Class ^'. .4.-41- Book.__(4l^ Copyiight]^" _ COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. THE NIGHT SIDE C)E EONDON A I'KCADILLY LADY. From an oil paintine; by Tom Browne. THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON BY ROBERT MACHRAY AUTHOR OF "THE VISION SPLENDID," **SIR HECTOR," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BT TOM BROWNE, R.L, R.B.A. PHILADELPHIA ' ' ' ' ' J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1902 533 3 J 1 5 J 3 Copyright, 1902 By J. B. LiPPiNcoTT Company THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two Copies Received my, 28 1902 COPyniQHT ENTRy CLASS '^XXa No, h ^ 1 00 COPY B. ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A. PREFACE *•*» This book is a record of Things Seen in London by night in the first tzco years of the tzcenfielh century — n record made bv f>en and pencil. The Artist and the Author leorked together, -I'isitijig the phwes described, and seeing the scenes herein set forth; Jhe volume is there- fore the result of lehat may be called' their common obserz'ation. This book is not by zeay of being a complete record of the Xight Side of London, though it is perhaps as com- plete as there is any object in making it. Two or three of the more familiar phases of London by night Iuk'c not been reproduced or touched upon; there is nothing, for instance, said about St. Martin's le Grand at midnight, or about a nez^'spaper-office at tieo or three o'clock in the morning, or about the Chinese opiujii-dens in the East End. Xor is there a chapter on the Riz'er by Night; ap- plication zeas made to the Commissioner of Police for permission to accompany one of (he riz'cr police-boats on its " rounds," but it zeas refused. And for obvious rea- vi PREFACE sous nothing is said about the zvorst and most devilish features of the Night Side of London. For those zvho zcish to become acquainted i^ntJi these hideous things, are there not guides to be found lurking near the entrances of some of the great Jiotels of London — just as is the case in Paris/ More than thirty years liave passed since tJie publica- tion of the last edition of a book which bore tlie same title as this — " The AUght Side of London." It ran tJirough several editions, and that in spite of the fact that it had no illustrations; this bore z^'itness to the zi'idesprer.d in- terest taken in the subject. At tJie time of the publication of the former "Night Side of London," the tozvn pre- sented certain aspects of night-life zi'hich have since passed away, but zuhich undoubtedly zvere of unusual interest to those keeidy observant of the human tragi- comedy. Thirty years ago or so the " Argyle Rooms," '' Cremorne," and the "Casino" still flourished, as did the " Cave of Harmony" and " CaldzveU's." Since these days there has been a considerable change, at all events on the surface, in the night-life of London. This has been brought about by various influences — principally, by the much greater actiz'ity and efficiency of the police, urged on by public opinion. CONTENTS H AFTER PAGE Preface ......... v I. Piccadilly Circus (ii f.m. to i a.m.) . . . i II. In the Streets ....... 22 III. In the Streets — continued (Ratcliff Highway) . 44 IV. "In Society" . . . . . r. . .64 V. Still " in Society" ....... 79 VI. Not ■' IN Society" . . . . . '. -95 VII. An East End Music-Hall . . . . . 112 VIII. Earl's Court ........ 125 IX. The Masked-Ball 135 X. The Shilling Hop ....... 152 XI. Club Life 160 XII. A Saturday Night with the " Savages" . . . i74 XIII. With the " Eccentrics" (3 a.m.) .... 191 XIV. " La Vie de Boheme" I99 XV. Sunday Night at the New Lyric .... 217 Vlll CONTENTS CHAPTEB t page XVI. A " Night Club" 226 XVII. The N.\tional Sporting Club . . 23s XVIII. A School for Neophytes .... . 251 XIX. " Wonderland" • 259 XX. New Year's Eve at St. Paul's . 270 XXI. The Hoppers' Saturday Night . 281 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ¥¥ A Piccadilly Lady Girl's Head .... Man From Up There . Piccadilly Circus. Midnight A Gay Little Jap On the Prowl "Jimmy's." 12.30 a.m. . An Old Old Woman Coffee Stall at Hyde Park Corner Coffee Stall in New Oxford Street. 2 a.m Trying to Reason with Her Standing in Little Groups . Burglar throws Some Light Singing in the Street . A Ratcliff Picture Turning and Churning Round and Round Shouting Shrill Abuse Down goes the Drunken Man Flat on His The American Girl .... The Restaurant Dinner Frontispiece Title-page Back 3 7 13 18 20 25 27 29 34 38 43 47 53 56 59 61 66 69 X LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Crowd on the Great Staircase ...... 73 A Cosy Nook ......... 77 At the Empire .81 The Empire Promenade . . . . . . . 84 CovENT Garden Opera ........ 86 A First-Nighter ......... 88 Supper at the Carlton . . . . , . .91 Dinner at the Cafe Boulogne, Soho ..... 97 A Twopenny Pie ......... 99 A Typical East End Showman ...... 105 The Lion-Tamer 108 Slanging each other ........ 114 A Coster Song . . . . . . . . .115 The Lightning Sketcher . . . . . . .116 The Pet Comedian . . . . , . . .119 " Mr. Guzzle" ......... 121 Earl's Court Exhibition ....... 127 Seen at Earl's Court ........ 130 A Type ........... 131 Another .......... 132 The Big Wheel ......... 134 The Dancers quickly form up on the Floor ... . 143 Behind the Bandstand ....... 148 CovENT Garden Ball Girls ....... 149 Last Waltz 150 Making Tracks 151 The Cake-Walk at a Shilling Hop 157 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS XI THE Bar You MAY Smoke" pip-pip-pit-pome" — S A Sketch at the Press Club Type of Club-man Another Bounder's Club Type of Club-man Another A Toast Savage Club Menu Saturday Night at the Savage — ■ In the Chair—" Brother Savages " To Welcome the Harvest Ho- Club . ... Types of " Savages" Savage Club Concert . "Pay, Pay, Pay!" An Eccentric Club Menu The Eccentric Club Clock The Bar at the Eccentric Club A Story by a Member of the London Sketch Club Immaculate Shirt-Fronts were covered with Drawings A Night at the London Sketch Club — the " Bousa" Band The New Lyric Club, Sunday Night, ii p.m. A New Lyric Club-man .... Testimonial given Mr. Luther Munday Night Club Scene ..... Some Members of the National Sporting Club Floored ! ....... page i6i 163 165 167 170 171 173 178 181 183 184 i8s 188 190 193 X95 197 209 211 213 219 221 223 231 239 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Bar aj the, National Sporting Club Dr. "Jack" Examines the Cojvipetitors Types of Boxers . Type of Boxer : The Capting Habbijam's Type of Boxer Type of Boxer "Any Toff want a Jelly?" Boxing at " Wonderland," VVhitechapel Burglar entering Open Window . Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot? " For Auld Lang Syne" — New Year's Eve " The Cock o' the North" — Ludgate Hill, New Year Your Eyes fasten Themselves on a Procession . The Women and the Children drink Generously She Dances with a Certain Rough Gracefulness Then hangs out of the Window The Night Side of London Finished . s Eve page 243 245 248 249 250 253 256 257 263 .265 269 273 277 279 285 289 293 298 300 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON CHAPTER I PICCADTLT.Y CIRCUS, II P.M. 1 A.M. " ' Put me down at the Piccadilly end of Regent Street,' said the lady of the feathers." — Flames, by R. S. Hichens. Piccadilly ! Why Piccadilly, and not something else — some other name? It is hardly possible to imagine any appellation less characteristically English than Piccadilly. }'et it is known all over the English world; indeed, like "^tlamn" and some other things that won't wash clothes, it may be said to be a household word. The famous Circus and street by an}' other name might have just as special an aroma, as exotic a l)ouquet, Piccadilly^ as they undoubtedly possess (particularly at certain hours), but somehow the foreign-sounding tag appears to have an appropriateness of its own ; it is as if there were some eternal fitness about it. Still this does not (juite answer the ([uestion, Why Piccadilly? The query has bothered many of the good people who are interested in tliis kind of conundruiu. The 2 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON correct answer, perhaps because of its odious obvious- ness, does not seem to have occurred to anybody : Pic- cadill\' of course gets its name from the fact that it is the Place of Peccadilloes, the Promenade of the Little Sinners — to put the matter politely and deli- catel}', as a fashionable clergyman might, waving the while his gloved hands in dainty deprecation. Older writers solemnly debated whether the name were derived from pcccadilla, the Elizabethan ruff for the neck, or from " Peccadilla Hall," a house formerly standing in the neighbourhood. Sir John Suckling brings us nearer the mark when he alludes to the Peccadillo Bowling Green. Blount, in his book which has the endearing title of Glossographia, tells us that Piccadilly got its name from the pickadill, which was a band worn round the bottom of a lady's house '^ '"" skirt. Once, says he in his chatty way, there was a famous ordinary near St. James's called Pickadilly, and he declares that it " took denomi- nation Ijecause it was the outmost or skirt-house of the suburl)s"' ! Skirt-house — the phrase is deliciously quaint and suggestive ; it seems strangely appropriate, even prophetic, for assuredly a skirt-house of sorts Piccadilly still remains. To us of these twentieth-century times it is almost incredilile that Piccadilly " near St. James's" should ever have been the western boundary of London. The PICCADILLY CIRCUS middle classes, who mostly inhabit the suburbs in these days — each man, so to speak, in a neat little skirt-house of his own — li\es miles and miles out of earshot of the bells of St. James's, although of a fine summer's after- noon \"ou will see representati\-es of them in shoals, and for the nnjst i)art in skirts, tlrink- "bvd'a^ ing" tea in the shops at the Circus end of Pic- cadilly. Then, for a couple of hours, say from four to six, Piccadilly is as redolent of the ordinary S(|uare- toed P)ritish \\ell-to-do-ness as an}- place you like to mention — is as ol)trusivel\' respectable as a Sunda}' morn- ing congregation in a small Scotch town. During the other hours of daylight Piccadilly is fashionable, aristo- cratic, autocratic; it is one of the great _ streets of the world — perhaps, in a sense, its greatest. But it is not these aspects of it that the ]\Ian From Up There wants to see; he has come, he tells you with engaging frankness, to see the Show " after the theatres come out," when the Circus, and the parts " contagious" thereunto, become the humming centre of " things." ( " Things" i^ trifle M IT THERE. vague, but no doubt the subject is 1;)est draped that wa_\-. ) A humming centre trulv enough Piccadill}- Circus is from ele\-en to one at night — it is the centre v\ the Night Side of London. There is room for uncertainty as to 4 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON what is the centre of London by day. Mr. Joel Solo- mons thinks he has good reason for saying it is to be found in his own Tom Tiddler's Ground, which he ];)cates not far from Draper's Gardens. The Honour- able Member for Muddleburgh has an idea The night ° centre cf that it is at Westminster, night or day, and London. as it is the only idea he probably has he cleaves to it, even as a land-crab holds on to a monkey's tail. Sam Bolton, cabman, of 74 Great Scott Street, has had it radiused into him that Charing Cross is the " bobby's bull's-eye" of the metropolis. And so on and on and on. But at night, at the hours named, or rather between them, Piccadilly Circus and the purlieus thereof are the centre of London, nor is there any other part of the town which will care to dispute with the Circus this tragical distinction. Piccadilly Circus and the purlieus thereof form an area with tolerably well-defined boundaries. On the east is Leicester Square, lit by ten thousand electric lamps; in the midst of the Square stands the statue of Shakespeare, on whose sculptured face wandering lights of blue, red, orange, and green, flashed from the Empire and the Alhambra, dance in a fantastic harle- boundaries quiuadc. North-cast is Shaftesbury Avenue, flanked by the whole dubious region of Soho — a district which in a sense holds more of the Night Side of London than all the rest of it put together. Further PTCCADILLV CIRCUS 5 round to the north is Glassliouse Street, the very name of which is an apologue. Then Regent Street, as far as Oxford Circus on the north and Pall Mall on the south, with Piccadill}- Circus itself in between. Of course there is Piccadilly itself, say as far as Bond Street. Nor must mention be omitted of the Haymar- ket on the south-east. Time was when the Haymarket played a large part in the night life of the town, but that day (to be a little Irish) is past. This is what Du Maurier says of it in The Martian — " Fifty years ago every night in the Haymarket there was a noisy kind of Saturnalia, in which golden youths joined hands with youths by no means golden, to fill the pockets of the keepers of night houses." And he goes on to speak of some of the famous or infamous places of the locality, such as " Bob Croft's," and " Kate Hamilton's," and the " Piccadilly Saloon." In another part of this same book he narrates how " Barty" and Robert Maurice went to the "^cenur Haymarket, and " Barty," by his music, made fi\'e pounds " in no time, mostly in silver donations from unfortunate women — English, of course — who are among the softest-hearted and most generous creatures in the world." There is a curious piece of testimony, if }-ou like. One wonders (a trifle meanly, perhaps, but Cjuite humanly) jur.t what it was built on. The Show, as the Man From Up There terms it, is 6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON seen at its best — that is, its worst — on a still, warm, starry night at the end of June, or the beginning of July, when the London season is at its height. The Show, in its later phases, seems never so tragical on a summer evening as it does when winter rain, or snow, or biting blasts add grim or squalid touches to the scene. You have dined, let us suppose, well and wisely at the Carlton or Prince's, the " Troc" or the Imperial, or some other of the numerous caravanserais, which are the Show begins dcsccndauts of tlic oucc celebrated Evans's Supper Rooms, and most of which lie well within the area tributary to the Circus. A minute or two after eleven you will " take your station" — to em- ploy the discreet language of the Court Circular, just as if you were a Royalty, or a Serenity, or a Trans- parency, the last being for obvious reasons highly recom- mended for immediate use — at a