire-fighting service interests an American by its differences from our own. The fire-plugs do not resemble old-fashioned cannon, turned upside down, as ours do; they are so unnoticeable that their whereabouts must be indicated by lamp-post signs like this:—“Fire-plug four feet to the right and three feet to the rear.” Instead of using whistles, the London engines have a string of sleigh-bells on one of the horses, and by way of further warning the men on the engine keep up a constant shout of “Hoy! Hoy! Hoy!” The engines do not respond as quickly to an alarm as ours; it generally takes them two minutes to get under way, though the firemen are a “fit” looking lot. I was told they were selected entirely from ex-sailors of the naval service. To assist the engines’ crews there are many auxiliaries, who sleep and almost live in small red houses on wheels; these portable houses are numerous in the more thickly populated portions of the city, where fires are most likely to occur and extra firemen be needed.
At convenient corners are kept, also on wheels, the portable fire-escapes:—mere shafts or chutes of canvas on wooden framework. In case of fire in the upper part of an inhabited building, the top of the escape is pushed to a window, and the inmates are expected to save themselves by goinghead first down the inclined chute, clinging to the framework of the sides to keep from descending too rapidly. Of course in a city of lofty apartment houses and “sky-scraper” office buildings such a contrivance would be almost useless, but in London a house of more than three stories is a rarity. “Running to fires” is as popular with some Londoners as it was in New York before fire alarms reached the dozen-a-day mark. The Duke of Sutherland enjoyed attending fires; he would have his private carriage follow the engines, and frequently he was accompanied by the Prince of Wales.
Scotland Yard, mentioned in every English detective story, is an interesting place to visit; it is the London equivalent of our Police Department’s “Central Office.” I was shown a “Rogues’ Gallery” there which was quite as large and appalling as our own. In photographing a criminal the London police make assurance doubly sure by placing a mirror to catch his profile, which is taken, with his front face, by a single snap. To be still more thorough they have the sitters spread his hands on his chest, for hands, being hard to disguise, are useful tell-tales. Thumb impressions complete a record which the criminal regards with far more discomfort than his evil deeds ever give him.
Petticoat Lane is not a section of the policedepartment, though the officials wish it might be, for as it is a recognized “stand” of hucksters, the thieves flock there to sell their ill-gotten wares, so one may see “Fagins” and “Artful Dodgers” in plenty. Their best customers are men of their own kind—thieves with enough business sense to know where certain kinds of stolen property can be resold to advantage. Jewelry is the principal stock-in-trade, and it is carried in small boxes, resembling cigar-boxes, hung from the neck. When the coast is clear of policemen, the thieves lift the lid long enough for a peep at the contents. I was piloted through “the lane” by a special officer from Scotland Yard and in an underground passage we came upon a score or more of the light-fingered gentry. Unfortunately the officer was recognized, word was passed down the line, everything that might have aroused suspicion was secreted and the entire crowd gazed at us with an affected innocence which was transparent enough to be laughable.
The legitimate trades in Petticoat Lane are more interesting to an American, for they have some business ways which are amusing—even startling. An orange-dealer will drop his fruit in hot water once in a while; this makes it swell to almost twice its natural size and look smooth and glossy. The next wagon to the orange manmay be full of second-hand clothing; the dealer will not allow a would-be purchaser to “try on” a coat or vest, for fear he may run away with it, but he will put the garment on his own wife for inspection; the result is often a picture funny enough to print. Theatrical people often go there for costumes for “character” parts; apparently some kinds of English clothing last forever, for in Petticoat Lane may be seen fabrics and fashions and trimmings that look antiquated enough to have come over with William the Conqueror. Some of the hucksters’ carts are decorated with suggestive signs, such as, “Oh, mother, how cheap these eggs are!”
In a corner of Hyde Park I chanced to see a little graveyard; everything about it was little. The mounds were small, the headstones tiny, and little children were decorating the graves with flowers. On inquiry I learned that it was a dogs’ cemetery, but instead of laughing I was touched by the mental picture of heavy-hearted boys and girls going there with floral tributes to departed playfellows. A little girl who was passing noted that one grave was bare, and I heard her say to her nurse:
“That must have been a bad doggie buried there.”
“Why?” the nurse inquired.
“Because he has no flowers on his grave.”
Almost every part of London has its homely “character.” Near St. Martin’s Lane, off Charing Cross, can be seen every day a blind sailor who sits knitting small fishing-nets. In front of him sits his Irish terrier with a cup in his mouth, and passers-by amuse themselves by throwing pennies for the dog to catch in his cup, as he always does. When he has caught several he empties the cup into his owner’s hand and returns to business at the old stand. This goes on till evening, when the dog guides his owner home through the crowded streets.