point of vantage. The best position, for at least the first half-hour of the Show, is the pavement between Piccadilly and Regent Street, on the north-west of the Circus oppo- site the Fountain. You look at the Fountain. On its steps sit strange female shapes, offering penny flowers, or haply tuppenny, to the passers-by. These female shapes, maybe, are the forms of women who once num- bered themselves amongst the night-blooming plants of the town ; anyway, there they are now ! Time was, who knows, when they and love were well acquainted — PICCADILLY CIRCUS— MIDNIGHT. PICCADILLY CIRCUS 9 and now " Only a penny, sir, only a penny for a bokay !" Then your eyes will range upward to the top of the Foun- tain, and \()U will immediately observe that a great sardonic humorist of a sculptor has Fountaii^ placed there a Cupid, armed with bow and arrow. The little god is poised on eager tiptoe in act to launch his sharp-edged dart. As the night ad- vances you will not fail to appreciate more and more the horrid humour of that bronze figure, that pagan parable of the Circus. Few people care for such pointed satire as this, and there is something to be said for those who maintain that the Cupid should disappear, and be replaced by the Giddy Goat or some other more appro- priate symbol. r For a few minutes the Circus is rather quiet. A 'bus now and again rumbles up, and interposes itself between you and the Fountain, hiding that mocking image. A girl of the night, on her prowd for prey, casts a keen glance at you, and flits silently past like a bat. Behind you — you can see her with the tail of your eye — pauses a Painted Lady, picture-hatted, black-haired, bella- donna'd, rouged, overdressed, but not more so than many a Great Lady. She makes a true picture of the town, of one aspect of the Night Side of London, as she stands with her back to the down-drawn, dull-red blinds of the shop window in the rear. A blind beggar now breaks in upon you with a hoarse, indistinct cry, that lo THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON sounds like many curses compressed into one, while his iron-shod staff strikes hard and sharp on the pavement within an ace of your toes. A " gentleman of t°7hrshow. (off) colour"— a " buck nigger" an Ameri- can would call him — goes by, a gratified smirk on his oily, thick-lipped face, and on his arm a pale, lip-laughing English girl ! Somehow you swear and turn away. And then a few more minutes pass, and the Circus suddenly buzzes with life; it hums like a giant hive. Here are movement, colour, and a babel of sounds ! Till you get used to it, the effect is somewhat stunning. But now the overture is finished, and the curtain is rung up. It is a scene that stirs the fancy, that touches the imagination. As the theatres and music-halls of London empty themselves into the streets, the Circus is full of the flashing and twinkling of the multitudinous lights of hurrying hansoms, of many carriages speeding home- ward to supper, of streams of people, men and women, mostly in evening dress walking along, smiling and jest- ing, and talking of what they have been to see. You be- hold policemen wrestling, and not unsuccessfully, with the traffic in the midst of the tumult. You catch goe^sup'^'" charming glimpses in the softening electric light of sylph-like forms, pink-flushed happy faces, snowy shoulders half-hidden in lace or chiffon, or cloaks of silk and satin. Diamonds sparkle in My Lady's PICCADILLY CIRCUS ii hair; her light laughter ripples over to you, and vou smile responsive ; a faint fragrance perfumes the wan- dering air, and the xision sweeps past you, on outside yt>ur radius. And there are man_\' such \isions, each with its own story, its own revelation — l)ut with these we have nothing to do, further than to say that the^- are all part of this pageant of the night, or, if \ou like the notion hetter. it is a scene out of high comedy, infinitelv allusi\e and suggestive, nor altogether lacking in the veritahle suhstance of romance. And for ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, it is as if all the world and his wife and his daughters, his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, drove past you. '' An almight}' heap of fast freight there," savs, with strident laugh, a man from the wild and woollv West, who stands on the kerh near you. and who puts tons of emphasis on the word fast. But he is wrong — that is, mostly wrong. Doubtless the Other Man's Wife (to sav nothing of his Mistress) has some part in the moving Show. l)ut. speaking generally, nearly all of those ^-ou ha^•e seen are entered for the safe, if . . ^'f^,! ' freight. not particularly exciting, " flat-race" event known as the Family Plate. As you gently insinuate this, or words to the like effect, into the disappointed ear of the dry-goods merchant from Julienne City, wdio is on the outlook for " something saucy," you note that the racing tide of life at length reaches the slack; the crowd begins 12 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON to thin ; the jar and rattle of the 'buses once more pre- dominate, save when a noisome motor dashes by with hideous roar, or when the bhnd beggar aforesaid, start- ing on a fresh round of imprecation, again makes violent jabs at your boots. The curtain comes down, and you naturally think of refreshment. You stroll across the Circus to a " Lounge," walk up a flight of stairs, take a seat, and call for a lemon squash. A lemon squash gives you away, as it were, and several young ladies sitting about the room, who had watched your entrance with curiosity, now cease to regard you with any interest whatsoever. You are not worthy of their powder and paint. " Loun e " ^^^ gazc ou them and their male companions — though it is well to be careful how you do it. The women, you cannot fail to see, are young women Oi the town having drinks (mostly whiskies and sodas) with young men who are bent on seeing "life"; the women smile on the men, and smile on each other ; in some sort they are all evidently having a good time. The scene on the whole is gay and bright — there is nothing on the surface that is squalid or badly out of repair. All is respectable — within the meaning of the Act, as you might say. You notice this, and then you remember to have seen a colossal chucker-out at the door, and you ask what is he doing in this galley? Go to ! (Mem. It is bet- ter to go two, or even three, in the Circus than go alone). PICCADILLY CIRCUS 13 Tiring of the " Lounoe," you emerge into the Circus again. And now }-()U take llie rest oi the Show in a series of tahleaux, and you begin with a cafe, the name of %JppERf.^|^ A GAY LITTLE JAP. wliich, SO far as the sound of it is concerned, recalls the pleasing legend of the Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo. Just outside its vestibule— that giving ,1 /-■ Ml r Tableau on the Ln"cus— you will see a row 01 men ^^ ^ Inmost of them foreigners) staring with bulging gooseberry e}'es at the French demoiselles, whose main camping-ground is the Colonnade of Regent Street; 14 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON the same men, or their doubles, seem to stand there every evening, though this can scarcely be the case — the wonder is they don't catch something and " quit." Within the cafe, as you enter, is a picturesque (literally picturesque) little shop, where of foreign newspapers you may have " what vou please, m'sieu !" Still further within, you may have what you please ; }'OU may call for what you like — if you have the price. You quickly see that though the whole atmosphere of the place is foreign, yet the brutal custom of exacting payment for everything you receive is rigidly insisted on with true British bull-dog pertinacity. Having mastered this stubborn fact, you perhaps descend into the grill-room, where by way of whetting your appetite you may perchance see a gay little Jap (four foot six) following two pavement-ladies (each five foot eight) down to supper. At the same time you will notice, if your taste lies that way, the wall decora- tions of the place; they are well done. Having exhausted the attractions of this cafe, you may now step across the road into Glasshouse Street, and enter another cafe, which rejoices in a Latin name, and which is even more determinedly foreign than the one you have just left. Here, you will unques- No 2^"^" tionably imagine, you have transported your- self into a German beer-garden. The major- ity of its frequenters, you will see, appear to hail from the Vaterland, and you note that their glasses, like their bev- PICCADILLY CIRCUS 15 erages. liave been made in (iermany. Here there are not many women. l)nt sucli as are are not English; indeed, hv this time xon nnderstand that the night centre of Lon- don is cosmopolitan. Before you leave this cafe you must not fail to look at the mural paintings and other pictures which adorn the room — two of them at least are far abo\e the a\'erage. From Glasshouse Street you pass into Regent Street, and walking down its east side towards the Colonnade vou may halt, and take a peep into more cafes and res- taurants. If they are well filled, and you keep your eyes wide open, you may add several points even to the liberal education which you are already getting. In the Colon- nade itself you will enc(junter the peripatetic foreign colony of ladies who make this their rendezvous, and turn it into what Mr. Hichens calls, justly enough, a " sordid boulevard." The French spoken in tableaux^ this duarter. he tells us. is the French of Belle- \ille. and you may take his word for it, and so save your- self much unnecessary trouble and expense; the acquisi- tion of a language, it is conceivable, may be bought at too high a price. Comprenez, m'sieu? You shrug your shoulders, smile, and cross over to the other side of Regent Street. You now reach the spot from which, half an hour ago, you viewed the great whirring procession of cabs and carriages coming away from the theatres; it is compara- i6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON tively quiet. The rush for the last 'bus, or the dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub of a whirHng hansom, may make a temporary disturbance, but the Circus, though there are still plenty of human bats about, is veiled in a discreet silence. You pause for a moment, and then you stroll up the west side of Regent Street. You have perhaps gone a hundred yards or so when a party of four or five young " bloods," bent on carrying out their idea of a frolic, tableaux march past you arm-in-arm, and proceed to hustle the chucker-out at the back door of "Jimmy's" — that individual (the chucker-out, not " Jimmy," as the uninitiated might suppose) trying to bar their entrance. You are almost caught in the rush of these young heroes, but manage to make your escape ; you see, however, these daring fellows (five to one) carry all (i.e., the chucker-out) before them and disappear into the interior. You do not attempt to follow them ; you wonder vaguely what has happened to the gallant defen- der of the door, but presently he turns up smiling, and you understand that the incident, if not the door, is closed. And now you leisurely go round by a side-street which will take you into Piccadilly not far from the front of " Jimmy's." And as you are on your way it may chance that you will espy (good old word — espy!) but a short distance from Vine Street police-station a police- man or two affably passing the time of night with some of the Daughters of the Circus. But don't mistake what PICCADILLY CIRCUS 17 this means. The Liindon pohce are not bad men, and in their hearts is a g"ood deal of pit}', and s_\inpathy too, for tliese poor creatures of the Half-World, the wretched and miserable outcasts of society, and, in a measure, its victims. It is now midnigiit, and a church l)ell Ijooms out the hour. You are back again in Piccadilly, and its northern pa\'ement is filled with men and women, mostly women, tramping' up and down ; there are fewer on the other side of the street. In the middle of the thoroughfare is a long line of cabs — why so many? you ask, forgetting for a second that here is the night centre of the greatest city the world has ever seen. You mo\'e with the crowd ; y()u may be in it, not of it. but the mere fact that you are there subjects you to incessant solicitations; you are addressed as "darling," "sweetheart" — what not? Your "ears are deaf, and you take a look into " Jimmy's" ; you walk through the grill-room and pass into the dining-room, l)oth full of people, again mostly women, who, you ob- serve are nearly all in evening dress, presenting a gen- erous display of their charms. Here is the chiefest temple of the demi-monde. So long as a member of th.e scarlet sisterhood can i)ut in an appearance tabUiuL'^ at " Jimm}''s" she fancies she is not wholly a failure!!!! Once upon a time (as you may know if you lia\"e read Fielding or Srnollett or seen the cartoons of Hogarth ) the ghastl}- pilgriniage of the Woman of the i8 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON Town was from St. James's to Drury Lane; now it is from "Jimmy's" to Waterloo Road — to which the river by way of Waterloo Bridge is horribly, suggestively handy. Well, as you look on at " Jimmy's," other men, you cannot but notice, come in just as you have done, and stare, and stare, and stare. The dry- goods merchant from Julienne City, wdiom you have met before, asks coarsely, " What's in the cowshed to- night?" And you turn and flee ! You feel, being honest, you are something of a hypo- crite, but you get out into the street again. Now you take time to classify these night- walkers of the Circus into types. Here, strangest type of all, is a bent, battered, tattered figure restlessly pacing up and down the kerb ; from one side of the street to the other he goes, his eyes ever fixed upon the ground. He PICCADILLY CIRCUS 19 is a Picker-np of Unconsidered Trifles, the end of a cigarette, the stuljb of a cigar, a [)in (if it l)e jewelled so nuicli the better), anything. He makes some sort (jf living out of it, otherwise he would not be here. He only appears late at night, luit every night — a kind of Wander- ing Jew }'ou might think him from his form and dress — you can see him on his beat. Where does he come from? Whither does he go? Here is a poor, old, wretched, squalid woman selling matches ; She thrusts a box into your hand, and her haggard eyes beseech you. Once, like her sisters of the Fountain, she too may ha\'e been — cjuite so. And the Unfortunates — the " bedizened women of the i:)avements," as Stevenson called them, or, to quote again from 'Sir. Hichens, the " wandering wisps of painted humanit}- that d}e the London night with rouge" ! On this lovelv summer night they flaunt them- seh'es in all their bra\'er}' ; the majority of them, indeed, are not badh- dressed, nor are all painted. Some Some of them are foreigners, but most of figures in the Show. them are unmistakably English. Some have bold eyes, some have n(jt. They seem sober — -every one. But what a number of them ! And all sorts and sizes, so to say; young, middle-aged; thin, stout; sliort, tall; Jenny " fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea" — -that ne'er- do-weel t\-pe too, but all the types seem to be here, "^'ou look into their faces, and there is a story in every face, if you could but read it. And such stories! Ah, if the 20 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON stones on which they tread could speak ! They can hardly be beautiful stories ; they might well be terrible. And the men? They also are a mixture, nor are they all young. You can tell at a glance that not manv of them are citi- " jimmy's," 12.30 a.m. zens of London, and not a few of them are here from sheer curiosity ; they have come for the most part to see the Show. About twenty minutes past twelve you notice a singu- lar movement in the street ; it sets in towards " Jimmy's" PICCADILLY CIRCUS 21 and stops there. You go with it, and find yourself again in front of the place. And the very first thing you see is that a couple of policemen (one of them a sergeant or a superintendent) are on guard a few feet from the door. vSlowly people emerge in pairs from the restaurant, and (lri\e away in cabs to parts of the town which have, like their inhabitants, " lost their Sunday-school certificates." And about half-past twelve a crowd of demi-mondaines and men pours forth, but by this time there are four policemen outside the door, standing there to preserve order. Four policemen ! (Is there such another sight to be seen night after night in any other spot on the globe?) Hansoms dash up, and the porter helps the Faustines, who climb into them, with as much care as if they were duchesses. Others vanish into the night, while a larger number are swallowed up in the throng of street-walkers, who for another hour or so will Neanngthe end. figure in the piteous Struggle of the Circus — the Battle of the Street, finishing up, perhaps, at some night-club, or in some other den. Some go " home" ! There you have it all. Heaven knows it ill becomes any of us to preach, so down with the curtain, put out the lights — '■' The wise and the silly. Old P. or Old Q., we must leave Piccadilly." CHAPTER II IN THE STREETS " Hell was a place very like London." London by day, it will be generally conceded, presents what in its own way is the most imposing and wonderful spectacle in the world. As a " sight" there is nothing to approach it — Paris, New York, or any other city, not excepted. But it may be questioned if London 1)y Night, for sheer, downright impressiveness, does not seize upon, grip and hold you, as even London by Day does not. From midnight till about two o'clock in the siieu(fe"^^ morning the streets gradually show^ fewer and fewer signs of life and movement. From two o'clock to four there is a lull, a quiet, a hush, a vast en- folding, mysterious, awe-inspiring silence. It is as if the tide had gone out into the far distance, leaving the shore lonely as a maid forsaken, still as pillars of stone, but portentous, majestic, and strangely solemn withal. The city sleeps ! London, taken " by and large," is abed and wears the night-cap. Husbands lie beside their wives — in some cases, it may perhaps be, beside the wives of others, for this great old London is no Puritan, but is a mixture, a IN THE STREETS 23 ferment, in which is everything good, and bad, and indif- ferent, and — human. In this profound stihness of the night \()ung men and maidens (h"eam happy dreams and see briglit, heguiHng \-isions — or ought to! Dear little children, their small distresses for- °"^,°" gotten, their pett}- naughtinesses forgiven, slumber sweetly in a thousand thousand peaceful homes. But not all London sleeps. In twenty great newspaper offices, editors, leader-writers, reporters, and compositors are at work, amidst the buzz and bur-r-r of the printing- presses. .\t the big railway centres, both for passengers and " g-oods" there is activit}', though of a quieter sort than that which prevails by day. The clubs, both high- class and no-class, are not all closed ; the no-class clubs are at their best — or rather, far rather, at their worst. The thief, the burglar, the prowler, the prostitute — they, certain!}-, are not all asleep. Nay, you can spy them standing, watching, waiting in dark corners. After four o'clock the city begins to awake, and the great silence, which has wrapped it round like a garment, is gone — swiftly swallowed up in the roar of the streets, growing and swelling even as the day and its business grows and swells. The Night Side of London has disap- peared — it is as if it had never 1)een ; but the following evening it will be repeated, and on the same gigantic scale. What of the streets, then, from twelve to four? Shortly after midnight all the public-houses are shut 24 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON up — some of the best of them by eleven, others at twelve •sharp, but most stay open till half-past twelve. With the cry " Time, time!" the barmen turn the lights down and the people out. All sorts and conditions of men and women (particularly men in a certain condition) now gather in groups in front of the " pubs," in the close. '"' ^ windows of which there still burns a light or two, and from behind whose walls the chinck of money being counted may be heard. If you look at these men and women you will see that the}' are for the most part more or less hardened citizens — criminals of both sexes ; the broken man, the lost woman, the drift and wreck of humanity. A few are respectable people, but their proportion to the rest is small. From twelve to two many cabs still flash past with their freightage or crawl along in search of fares. In the Circuses and other central places you can see eyes of green and red, as it were, gleaming at you from the still long ranks of hansoms. Heavy wagons also toil labori- ously on to Covent Garden and the other large markets which feed this great hungry giant of a town, open sky "^ ^^ ^^^^ pavcmeuts men and women walk, some quickly and purposefully, for they are going home, while others loaf, lounge, or limp about — home they have none; it is a word which has no meaning for them. These are they who dwell in the Hotel of the Beautiful Star, as the French call it, or, locally translated, IN THE STREETS 25 the benches and flagstones of the Thames Embankment, Trafalgar Scjuare, or a place of the same kind. On warm, dry nights these resting-places can hardly be termed ideal, but hdw about them when the rain pours down or in the cold of w inter ? Here is Trafalgar Square, in the midst of which stands AN OI.D OLD WOMAN. the splendid column reared to the memory of Nelson. On its northern side, opposite it, is the National Gallery. This is the same thing as saying that the Square is full of associations of heroism and great deeds on the one hand, and on the other of the delight, the beauty, the 26 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON power and the glory of Art. Now look at the row of benches, some four or five in number, placed on an ele- vated part of the Square, almost exactl)^ between Nel- son's Column and the National Gallery. On every one of these benches are seated people who will spend the night there, and in the light of the electric Trafalgar Square, lamps you can see them pretty well. Take the 1 A.M. first bench, and you start back, a gripping pity in your heart, for the chief figure you discern is an old old woman, and her hair is silver white. Her poor, dim, old eyes are closed, the poor old frame is bent and huddled up on the bench, the poor old feet, which have taken her here after straying through unimaginable highways and byways of life, are drawn together in an attitude of weariness past all words to describe. Near her are two men : one looks as if he might be a mechanic who has fallen on evil times, the other is a night-hawk, resting before he swoops down on such prey as may come his way. On the other benches are men, women, boys, girls — the waifs and strays of London — though this is too mild a way to put it. But enough of this. The most prominent features of the Night Side of the London streets are the coffee-stalls, the hot potato-cans, and the whelk-counters, which afford refreshment, and entertainment too, during the hours of dark. And if you will make a round of the streets, say on a cycle, you will IN THE STREETS 27 be able to form a good idea of the town — at least, from the outside, if yon will proceed in a leisnrelv fashion, stopping" now and again for a look round and a dial with a coffee-stall keeper or other pro- "-1^ ^''"'' i ■!■ Corner. vider for the Children of the Night. Suppose you select a route. Start from Hyde Park Corner about midnight, but before you set off have a talk and a cup of (^V.DE. Par.^ ^rncr. coffee at the stall which you will notice hard by one of the gates. Let us say that two policemen, evidently on the best of terms with each other and the coffee-stall man, arc within a few feet of you, and you can hear what they are sa}-ing. One of them has just had an adventure with 28 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON a refractory individual. " 'E didn't know wot 'e wanted — didn't nohow — 'cept he wanted a row — 'e wos jes' spoihn' fur a fight — 'e didn't mind 'oo it was with, or wot it wur fur. 'E jes' wanted trouble — 'e wur out lookin' fur it, 'e wur. 'E wurn't goin' to move on, not 'e. Wy should 'e? An' 'e gave me some more o' 'is lip. But I moved 'im on !" And the two constables laugh and chuckle. While you drink your cup of coffee a guardsman comes up — why so late ? you wonder ; and then another man, who looks like an ex-guardsman, and has come to revisit his old familiar haunts, joins him. " Packet o' woodbines, George," says the last-comer. " 'Ave a cup of corfe, Bill?" " I'll tike a piece o' kike, if you like, Tom." " Yes, a piece o' kike, George." "There!" " Wot's up?" "I ain't got no kike — sold out early ; there ain't none left ! Been awful busy right along!" " Yes?" " All the kike, s'elp me, went 'arf an hour ago!" And now you do make a start on your round, which, let us say, to night will be something like this — From Hyde Park Corner you run along Piccadilly to the Circus — you have already seen such sights as are to be viewed in this famous part of the town, so you do not linger there. You move up Regent Street to Oxford Circus, and here you will see a scene not very dissimilar to that of the Circus at the other end, though it is on a decidedly smaller scale. You will probably also observe IN THE STREETS 31 that tlie Women of the Town who frecjuent the spot are of a lower t}pe. Suppose }'oii now cycle along Oxford Street, past Tottenham Court Road, along New Oxford Street, say as far as the corner where is Mudie's well- known library. Almost opposite the last-named is a coffee- stall (p. 29), and about it there are some fifteen or twenty persons. It is worth your while to dismount and add yourself to their number for a few minutes. It is a typical coffee-stall, and the crowd about coffe?-stau it is typical too. There is something Parisian about the scene, but this is because there are some trees in the background, which the darkness appears to mul- tiply, and to give the place something of the character of the Boulevards. Near by is a cabstand, and the cabbies patronise the stall, which is kept by a bright young fellow wdio has a pleasant, cheery, smiling way with him. His customers chaff him, and he pays them back in their own coin, adding sufficient interest the while. He seems to know most of his customers pretty well, addressing the majority of them by their Christian names — "Jim," '' Molly," " Sally," " Kate," " Peter," and so on. The patrons of the coffee-stall are " warious." At the side next the street stand two young women, both well dressed, one of them almost elegantlv. She is the better looking of the two, and you naturally take a good look at her first of all. You see she is rather pretty, and has once been prettier. You know what she is, or if you don't, you Z2 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON do not need to be told. She has been walking the streets for the past two or three hours, and what she would call " business" has been bad. She is going home alone — which is not what she had intended ! The young lady to whom she talks has met with a similar experience, and the two exchange their dreary confidences. They speak in a low tone, however, and you cannot hear conlhm'^d what they say. They soon stop talking alto- gether to listen to the chaff passing between the cofifee-stall keeper and a " cabby" who has just driven up. Next to the two women there are lounging on the kerb four or five young men — they are hardly men, for they are really lads — whose ages run from eighteen to twenty-three, or thereabouts. They have either had their coffee or they are not " taking any." Perhaps they have not the price. They stand silently by, smoking cigarettes, whose odour is not exactly that of the Spicy Isles. They keep one eye, so to speak, on the two young women, and with the other they take in the rest of the crowd. One w'onders why in the world they are not in bed. From their appearance they belong to a class wdiich should be " respectable." It may be that they are young graduates in the school of crime — there is declared to be an intimate connection in these days, or is it nights? between coffee- stalls and crime — but, if so, the lads cannot be said to have the hardened, battered aspect which is generally considered to belong to the habitual criminal. Perhaps IN THE STREETS S3 they are only beg-inners, and, certainly, it would be better for them, and for everybody, if they were in bed. For, almost cheek b}' jowl with them, yon see two other }-onng fellows, and what they are is written large upon them. They are " Hooligans." And the " Hooli- " Hooligans.'' gans" are a curse, and a pest, and an alto- gether damnable feature of London life at the present time. The evenings and the nights are of course fullest of opportunities for them, and you may begin to fear, as you see more of them at other cofTee-stalls in the course of your ride, that they are a numerous class. At least, you can safely surmise that it is no good thing for those respectable-looking young lads to be within close touch of their society. The " Hooligans" at the stall absorb into their S}-stems a couple of hard-boiled eggs, eat a piece of cake, and drink a cup of coffee each, cursing very audibly as they consume the food. The meal finished, they light cigarettes, look round as if they were specu- lating whether there was any opening for them in the crowd, and, seeing none, they slouch away into the dark- ness. A little bit back from the stall are a couple — a man and a woman, both somewhat intoxicated, the woman more so than the man. Indeed, she is inclined to be maudlin and to babble — but not " o' green fields." The man is trying to reason with her, perhaps to get her to go home, but she maintains she "won't go home till mornin'." 