One interesting London dog is called Nelson, because he accidentally lost a leg at the base of the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square. He makes his home in Seven Dials, where he begs for a living, and gets many pennies from his admirers. Instead of giving the money to any one he hides it; whenever he is hungry he goes to his treasury, gets a coin and takes it to a butcher or baker; he knows, too, how much he should get in return and he will not leave the shop till he has received full value for his money.
The professional toast-master is a London institution that America has not adopted. His services are required at the cost of a sovereign, at every public dinner, and his qualifications are pomposity and a loud, deep, resonant voice. Around his neck he wears a big silver chain fromwhich hangs a silver plate inscribed T. M., and when he exclaims, “We will drink a bumper to ’Is Gracious Majesty the King,” it is with a voice that suggests an earthquake announcing its exit from the bowels of the earth. After the presiding officer has indulged in the usually introductory and airy persiflage, it is the duty of the T. M. to introduce the speaker, which he does with a sweep of his arm that is expected to subdue any noisy applause by the guests.
“’Is Gracious Majesty the King!”
“’Is Gracious Majesty the King!”
English after-dinner speakers have little or no humor, but they are extremely earnest in their remarks. They incline more to argument than amusement. Occasionally one will indulge in a pun which has the sanctity of long usage—a punthat an American could not get off without a blush, and a turn of his face to the wall, but the hearers like it, so no one else should complain. The English recognize and admit the American’s superiority as an after-dinner speaker. I heard Mr. Beerbohm Tree say, in the course of a speech at the Clover Club (Philadelphia),
“Englishmen can handle horses and Americans their tongues.”
But there are exceptions to every rule, even regarding dinners and after-dinner speaking. London contains some men as clever and witty as any in the world, and when these fine fellows dine together there is no formality about the board nor any heavy talk.
Mr. Henry Lucy, who has been called the “Mark Twain of England,” recently visited this country with Mrs. Lucy, renewing old friendships and forming new ones. The Lucys give delightful dinners at their home in Ashley Gardens, Victoria Street, as I have often had occasion to know, and the guests they gather about them would be welcomed by the cleverest men and women anywhere. For special occasions the Lucys use a table-cloth profusely ornamented with the autographs of many brilliant men who have dined with them, for it is only as a guest that one may write his name on this sacred bit of linen. Many of the names are householdwords in America, one of which held my eye for an entire evening; it was that of Charles Dickens. It was over the Lucy table that Burnand, editor ofPunch, and W. S. Gilbert had their oft-quoted encounter:
“I suppose you often have good things sent in by outsiders?” said Gilbert.
“Frequently,” Burnand replied.
“Then why don’t you print them?”
A question frequently asked of late is whether the marriages of American girls to English husbands result happily. My own observation has satisfied me that they generally do. English girls are educated to be good housewives and mothers, but their childhood and early girlhood is usually spent in the nursery, without much association with adults, so when they are thrust into society they are likely to be shy, if not awkward, and have little or nothing to say. But the American girl is “one of the family” from her infancy; she is as much a companion of her father as her brother is, and she knows her brother’s friends as well as those of her elder sister. She acquires quickness of thought and speech, vivacity and cleverness, and can be companionable without overstepping the bounds of strict propriety.
If an English gentleman longs for a wife who will also be his “chum,” who will enjoy his sports with him and be a jolly good fellow, which isonly another name for companion—who is competent to amuse and entertain, he cannot easily find her in England except in a class which would preclude his offering her his name, but if he is so lucky as to marry an American girl he has not only a model wife and housekeeper but a companion as well.
Mill put the garment on his wife.
Mill put the garment on his wife.
Just one more mention of London, for the sake of that touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. Down by the East India dock is a hospital on the wall of which appears the following request, “Will drivers please walk their horses?” Although heavy traffic passes the building, much noise is avoided if horses are not urged beyond a walk. The drivers are a rather rough lot, like drivers anywhere, but they carefullycomply with the request; their knowledge of what it means is more effective than a platoon of police could be. The gratitude of the hospital authorities and patients is expressed by an inscription at the other end of the building—“Thank you, drivers.”
“We cannot chain the eagle;And we dare not chain the dove;But every gate that’s barred by hateIs opened wide by love.”
“We cannot chain the eagle;And we dare not chain the dove;But every gate that’s barred by hateIs opened wide by love.”
“We cannot chain the eagle;And we dare not chain the dove;But every gate that’s barred by hateIs opened wide by love.”
“We cannot chain the eagle;
And we dare not chain the dove;
But every gate that’s barred by hate
Is opened wide by love.”