3 34 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON The tableau they present is half comical, half disgusting. The lady always has the last word in each argument, and when you leave you observe that she persists in the statement of her continued determination not to move from the spot. You think it altogether likely that she will not go home till morn- ing. Leaning on the counter of the stall, their cups in front of them, are a pair of Jarvies, otherwise cab- drivers. " Got one o" them ston.e bullets o' yours?" asks cabby number one of the stall-keeper. " What do you mean with your stone bullets?" retorts the keeper. " Ain't got no stone bullets here. Don't keep 'em. What d'ye want 'em for? to ball up yer 'osses' feet?" " Wot you givin' us? Ain't 'e saucy, Bill?" says he facetiously, turning to his pal. boiled." " Wy, if those heggs o' 'is ain't stone bullets, strike me dead. 'Ere, give us a couple o' 'ard- boiled, and look lively. We ain't goin' to spend the bloomin' night 'ere. So, go along !" " 'Ave you got TRYING TO REASON WITH HER. IN THE STREETS 35 such a thing as a ' doorstep'? If so, I can do \vith a 'ole staircase o' "eni." cried the other cabby. " You ain't 'ungry. are yer. Mike?" " 'Ungry ain't the word." Presently the cahl)ies are served, and retire munching iiUo the Ijackground. 1 1 ere. a few paces from the stall is a drinking- fountain, and about it is a group of three or four workmen — as }'ou can tell from the way in which they are dressed. The}' have come to the stall strictly on business, that is, for much-needed refreshment. Perhaps, of all those you see here, they ha\'e the most legitimate claim on the coffee- stall. They are night workers, and have every right to have their wants satisfied. A\diile you are looking at them two new arrivals come upon the^' scene, a man and a woman — these night birds, you will per- - Night birds. cei\'e, go about most frequently in pairs. The man's face is red, pimpl}', unwholesome, suggestive as it can be of an ardent devotion to Bacchus, but, on the other hand, his companion is a quiet, well-dressed, well-be- haved, decent-looking person. Their story seems to be simple. If (jne reads it aright, it is a case of the w'oman trying hard to reform a drunken husband. Still, the man's air is jaunty; it is the woman's which is humble and depressed. It is she, however, who goes up to the stall, and buys coffee for two and biscuits. And now a woman, who is almost cra;.y with drink, and who reels out the most frightful blasphemies, comes shuftling and 36 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON staggering to the stall. A policeman, who has all the time been watching the group from across the road, makes a move forward, and then, thinking better of it, stands still, waiting to see what will happen. But noth- ing happens. The woman goes off again into the night, leaving behind her, as it were, a lurid trail of evil-sound- ing words. All this you have seen in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. It may be that you have seen enough, but in any case you must ere this have finished your coffee. So you again mount your wheel, and ride off on your expe- dition. You now travel a short way back until you arrive at the corner of Tottenham Court Road, and as you pass along this thoroughfare you will see several coffee-stalls and at least one whelk-counter and a peripatetic hot- potato-can man. At none of the coffee-stalls do you re- mark a considerable number of people; most of them have at best only two or three customers. The purveyor of whelks is not patronised at all. The potato-can man is also solitary, but his time will come in the cold early hours of the dawning day. Some other night the case may be quite different, but to-night the street is rather empty. So you go on your way, and in another minute or two you are in Euston Road, a street which has about as malodorous a reputation as any in London, particu- larly with regard to its Night Side. Yet a short distance from Euston Station you come upon as handsome a IN THE STREETS 37 coffee-stall as any you will see in your journey, and you jump off and take a good look at it. The first thing you will notice is that in front of it is a carpet formed of broken egg-shells, and }'ou perhaps begin your conversa- tion with the keeper by referring to this circumstance. \nu compliment him on the fine appearance of his place of Inisiness — you observe that the stall is freshly painted and well appointed. On one side of it, in large letters, is the legend " Al Fresco." He tells you that " Al Fresco." his Stall cost a hundred pounds, and it is quite evident that he is proud of it. He tells you also that this is a quiet time of the night with him, and that he won't be really busy again until about four o'clock. He is dis- posed to chat, and he maintains that he is. all in favour of the crusade against coffee-stalls as they are at present. " They should be licensed." said he, " and then we'd hear no more about the connection betw^een coffee-stalls and crime. I think Mr. John Burns, M.P. for Battersea, is quite right in everything he has said about these stalls. The good stalls are all on his side; it is only the bad stalls who fear him and do not agree that a change should be made. Why," continued the man, " you'll find half a dozen coffee-stalls within a quarter of a mile of King's Cross. There is no need for such a number. More than half of them should be shut up. And then those of us who do a straight business would feel ourselves pro- tected." . The man glances across the street, and there you 38 THE XIGHT SIDE OF LONDON will espy in the half-darkness curious figures standing in little groups — they are, to put it in the least offensive way, not reputable characters — they are bad men and bad women of the lowest type. You get on your bicycle again, and proceed to get con- firmation of the statements wdiich you have just heard. n M STahpih They are true. Within the area mentioned are these half- dozen coffee-stalls, and you do not require to be told there are too many of them. You may or may not stop 'at one or more of them, but if you mean to get over the ground which you intended to cover when you started out, it will IN THE STREETS 39 be better for you to get on down Gray's Inn Road, and there you will see still more coffee-stalls. You have perhaps made up your mind to see something of the East End. though by this time }-ou cannot but be aware that this coffee-stall business is a great " industry" — in a sense; however, you wish to continue your excur- sion. On you go, therefore, across Holborn, and by Cheapside, into the City proper, which is now hushed and quiet even as some forgotten city of the dead. You have no doubt read of cities standing on the floor of the sea — cities with temples and theatres and palaces and splendid mansions and long aisles of magnificent streets, and everywhere in them and about them the blue-green trans- lucent water for atmosphere, and everywdiere strange shadows and shapes, mo^•ing fantastically, or motionless, more fantastic still. Such in some sort is the City at dead of night; }-ou have seen that by day it is the roaring, raging mart of the world, but in these hours of silence it is something that seems unreal, dreamlike, ghostly, born of fable and legend like those imaginary cities that stand in the sea. You pass through it, and at x^ldgate you are on the edge of the other London, the East End — cut off from the \\>st by the City. You '"^End' reach Whitechapel. and halt in the spacious \\diitechapel Road; xou behold more cab-stands, more coffee-stalls. If }T)u get off at any one of the latter a^ou will almost certainly find yourself in the midst of a scene 40 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON more or less similar to that which you saw an hour or so ago in New Oxford Street. For there is a sameness about them all. Turn up to the left, and you will pres- ently arrive in what has been called the " murder area."' Here is the coffee-stall which figured not long ago in what is known as the Dorset Street case. It is quiet enough now, but at any one of these coffee-stalls a brawl may take place at any moment — it depends on circum- stances, amongst them being the presence or the absence of the police. And, if your curiosity is not yet satisfied, you may visit other parts of the East End ; but let us say you have had enough of it, as you wish to take a run through South London while it is yet night. You make for London Bridge — one of the bridges of history — and in a few minutes you are in South London. The streets here, at any rate, by this time are fallen very quiet — the great silence is upon them. You may stop, though most likely you content yourself with a cursory glance as you ride along; but if you do pause at one or other of the many coffee-stalls, you will look on much the same sort of thing you have already seen — the stall, its lamp shining on a group of figures standing about its counter, and, not far away, a watchful policeman. Now, you get along through Battersea, and, crossing the River once more, find yourself, after having traversed parts of Chelsea and Belgravia, back at your starting-point. If the night has been fine the journey has not been an IN THE STREETS 41 unpleasant one, except perhaps in such streets as are being washed by the water-cart brigade, where you may have had to negotiate shallow canals of muddy filth and liquid slime. Your trip may not have been particularly edify- ing or instructive, but if you have failed to be interested you may be sure the fault lies with yourself. And now a word or two about the deeds, the dark deeds, which have been perpetrated at these coffee-stalls or in their immedi- ate vicinity. In a letter to the Daily Chronicle last autumn, Mr. John Burns, the well-known Member for Battersea, particularised some facts referring to the connection there is between coffee-stalls ^^^ cdme.-'' and crime which are worth repeating. On Oc- tober 30, 1900, a }oung man was stabbed in the back at a coffee-stall in Waterloo Road. On December 7, 1900, police-constable Thomson was killed at a Whitechapel coffee-stall l)rawl while properly discharging his duty in trying to quell a disturbance. In May, 1901, a woman, sixty-one years of age, was assaulted by two ruffians at a stall, and died from a fractured skull. In August, 1 90 1, at Hvde Park Corner, a porter's head was cut open with a blunt instrument. " There was a free fight, in which a number of disorderly persons of both sexes took part. The police said in evidence that ' objectionable characters nightly congregated about these coffee-stalls, and frequently molested late pedestrians.' " In August, 1 90 1, there occurred a typical case at a Tottenham Court 42 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON Road coffee-stall. The following account of the subse- quent proceedings in the police-court may fitly close this statement of the coffee-stall aspect of the Night Side of London — " At the London County Sessions, Clerkenwell, Mar- garet Ryan, nineteen, tailoress, was accused upon indict- ment with having maliciously wounded Walter Edwards, a labourer. The prosecutor's evidence was to the effect that at about one o'clock in the early morning of August 4 he was in Tottenham Court Road near a coffee-stall. He w^as accosted by five women, one of whom was alleged to be Ryan. They asked Edwards to treat them to cups of coffee, and, on his refusing, two of them struck him with their fists. The accused, it was said, produced a o-lass tumbler, and threw it at the man, striking: him behind the left ear. He was then knocked down, and while on the ground was kicked by the women. At the same time some one, picking up a piece of broken glass, drew it across Edwards's throat, inflicting an case^"^^ injury which had to be surgically treated. The women took to their heels, and the prose- cutor dropped unconscious on the footway. An alarm was raised by the bystanders, and Ryan was arrested afterwards in a house. Her defence was a plea of mis- taken identity. The jiu'y adopted this view and acquitted her." Now that public notice has been called to the coffee- IN THE STREETS 43 stalls it must he said that the police have them much hetter in hand than formerl}-. Nor is there any douljt that the police have the whole of London much more efficiently i)rotected at night at the present time than was the case only a few years ago. This is to he seen in the constant raiding of night clubs and in other ways. No- where is this more marked perhaps than in the East End, as, for example, in Ratcliff Highway, where, at least on the surface, the scenes which used to make that street a byword and a terror ma}- no longer be beheld. And it is thither we shall now go — to take another look at the East End. And we shall see — what we shall see. CHAPTER III IN THE STREETS COlltiuued. (rATCLIFF HIGHWAY) " In the streets the tide of being how it surges, how it rolls ! God ! What base ignoble faces ! God ! What bodies want- ing souls !" Alexander Smith. The now almost forgotten poet who, in a sour mood of pessimism, wrote these Hnes, was doubtless thinking of the meaner streets of Glasgow which were very famil- iar to him, but they might be applied as correctly, or incorrectly, to the poorer streets of any great city. In any case they are far too sweeping, but there is a certain amount of truth in them. To a large extent they are un- fortunately descriptive enough of some of the streets of the East End of London, whether by day or night. Still, there is nothing to be seen in the East End that bears even a poor-relation likeness to the characteristic scenes that are to be witnessed every evening in Pic- nThwa cadilly. There once was a time when Ratclifif Highway presented in low life what the Hay- market and Piccadilly showed in high, or at least better- dressed, life. And though it is hardly correct to say that this time is entirely of the past, yet in a great measure 44 IN THE STREETS 45 it is — that is, so far as the once famous, or infamous, Ilii^hwa}' itself is concerned; \'ice of the old historic, fnll-tiavoured, fire-ship sort has heen relegated to the side streets. The Show itself is gone; it has heen replaced l)y many side-shows, so to speak. It is perfectly possible to walk along the whole street, now called St. George Street, from East Smithfield to Shad well, " from Dan to Beersheba," and find nothing particularly remarkable, but if you plunge into the back streets you will certainly see and hear, if you keep your eyes and ears open, some curious sights and sounds. It used to be the fashion for visitors to London, espe- cially when they were from the other side of the, Atlantic, to form a party to make a tour of the East End on Satur- day evening. Seated on the top of a tram or a 'bus, they would explore W'hitechapel and Mile End as far as Bow, and return ; next, greatly daring, they would diverge into the Commercial Road, and finally, still more greatly daring, wind up the evening's " divarsion" by taking in RatclifT Highway. And, sure enough, Wliitechapel is a sight well worth seeing, and remembering too — the enor- mous crowds of people, the fiaring lights on stall and barrow and the sea of upturned faces, the movement, the apparent confusion, while the noisy shoutings and bellow- ings of would-be sellers rend the air ! And in the Com- mercial Road there is much the same thing. There is nothing specially vicious about it, nothing wicked, but it 46 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON is interesting" to the student of human nature, and to the artistic eye, not enamoured solely of mere prettiness, is full of types that have their own fascination — ■ t^pes^" ^^ ^^ ^^^ living, palpitating drama, mostly of a comedy character, hut tragedy is never far away in the East End. Indeed, some one has called the East End the " Everlasting Tragedy of London." There is truth in this, but there is also exaggeration, just as there is in the poet's verse. By and by, in another chap- ter of this bock, you will see East End London setting out for its great annual holiday when the hopping season begins, and you will also see that it manages to get no little fun and jollity out of life. Its fun is not the same kind of thing that the W^st End calls fun, but it is just as real, perhaps more so. After Whitechapel and the Commercial Road you will think Ratcliff Highway rather dark and fearfully quiet. You naturallv wish t() begin at the beginning, so you perhaps start from the Tower — if it is a fine night with a clear-shining moon, that pile in itself is a thing more than well worth seeing — then you go past the Mint and St. Katharine's Docks. The docks are on your right, and East Smithfield is on your left. Presently you are in St. George Street, otherwise Ratcliff Highway. The street got its new name from the church of " St. George's in the East," one of the great churches of London; the church is almost half-way down the street. Other notable places SINGING IN THK STREET. From ati oil painting by Tom Browne. IN THE STREETS 49 are the Seamen's Mission Hall, the Seamen's Chapel, and nutal)le also, though in a dilTerent way, is Jamrack's. Ex'ervhody has heard of Jamrack's, where yon can l)u\- an\- li\in"- creature yon i^lease, from ,,. , ^'^^ C> J I > Highway. elephants to humming-birds. Jamrack's! Jamrack's! — the name always sounds like that of some character out of a novel by Dickens. W^ell, you walk along the street: in parts it is (juite deserted, in others there are small knots of people; here and there are men and women standing or sitting in front of their open di.ors. There is no loud talk, no shouting; the air is not darkly blue, as you perhaps half feared, half expected it would be, with strange and weird oaths and imprecations. And you may proceed as far as Limehouse without seeing or hearing anything that tickles }Our curiosity. Perhaps you may stop and talk to a policeman ; you ask him where are the once famous features of the Highway gone, and he will tell }-ou that he does not know where the}' have (ront\ but gone thev are — thanks to him and his kind. But is it so? For one thing, as you have plodded your way east- ward, you have noticed one feature of the Highway, and it is a \-ery suggestive feature, and this is the number of public-houses in the street. It almost seems as if every second or third house was a " puli." You have of course glanced in. and you observe that the bars of these places are well filled, and that though the appointments are not 4 50 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON of the most attractive description — they are not of the flaunting gin-palace order so conspicuous in some dis- tricts of the town — yet the groups appear to be enjoying themselves, and mostly in a quiet way. You notice at once that the patrons and patronesses of these resorts are all sailor folk, seamen, sailors' wives or sweet- "pubifcs " hearts — all connected in some way with the life of the sea. From some of the publics you will have heard the strains of music — not exactly sweet music either. There is plenty of volume, of quantity, in the strains, but of quality not so much as might be wished. Perhaps you stop and listen; then you hear a song, sung in a way that only a sailor sings a song. And as you listen, there comes to you from afar the sound of more music ; it seems rather remote ; you listen intently, and you make out at last that it is being wafted down to you from somewhere up the side street at the corner of which you are standing. You, it may be wisely, but that will depend, determine to follow it up. All that you have seen so far has been a little tame; and as you anticipated something out of the ordinary, something " spicy" or " saucy," you are rather glad to launch out on further adventure. And up this side street — there is no need to give it a name, for there is more than one of it — you do come on something of the kind you have been looking for, some- thing that will remind you of what you have read or IN THE STREETS 51 heard of the old Ratcliff llighwu}-, something- \()U may- see any night, if you hke, though you probal)ly would " rather not," in the low parts of Liverpool and Cardiff. Vou reeall what the policeman said to you, and xou know very soon that he has told you only part of the truth. The Highway itself is changed, l)ut all around, in these dim streets which branch off it, it still ^j^^^^^^ surxives. Well, you see it in every great port of the \\(irld — the same thing, always the same thing. In Rotterdam, in Antwerp, in Hamburg, in New York, San Francisco, Hong Kong, Singapore — always the same thing. WHien " Jack" comes ashore after a voyage, it is ten to one that he makes a straight line for the nearest drinking-den with his mates, and Jack ashore is the prey, one n-iight almost say the natural prey, of the publican and the sinricr. Crin-ips are the same all the world over, and s(j is that good-natured, big-hearted sailorman whom we call Jack ; he is soft-headed as well as soft- hearted. Nor does the breed ever change — so there is always a Ratcliff Highway, or something corresponding to it, in every port. And soon you come upon a picture, a typical picture. There it paints itself for you in front of a pub- lic-house — the public-house itself, vou cannot ^ Ratchff ^ J picture. fail to ol)serve, being a very inferior establish- ment ; in fact it is a low boozing-ken, or not much better than one. Three figures stand outside the door and in 52 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDOiM front of the window, from which there streams forth no great amount of Hght. One figure is that of a representa- tive of the lowest class of sailorman there is under heaven, and that is the man who looks after the furnaces and fires on a steamer; he is called a stoker in the navy, a fireman in the merchant service. There is no man who sails the sea who has so bad a time as the fireman : his work bru- talises him ; the heat in the interior of the steamboats drives him mad ; his thirst is quenchless — he goes to sea nearly always drunk — he wakes from his stupor with a raging thirst — he remains thirsty — when he gets ashore he rushes to the nearest drinking-den to quench that awful thirst of his. He is poorly paid, and what he re- ceives on landing, at most two or three pounds, soon disappears ; it melts in a few hours ; usually it is stolen from him; he never really gives himself a chance, nor does anyone else give him one. He has no chance. Look at him now ! He is a demor- alised man, a badly demoralised sailorman. He has been drinking heavily, but he has still some glimmerings of reason, but not enough to keep him away from the den. He still feels that awful thirst, which is the tragedy of his lot, poor devil ; it is not yet satisfied ; he must have more liquor, even if it is the rankest and vilest stuff that he is given — it always is. But he must have more, more, more. He is not alone — this unfortunate wretch of a fireman, who is yet — yet — a human being. By his side A RATCLIFF PICTURE. IX THE STREETS 55 stands a woman, a genuine Moll of Ratclifif. As you see her. you are forced to remember the woman you have seen in the caricatures of Rowlandson. for here is one of them, risen, as it were, from the dead: stout, ill- ta\(iurcd. hard-featured, horribly leering, abominalilv coarse, hard, and hlthy — she is a prostitute of the lowest class. She is making love (love!) "^r!,^^^^ to the fireman ; she wants him to stand her a drink, but he has just enough sense left to know all that lies that way, and he refuses — that is, at first. But the woman is not without her assistant. For with her is a '* bully" — yes, a second character out of the Georgian period come to life again! Together the prostitute and the Imll}- gradually edge the fireman into' the den ; they coax, they cajole, they push him dexterously along; in a minute more they are all inside. A policeman passing on the other side sees the game, and he grins to himself. and says, " They've got him !" And they have. \\'hen they've finished with this poor Jack, he will be lying un- conscious in some street far-retired from view, his money will have vanished, and. unless he is verv luckv indeed, so will have most of his clothes ! It's not a prettv picture, is it f But scenes of the same sort are to be witnessed in every great port of the world, and witnessed, too, every night, and not only in or about Ratclifif Highway! While you have been looking on this little bit of real- ism, you have all the while heard the music sounding 56 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON from somewhere higher up the street ; it now seems a little nearer you, and you proceed in the direction from which it comes. You draw nearer and nearer, and soon you are just in front of the " Black Cat" or the '* Red Rat" — it doesn't really matter what we call it, but it is there right enough! The sounds com" from haii^"'^'^ the first floor, and if you follow a separate staircase, communicating with the street and not with the " pub" — that is, communicating directly — you will arrive in a fair-sized room, at one end of which ISO CHUR.NIMO • ROWMCJ • AMD • RouMD . is the band, discoursing the most extraordinary, unmusi- cal music as ever was ! On the floor half a dozen Jacks are turning and churning round and round and round with robustious young women in their arms; they stop IN THE STREETS 57 turning and churning- after a while, and now they line up; then at it, heel and toe; tlien more turning and churning, turning and churning. The band gives forth a final, ear- splitting bray, and the dance is over. Then drinks, drinks, drinks! (iin and rum are tlie favourites of your sailorman and his young (more generally old) woman. Suppose you enter into conversation with one of tlie ladies, you will find that it runs, as naturallv as rivers run to the sea, to gin or rum or both. And if vou should get tired after a while, and you are pretty sure to get tired, of the dance-hall of the " Black Cat." why. there are others of the same sort no great distance away. And if you do not come upon one of these, then, at any rate, there are concert-halls, contagiously situated to " pubs" of the " Black Cat" stripe. In all of them vou will see Jacks — and Jills! And "you can't 'elp but larf." or the whole thing might break your heart ! Of course, it has its humorous side, but it has others, and these are not at all humorous. After a time you bid the chairman — there is nearly always a chairman at these functions — good-bye, and thereafter vou turn back into the Hip-hwav aeain ! You now mo\'e \\-estward until you come to Wells Street. Perhaps you hesitate — you think vou have seen enough for one evening, but you walk up Wells Street; as you approach Cable Street you join a swarming crowd, which attracts you and draws you on. In a minute or two vou are in Cable Street. It wants but half an hour of 58 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON midnight, but the place is literally thronged with people, so that you think something important is forward. You scan the faces around you, and, in a flash, you see they are not at all English-looking; in your ears are the sounds, it might well seem to you, of every language under heaven. It would puzzle you to enumerate the nationalities represented — but there are men and women and children from every European clime, from the Orient, and even from Africa here. And you may be sure that in this seething human maelstrom of races and tongues there is a seething maelstrom of human passions, from the most primitive and aboriginal to the most complex and diaboli- cal. You take note that here the police go A foreign ° East End about in couples ; it is not safe for them to go street. about their work singly — and there is always plenty of work for them here. You will see some of it presently. But what a world of curious interest it is ! Take a sample ; odd but typical. Outside a shop is a small crowd (a denser crowd in the crowd, as it were) gazing into its solitary window. There is music, too, coming from the shop ; and the music, unlike that to which you have listened with horror earlier in the even- ing, is sweet, soothing, dreamy, delightful. You manage to force your way into the crowd before the window, and look in. It is a shop — a poor mean shop — a shop kept by a poor man for poor men and women. It is a baker's shop, and the bread sold in it has a foreign, unfamiliar IN THE STREETS 59 aspect in your English eyes. The shop is badly hghted by two or three flickering candles — tallow '* dips." The pro- prietor, in trousers and shirt open at the neck, leans over a narrow counter; l)eside him is a woman, and behind him, to his left, is a doorway, and in it stands another woman — the first woman, perhaps, is his wife, the second his mother. On shelves are the loaves, pile on pile, quaintly shaped, but still the veritable stufT and staff of life. There are two or three customers on the other side of the counter. And just to the left of them is a man playing divine music on a zither! You wonder, is the zither-player there to draw business to the shop, or is he playing for his own and his friends' pleasure and for yours ? — anyway, there he is. But what i strange scene — the baker's shop, the baker, the women, the bread, the buyers, the zither-player ! And all this part of London is full of strangely col- oured scenes just like this ! You move on again, though you would fain linger as the zither- player touches his strings. And now^ you come to the mouth of an alley. Next the street stands a sullen man, 6o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON beside him two policemen; far down the alley a virago is shouting shrill abuse (p. 59). The sullen man is her " man," but she is going for him as hard as she can in lan- guage which leaves nothing to the imagination. He would say something in reply, but the policemen warn him that silence is the best policy, and the retort discourteous dies away upon his lips. In her special brand of stree^scene. vitupcratiou the womau is a great artist, and her friends and neighbours greet all her points against her man with applause; they wait in silent enjoy- ment until she has made her point, and then they roar their delight whole-heartedly. The sullen man drifts away amidst their jeers, while his much better-half holds the fort in triumph. And as you look on. another man comes into the mouth of the alley — he is drunk ; he lurches about ; he sways uncertainly, but he halts unsteadily in the little crowd which has been listening wi'.h such gusto to the artist in abusive language. He says something in- distinctly. Then he swings forward a step, and touches one of the policemen. It may be that the police-officer thinks the man wishes to hustle him, or it may be that he thinks this is the best way to treat the case, but he gives the drunken man a shove, a push, and down goes the drunken man flat on his back. As he falls on the flag- stones you can hear the thud and the crash as his shoul- ders, and then his head, strike the stones. They are sick- ening sounds. He does not get up — does not attempt to DOVJM • IN THE STREETS 63 move. People bend o\-er him, and look into his face. The man is drunk-stni)id, l)ut still he lies there — he might be dead; and now the policeman, alarmed that his push may ha\e very serious if not fatal results, bends down, and with the help of liis mate raises the man, whose wits slowly come back to him after a fashion. They shake him about like a bottle — as if the process encouraged the sj)eedier return of his wits — they clap his hat (3n his bleed- ing head, and send him off, not looking or caring much where he goes. A friend takes him by the hand, and leads him away. You lose sight of him, and vou are not sorry. And now you ha\-e had quite enougli of it ; you walk to the nearest station or cabstand, and home you go. CHAPTER IV " IN society" " There are many grand dames whose easy virtue fits them like a silk stocking." — Du Maurier. The Night Side of London " high hfe" is on the sur- face extremely kaleidoscopic, but beneath the surface and in all essentials it differs little from what the Night Side of high life has been since high life began. Its main fea- ture is, as it has always been, and always will be, Mr. H. G. Wells's Aiificipatiuiis to the contrary notwithstanding, the Pursuit of Pleasure in an everlasting Vanity Fair. It is a merry-go-round, whose merriness quickly or slowly, according to the toughness of one's physical and moral digestion, passes into monotony. Not that Society is more decadent now than at any former time. " Society." Indeed, in some respects Society prides itself on being better than it used to be. Thus, if it gambles as much as ever, it certainly does not drink to that excess which was its habit in former days. Then London So- ciety is so much larger than it was even a generation or two ago — it has grown gross with millionaires and other Men with Money. There are a great many sets in Society — there is even an innermost set of social Olympians — 64 " IN SOCIETY" 65 but the only people who are really '" in it" are the people with the big- bags of shekels. Blue blood or new blood matters not at all — rich blood is the thing. The pursuit of i)leasure, like death, claims all seasons for its own, but London has ear-marked, so to sav, two of them. There is the season proper, the season, which begins after Easter and lasts till well into July or the be- ginning of August. Then there is the "little season" in October and No\ember, after the cream of the shocjting has been skimmed and before the hunting has com- menced. As an institution the " little season" is growing in i)opularit}', but it does not begin to compare with the t)ther. All the greater social functions take place during the course of the latter. Royalty is in to\yn. and this is a lirime factor. Tlic season is dis- ,, ^^l i seasons. tinguished by " Levees" and " Drawing- Rooms" at the Palace — also by balls, garden-parties, and concerts there. In this year, 1902. the day Drawing- Rooms ha\'e been abandoned, and evening Courts have taken their place: thus a novel feature of the Night Side of London has been introduced. People whose state is little less than royal are also in town. If the Duchess of Blankshire is going to give a ball, you may be sure it will come off about the end of May or some time in June, but it must l)e remembered 1902 is an exceptional year — the year of the Coronation. Also, of course. Parliament is in session during this period. An all-night sitting is one 5 66 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON of the sights you may wish to see in your round-up of the town's Night Side, but you will find it much better fun to be in bed. London, besides, attracts at this time vast numbers of people from all quarters of the globe — foreigners of every tongue and colonials — and they are always The "Amurrican" very kccu to scc everything. Foremost amongst element. the elements which go to swell the already- gorged city is the ever-enlarging " Amurrican" invasion each spring, and at the head of the invaders is the pretty, brilliant, perplexing, distracting, American " gal." She is a woman of many ideas, but she is devoted to one above all others, and that is the " good time." She is deter- mined to have it, and she does ; in her eyes her male relatives exist for no other object than to supply the necessary wherewithal for the campaign. She is indefatigably pleasure-loving. She is very much in evidence in the Night Side of London Society — just as she is a feature of its Day Side, and in not a few smart sets she is queen. She comes, she is seen, she conquers. And at the end of each season her native newspapers recount with no inconsid- " IX SOCIETY" 67 erahlc pride the nuiiihcr of dukes and (jther l)ig' game she has ■' hagged." \'ou l)et she has a " good time." Why, she was made for it ! How does London Society spend its evenings, its niglits. l)efore it goes to sleep? It makes, as a rule, a good long night of it l)efore it turns in, jaded and faded and tired out. It has a good deal of s}-mpathy \\ ith the Scotch laird who, on heing called in the morning hy his man, and heing told that it was a wet day, ortlered his serxant to keep the hlinds down and the shutters closed, and he'd ■' make a night of it." Well, how does Society spend its nights before it retires? Does not the Press unweariedly record it every morning? Some newspai)ers =' '■ ^ "What make a handsome thing for their proprietors soL-iety Is Doing.' out of the business, and, incidentally, afford anxthing but exiguous incomes to the ladies of title and others who furnish them with "pars." to go under some such heading as " What Society Is Doing." Iinpriinis, there are dinners. Of necessity, " One must eat some- where" — Lord Beaconsfield never said anything truer than that. " Where is the man who can live without dining?" And we English have e\'er been trencher-men of renown ; in fact, it lias been broadly stated that we are a race of gluttons and coarse-feeders. But the charge is tt^o sweeping: e\-erything "depends," once one's first youth is past, on one's doctor chiefly; we are all slaves to llarlev Street, and " cures" and courses of this thing or 68 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON that. The speciahst has his finger ever on our pulse, is ever looking at our tongue, is ever regulating us like ma- chines — as we are. Yet sometimes we venture, greatly daring, to flout and defy him. Think of the hundreds of decorously dull dinners, at which enormous quantities of food are consumed, that take place during each season, or of the savage supper-fights often seen at dances and balls ! Truth to tell, the gentle art of dining delicately and dain- tily is not particularly understanded of the British people, great or small. We have plenty of French chefs, yet nothing (but the doctor, and not always he) can kill our English appetites. This is one of the things in regard to which each of us " remains an Englishman." A great chef once said there were just two kinds of dinner — one was a dinner, and the other wasn't. But as regards Eng- lish dinners (when they are not of the second descrip- tion), there are several kinds, such as the State Dinner, the Civic Banquet, the Club Dinner, the Restaurant Din- ner, and the Private Dinner — the last-named ranging from the Feast to the Pot-luck. As a rule, the man who is invited to take pot-luck has a pressing engagement — otherwise he has dyspepsia for a week. The State Dinner is pretty sure to be a solemn func- tion, but if you have the honour of being present on one of these oppressive occasions, you can at least relieve the almost intolerable tedium of it by studying the deport- ment of your fellow-guests. The humorist has ever a "IN SOCIETY" 69 perpetual feast of g^ood things within and without him- self, and humour has no recruiting-sergeant so keen as the trained faculty of observation. Yet it never does to forget that hunmur is a dangerous thing, and therefore you will keep your ideas to yourself. E\-en at the Civic Bancjuet. where \-ou have a wider, more broadly human field, it is well to remember this. At the Club Dinner, too, it is not a bad thing to recall how About o dinners. true this is. Here, perhaps, you are among friends who know you better than you know yourself. But your sphere of observation is sure, except on special occasions, of which more anon, to be somewhat limited ; for the Club Dinner is not what it was. Men don't dine at their clubs nowadays ; they go with their wives or the wives of others ( it is astonishing how this phrase will keep on repeating itself!) to partake of the Restaurant 'JO THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON Dinner. These Restaurant Dinners are comparatively recent institutions, so to speak, having come into vogue during the last few years, but they have become almost, if not altogether, the greatest feature of the Night Side of London high life. Fashion shifts about a bit amongst the larger restaurants, and there are certain of them more frequented by one smart set than another. But all, or nearly all, the big hotels have restaurants, and some of the smaller, and perhaps a trifle more select, have them too; they cater handsomely for tout Ic inondc that can pay. So you may dine at Claridge's, or the Carlton, or the Cecil, or the Savoy, or, if you prefer a restaurant pure and simple, at Prince's, the Imperial, the Trocadero, the Criterion, Frascati's, and so forth. No shade of doubt but you get the best dinners in London at the restaurants, and see the most interesting company in them as well. But it may be that you do not regard dining as the sole, or even the chief, business of life, and certainly " all Lon- don" does not spend every evening in dining luxuriously or the reverse. So, after dinners, or in addition there- unto, what come next in the tale of the Night Side of " high Sassiety," as it is called in the music- parties'.'^ halls ? Well, of course, there are evening-par- ties innumerable — parties with music, recep- tions where professional entertainers sometimes, though not always, succeed in entertaining; evening card-parties, where bridge or poker will be the attraction (cards are IN SOCIETY" 71 also played after "dinners"); "small and earlies" ; " little dances," where }-()u may hope to sit out a dance or two with your best girl if you have any luck; big private or subscription l)alls, penny plain or twopenny coloured — in other words, in ordinary evening attire or in fancy dress, though the latter are not common, the masquerade having died out pretty well from amongst us — and for cause; and last, but not least, skating-parties (in the early part of the year), which now and again rise to the giddy height of being styled " carnivals." And there is no prettier sight in London than one of the skating-rinks when it is well filled. ( What the present writer does not understand is why, seeing that London is so full of Scots- men as to have earned the name of the Caledonian Asy- lum, curling-rinks are not added to the sporting equip- ment of the town in many quarters. Is it because the fair sex does not curl ? — there is a spacious opportunity to pun here or hereabouts, but it is magnanimously foregone. ) Then, of course, besides dinners and parties there are the theatres, the opera, concerts, the music-halls. London supports many theatres, and their numl^er is always increasing. And London's taste in Xvers plays and players is amazingly catholic ; it prefers comedy to tragedy, and has a liking in reason for farce, but so long as the piece is good, well acted, well put on, London patronises it generously. A poor play, how- ever, has no chance. What high-life London wants 72 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON is to be amused; it seeks for brightness, sparkle, pretty- ensembles ; it hates to be made to think. It will have nothing to say to Ibsen, it likes Mr. George Alexander, but it prefers Mr. George Edwardes five days out of the six. Its standard of intelligence is not the highest in the world, but then you can't expect it to have everything. High living and plain thinking are not necessarily yoke- fellows, but they undoubtedly form the average team. If the combination ever by any chance reads a dramatic criti- cism, it may possibly look at half a dozen lines by Mr. Clement Scott, but not at a single sentence written by Mr. William Archer. There is one feature about the theatres which London Society does enjoy — it really has nothing to do with the theatres, but the theatres give it local colour, as a novelist would say. This is the " Supper after the Theatres" idea. And here again the big restau- rants come in once more with their lavish and luxurious, if not exactly disinterested, hospitality. In the next chapter you shall be given some closer views, some less furtive peeps at the Night Side of Lon- don high life. For the present pray imagine you have been flattered by receiving an invitation to the Duchess of Blankshire's ball, and that you are now among her Grace's guests, of whom there are so many that it is somewhat dif- ficult for you to get about. You came in excellent temper, for just before you started off for the Duchess's mansion — it should be called a palace, but that is not the English CROWD ON THE GREAT STAIRCASE. "IN SOCIETY" 75 way — }■( >u remarked to your friends at the Club, who you knew had not been asked, with an irritating!}' cHstinct voice that }-ou supposed you " must g"o, though l)alls are sucli a bore"; you arc therefore well aware that you are enxicd and sincerely detested by the men less fortunate than yourself — and this is to have succeeded! Each of them would like to tell you with conviction that your going to the ball, or your not going, won't make the slightest difference to anybody on earth, but they haven't the courage. So off you drive — perhaps a little after eleven o'clock — in high spirits and Duchess ol very greatly tickled with yourself. You wait ^'''"''''^ba'','^ your turn in the street in the long line of car- riages mo\'ing by fits and starts up to her Grace's door, and if your patience (much improved by that little speech of yours at the Club) is not too severely tried, you will in time descend and walk under a red canopy brilliantly lit with many twinkling electric lamps into the hall, which is filled with floAvers and flunkies, to say nothing of people like yourself arriving all the wdiile, and is also brilliantly illuminated with pink and silver lights. Your fellow- guests wear a pleased look on top of their clothes — this is part of the game of manners. Having deposited your hat and cape, you join the crowd on the great staircase (p. yT,), in itself a thing of pride, and push or are pushed upwards to shake her Grace by the hand. Should she happen to know you, you may get a word or two from ^6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON her, but as it is much more hkely that she hasn't the ghost of an idea who you are, you will pass silently by, and soon get lost in the crowd. It's a case of not being able to see the trees for the wood ; one can't find one's friends in the crush — indeed, unless you are either very tall or particu- larly self-assertive, you may see hardly anybody. There is an awful story of a little man who got hemmed or penned into a corner of one of her Grace's rooms, and who remained there in a state of semi-suffocation until the rush down to supper mercifully put an end to his suf- ferings. It is therefore no bad plan to keep " circulating" on every opportunity which presents itself. It may be that you are a dancing man — a somewhat rare bird in these days. Her Grace's ballroom is the finest in London, and the music is insinuating and inviting — " Will you, won't you, come and join the dance?" You will — at least you would if you could, but you can't. The floor is already covered, and movement is difficult. A few couples are really dancing — wherever that is the case, you may bet with much safety that the lady is line belle Americainc ; but the majority of the dancers are mere revolving figures, confined within a narrow orbit ; if they attempt to get outside of it their career is im- Dance "' ^ mediately stopped by more revolving couples, who frown down the eccentricity of the other dancers. This is how it is in the waltzes. Your English- man does better in a romping polka or in swinging barn- "IN SOCIETY" 17 dance, for these are things in which brawn and muscle tell far more than skill, and the English girl has a weakness — a family feeling — for Ijrawn and muscle. And in the Lancers — intended originally to be one of the most grace- ful and delightful of measures — you will also see a won- derful display of agility. Agility, of course, has its points, but it is not always beautiful ; still, there it is ! Having taken in so much of this, you perhaps come to the conclusion that the best way to enjoy a dance is to sit it out. So you take your part- ner and lead her out of the crush, and make for the stairs, per- haps, or for some cosy nook or other where you may recover your breath, and say such things as are wont to be said on such occasions, wonder- ing silently but persistently if you will be able to get any supper. Supper is a matter of prime importance. Her Grace's mansion is a vast place, and the supper ( if you can only get a chance to reach it) is sure to be excellent. But then her guests are legion; how are they all to be fed? If you are a really great personage, then, of course, you need 78 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON have no misgivings. The Dnchess will see that you are taken care of. But if you belong to the crowd of people who are not great in any way, 3-ou will have to wait till " Your Betters" are served, and take your turn by and by. It is just possible that you may have to scram- SuppL-r. ble for your food — such things are not alto- gether unknown even at the Duchess of Blankshire's entertainments. Still, in process of time you will be fed and you will have your thirst quenched. Then back for an hour or two to the ballroom again, or to some other part of the house. After what you assure her Grace with a vacuous smile has been such a pleasant evening, you go off again at two or three in the morning, remarkably glad that it is all over. Later, you will gabble at the Club about the affair, and remark what a success it was ! What a crowd ! Everybody was there ! The dear Duchess does those things so well ! Never had a more ripping time ! You fairly tumble over yourself as you tell the other " chaps" about it. CHAPTER V STILL " IN society" " At the Blenheim an agreeable atmosphere of polite rakishness prevails which is peculiarly attractive to innocent women." Percy White, The West End. Here are some typical scenes. On one evening yon shall dine at the Cecil. Later, yon shall take a look in at the Empire or the Alhaml)ra or the Palace. That will be enough for one evening. If you respect your chef and the dinner he has provided for you (in other words, if you respect yourself), you will find the evening sufficiently well filled up by the dinner alone, but it is possible, if you are an energetic person, to take in both. A dinner at the Cecil will not be unlike a dinner at any other of the great hotels or restaurants, Dinner at and it is selected for that reason ; should you the Hotel • 1 - 1 -1 1 • r • Cecil. Wish tor more detailed mformation on the subject of restaurant dinners, then }OU are recommended to read seme such book as that of Colonel Newnham- Davis on Dinners and Dining. The Cecil is now, with its hundreds of rooms, one of the largest hotels, if not the largest, in the world. In common with its neighbour, the Savoy, it commands one of the finest views of its kind in 79 8o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON any capital of the globe — the view of the Thames Em- bankment and the Thames itself. But as you probably won't dine much before eight o'clock, you may not be able to see it ; at most the river will likely be indicated by numerous lights, to say nothing of huge electric adver- tisements. You ascend to the noble dining-room, your thoughts, however, intent on dinner, not scenery. Your footsteps are inaudible on the thick carpets — the whole atmosphere of the place is one of luxury. Here are seren- ity, peace, repose. The air is perfumed with the scent of flowers. The room is full, but not too full, of small tables, and on the tables are softly-glowing shaded lights. And the men and women who are dining, or about to dine, are all well-dressed, well-bred — at least, most of them. They are of all nationalities under the sun, but the majority of them are American. The dinner itself is not an English dinner — it is French. You can dine sumptuously for half a guinea, or you can pile up a monumental bill by order- ing () la carte. And the wines are just what you have a mind (and a purse) to pay for. Everything, you will find, is done for you delicately, thoughtfully, well. You are given plenty of time to study the menu — and your fellow-guests ; you talk to your friends with quiet enjoy- ment. And if you are wise you will eschew the eternal platitudes, as they do not improve digestion. Well, you have had your liqueur and your cofifee and your cigar or cigarette : it is now ten o'clock, you reflect. flT-TML EnPIPE • B,K^DV^/~n is depicted an enormous elephant, and vou are at once taken with the picture of the colossal beast. Naturally, you expect to see him in the menagerie bevond, which is one of the chief features of the show to which you have invited yourself. It is only when you are returning this way again, after having been in the menagerie, in which you have not seen the elephant, that vou look at the poster a second time, and now you observe that the elephant is stated as being on exhibition at the Agricultural Hall, and not here at all ! But " how's that" for advertising? The poster of this poster is evidently a bit of a wag. Or, is it that he is in collusion with the pro- prietors of the menagerie up the yard? You move for- ward under the flaring arches of gaslights for a short dis- tance, and in a moment or two you stand in a yard of some size, brilliantly illuminated. As Mr. Murray re- marks in the quotation with which this chapter begins, " the l)lare of a steam clarion, and the bang of a steam-(lri\en drum, sounded, and the naph- go-rou"d! tha lamps of the merry-go-round and the circus gleamed through the fog." But there are differences be- tween Mr. ^Murray's picture of the show at Reading, which he described, and that now before your eyes. For, I02 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON here, the merry-go-round boasts electric lamps instead of naphtha, a menagerie takes the place of the circus, and there is no fog — though perhaps the night is dark, and there is a drizzle in the air. The merry-go-round is cer- tainly a handsome affair, and is handsomely supported by the crowd, who mount upon its " fiery, long-tailed snort- ers" with all the will in the world. And these steeds, mark vou, do not only go " wound and w^ound," but also move up and down with their riders. " All life-size, and twice as natural !" And then the music, the Cyclopean music of the steam clarion ! And the thunder of the steam-driven drum ! And all for a penny a ride ! Will you have one? It will perhaps make you seasick? you answer. Well, there's something in that. So you look at something else. All round the capacious yard, except on the side wdiere stands the menagerie, and the other side where is the big engine which drives the hobby-horses arrangement, are ranged various devices for extracting pennies from your pockets. They are mostly of the three-shies- a^enm-r''"^^ a-pcuuy Variety, and a spice of skill (or would you call it " luck"?) enters into them all. If you are successful a prize rewards you. You are anxious to enter into the spirit of the thing, and you begin by in- vesting a penny in three rings, which you endeavour to throw in such a w-ay as to land them round the handle of a knife stuck into the wall. It looks easy, and you go into NOT ''IN SOCIETY" 1O3 the business with a Hght heart. But — but you don't suc- ceed. Another penny — you try again, and again yOu are defeated. What 'O ! Another penny — and this time you accept defeat, and move on to the next stall, where another penny gives you the privilege of trying to roll three balls into certain holes with numbers attached thereunto. Should you score twenty you will win a cigar. But you do no more than score nine. Undiscouraged. or perhaps encouraged by this fact, you spend another penny, and another, and another — but you don't get the cigar, and it is well for you that you don't ! For there are cigars and cigars. On you go, and next you try your hand at the cocoa-nuts, or the skittles, or the clay-pipes, or in the shooting-alleys. And so on and on — until your stock of pennies and patience is exhausted. Then you turn to the menagerie. Your interest in this particular show ought to be greatly heightened by the fact that on the platform out- side it there is displayed the announcement, " Last Night," but you have already heard that it is always the " Last Night" with this entertainment, and therefore you are not wildly excited. The front of the menagerie exhibits several extraordinary representations of scenes in which lions, tigers, and other ferocious beasts appear to be about to devour their tamers. As you gaze on these blood-curdling pictures, the showman in a tremendous voice bids you " Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen !" I04 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON And you do walk up, and soon you are inside the place, and your protesting nostrils ask you why you insult them in this way — for your first impression of the menagerie. menagerie is that it is one vast offensive smell. Having got somewhat accustomed to this odour, you go round with the crowd, and see a fine young lion in his cage, a couple of lionesses in a second, a black bear and a hyena in a third, half a dozen wolves in a fourth, some dejected-looking monkeys and a cat of the domestic variety in a fifth, a kangaroo in another, and so on. There are eight or ten cages in all, and certainly you can't in reason expect much more for twopence, which is the charge for admission. On one side is an opening into a side-show, " price one penny." A man, standing on a box at the entrance to it, cries out in a loud voice that in the side-show are to be seen three of the "greatest novelties in the whole world." One of them, he tells you, is a petrified woman, the sec- ond is the smallest kangaroo in existence, and the third is the largest rat alive. A curious little collection, is it not ? At any rate it draws an audience to the speaker on the box. In a minute or two he passes into ^de-show ^^^^ side-show, and you go with him. First, he shows you the tiny kangaroo, a greyish- white, squirming creature, with long hind legs and a very long thick tail ; it was born in the menagerie, the show- man declares. Next, you are asked to gaze upon the A TYPICAL EAST-END SHOWMAN. NOT "IN SOCIETY" 107 petrified woman. You see a gruesome object in the leathery brown skin. " A httle over a hundred years ago," savs the showman in a solemn tone. " this woman, a sister of mercy, was walking about just like you or me. (We weren't walking about— but that's a detail.) She had gone with a rescue-party into a mine in Wales, but she herself was lost. When her body was found years later in the mine, it was discovered in the petrified condi- tion in which you now see it!" He invites any lady or gentleman in the audience to touch the Thing, but no one is in the least anxious to do so. Then he moves on to another box, pulls up a curtain, and discloses a handsome bright-eved animal, the size of a fox, w'hich he assures you is the largest rat in the \vorld ; it tvas " lately cap- tured 1)}' a soldier in the Transvaal, and brought to this countrv ; secured by us at enormous expense!" But now the celebrated lion-tamer is about to give his performance in the menagerie, and you press back into the main show. The lion-tamer, attired in what looks like a cycling-suit which had seen much better days, whip in hand, enters the cage where are the wolves, and puts them through a few simple movements. They appear to be very tame indeed, and behave non-tamen much in the way dogs would. But the next performance is quite another kind of thing. The lion- tamer, it is announced, is to try to force an entrance into the cage of the young lion, " only three and a half years io8 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON old — the age at which lions are most ferocious," says the orator with meaning. He continues, " Now, ladies and gentlemen, I must tell you that the lion-tamer enters this cage at the risk of his life. I must request you all to keep silence, so that the lion will not be excited more than is necessary. Remember the lion- tamer is in peril of his life. He will try to enter the cage. Should he succeed, I will ask you to giye him a hearty cheer. He is risking his life!" He concludes his ora- tion gloomily. All of which makes, as it was intended to make, a yast impression on the audience. What follows deserves a paragraph to itself — it is re- markable, to say the least of it, that is, if it is not all a " put-up job." Two or three attendants, armed with things that resemble pikes, range themselves in front of the cage. Perhaps there are some hot irons at their feet. The lion-tamer endeavours to enter by a door on the left, but the lion springs to meet him wuth a roar, thrusts his paw^ against the door, and the tamer is beaten back. Next, he essays a door on the right, but the lion once more out-manoeuvres him, and the tamer remains on the outside. There are murmurs The lion. NOT "IN SOCIETY" 109 of joyful excitement in the crowd, and again they are entreated to keep quiet. The tamer now tries the first door again, Imt the Hon. after a short yet determined struggle, prevails, and tlie tamer is defeated. Then he tries the second door again, but with no better success. By this time the lion — he is really a fine, handsome, even noble specimen — appears to be in a wild rage; his roars fill the place; he snarls fiercely; he bites at the bars of his cage. The people stand patiently, wondering what is to be the next move of the lion-tamer. It is soon revealed. In the middle of the bars of the cage there is a narrow aperture, and through this slit is thrust an arrangement of thin boards, which nearly, but not qui::e, divides the cage in two. The lion is penned in on one side; the tamer enters by the door farthest away; the board is withdrawn; the tamer cracks his whip; the lion springs at him with a growl, but the great beast flashes past the tamer. Again the whip is cracked, and the king of beasts runs round the cage once or twice. When his back is turned, the tamer makes a quick exit, and all is over. The whole thing, whether trick or not. is dramatic. The cheers ^^•hich had been asked for in advance are now given with a will. And thereafter the tamer goes into the cage of the two lionesses, but after the last performance this seems comparatively tame and stupid, for the lionesses are as docile as cats. The band plays " God save the King." and the people flock out. They certainly have no THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON had their pennies' worth. By the way. one of the httle graceful attentions paid you by this show, so to speak, is that *' God save the King" is played about every quarter of an hour — to give those inside a hint, doubtless, that they are not expected to stop all night in the menagerie, and to encourage those hesitating outside to go in at once, or they will lose their last chance. Of course, the East End menagerie is not the West End " Hippodrome," but you think of the difference in price. Not that here in Deptford you will always see a menagerie. Sometime? it will be a genuine " Penny Gaff," or theatre, to which the admission is one penny; if you want a seat (a "stall") you will have to pay twopence or even threepence. And here you will be vastly entertained. There are always two plays on the programme : one a tragedy, the other a farce. " To-night will be presented the blood-curdling drama of ' Maria Martin, or the Murder in the Red Barn.' " Or the play may be " Three-Fingered Bob, or the Dumb Man of Manchester." And here you shall have veritable villains of the deepest dye, heroines of unimagi- nable virtue and loveliness, heroes — the whole old stale bag o' tricks, in fact. And as for the audience, f, never was there one which so thoroughly de- penny gan. o J tested villains, and so whole-heartedly adored lovely and virtuous heroines. How they enjoy the com- plete defeat of the former ! — you can tell that by the en- thusiastic way in which the crowed hisses them ; and how NOT "IN SOCIETY" iii they deliglit in tlie final triumph of the heroines! It mat- ters not that (hn-ing the whole time the performance is going- on the audience has heen eating fried fish, or suck- ing oranges, or cracking nuts, or otherwise attending to its inner man. Nay, these light refreshments are all part and parcel of the entertainment. You can see " Lizer" turn from the villain dying on the stage to the bit of fish she has in her hand with fresh relish and vigour — because the black-hearted scoundrel is meeting his just reward. And then the farce! Its subject not infrequently deals with the countryman just come to London. He travels to the big town in a smock, and he carries over his shoul- der his small belongings in a red cotton handkerchief. Of course, he is as green as his own fields, and how he is laughed at by those knowing East Enders ! Another time you may find the Penny Gaff has been replaced by Wax Works, or a Ghost Show, or something else. But it is in these, and such as these, that one phase of the Night Side of the East End of London expresses itself. Now for another — the East End music-hall. CHAPTER VII AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL " Let youth, more decent in their follies, scofif The nauseous scene, and hiss thee reeling off." Steele, TJie Tatler, No. 266. The music-hall must be considered a chief feature of the Night Side of London ; it is certainly one of the most popular, whether in the West End or the East. Its lead- ing comedian, Mr. Dan Leno, has been honoured by a '' command" of the King. It is a far cry, however, from the humour and whimsicalities of " good old Dan" to the comicalities of the typical East End music-hall star. But it matters not whether the hall is within a stone's throw of Piccadilly or outside the radius, it is ever a popular institution. One of the sights of the town is the long queue of people standing outside the Alham- queur"'"^ bra, the Empire, the Palace, the Tivoli. the " Pav.," the Oxford, and other halls, until the doors leading to pit and gallery are thrown open. The queue often has to wait for a considerable time, sometimes in the pouring rain, but it does so with wonderful patience AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 113 and good-humour — the wait beuig frequently enhvened bv the strains of the nigger minstrel, or some other open- air entertainer. To-night you shall go to the Palace of Varieties at Greenwich. Last night you were at Dept- ford. and now you travel half a mile or more further south-eastward. Perhaps you begin this particular even- ing with a fish-dinner at the famous Ship, just opposite Greenwich Hospital, and though the Ship is not quite the fashionable resort it once was, you may do a great deal worse than dine there. You make your way to the Palace of Varieties, Green- wich. You are. perhaps, a trifle late, and on inquiry you find the only seats left are " fauteuils," price one-and-six. For a thorough appreciation of the humours of the scene you should have come earlier and got a place in the gal- lery, price threepence. But you have no option, so you plunge recklessly, and bang goes one-and-sixpence. The fauteuils prove to be seats in the front row, and those vacant when you arrive are immediately behind the con- ductor of the orchestra. Well, you are a bit too near the music, but there is some compensation, for you are able to see how the conductor conducts and at the same time adds to the quality and tone of his band. \\^ith his left hand, you observe, he plays a piano what time he manip- ulates a harmonium with his right. And all the while he seems to be able to exchange confidences with the first violin, who, you cannot fail to perceive, is a wag. You 8 114 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON do not take this in all at once, for your eyes at first are fastened on the stage, where two comely females are en- gaged in a vigorous encounter of words, " Charlie." which you surmise may lead eventually to something very like blows — as it does. You pick up the subject or the object, which you please, of the duel of tongues between the two 7^ ladies, one of whom is dressed like a suj)erior shop-assistant, while the other might be a fac- tory-girl. They both lay claim to the affections of a certain " Charlie," and in the wordy warfare that ensues they do not spare each other. " Do you know," asks the su- perior shop-assistant in a shrill \'oice, " that I have blue blood in my veins?" " What I do know," retorts the other, with great deliberation, " is that you'll soon have red blood on your nose !" Whereat the house, hugely tickled, roars delightedly. " Do you know," cries the first, " that my father occupies an important, a very im- portant, position in the town?" "As a mud-pusher, I suppose!" And again the audience screams its apprecia- tion ; indeed, the audience does this on the slightest AN EAST END iML'SlC-HALL 115 provocation during this particular " turn." Finally, the end you ha\-e foreseen comes. A little fisticuff battle con- cludes the action — without any damage to either of the scrappers, who suddenly stop, shake hands, and stand bowing and smiling before the footlights. The curtain descends, and the band plays a loud and lively air, the cornet, in particular, r- adding se\'eral horse- power to its \-olume and momentum, so to .speak. Xext appears upon the stage a young lady, rouged, powdered, de- colletee, sin )rt-fr( )cked ; she u a mimic, and. as you soon perceive, a clever one. She gives personations of some well - known popular mr.sic - hall favourites. Thus, she imitates Eu- gene Stratton in his " Lilv of Laguna." and Happy Fanny Fields in an Ameri- can-German song. In the latter character she says to the audience, " \\'h\- don't you applaud me more? Don't you know that the more you applaud me the more money ii6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON I make?" And don't they applaud! The place fairly rocks with laughter and hoarse shouts. To this young lady succeeds the Artist Lightning Sketcher — he is also a ventriloquist. He provides himself with the fig- ures ventriloquists usually intro- duce into their pieces by a very simple device. He draws them on a large sheet of paper with chalks of red, black, and green, while you look on. Next he makes you a pic- ture of St. Peter's at Rome on a big smoked plate — and all in a minute or two. Then he does something even more ambitious — it is his great lightning picture, called " The Home of the Sea Gull." theTurns There is a large white sheet of paper on a board ; he takes various chalks — vermilion, blue, green, black, orange — and hey ! presto, there are blue sky, green water, black rocks, white gulls, and a black steamer (a Newcastle boat, evidently) belching forth black smoke, to say nothing of a black man in a black boat ! And all in a moment. No wonder the audi- ence shouts its approval. This spurs the lightning artist to a Still More Amazing Feat. Stepping forward with a profound bow, he announces that he will, in a couple of moments, without rubbing out a single mark on " The Home of the Sea Gull," convert that masterpiece into AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 117 another, and very different, picture, entitled " A Summer Evening Walk in the Country." And he does it ! Won- derful man! Again flash the chalks of vermilion, blue, o-reen black, orano-e. The l)lue skv is now gorgeous with the splendours of a dying sunset ; the green water becomes oreen earth : the black rocks are transformed into black trees; the black steamboat, and the black man, and the black boat, are replaced by black trees with black foliage; and the white gulls roost under cover of the black leaves also. Finallv, a touch or two, and there is a pair of lovers in the foreground. " I calls that fine," says a deep voice behind vou ; " 'e's clever, 'e is!" Every one thinks the same, for the lightning artist is aw-arded thunderous ap- plause, as is only right in the circumstances. And yet there may be some who say that Art is not appreciated in this country ! Now there trips upon the platform another young lady. First she sings a song about a young angel from the Angel (at Isling-t-u-n) who had four little angels at 'ome, although the gay young spark who was courting her ap- peared to be unaware of this extremely interesting fact. Somehow, the fact does not interest the audience, and the song is received with the sort of silence that is audible half a mile awav. " Ain't no good," says the deep voice in the rear: "she'll 'ave to go!" Poor girl! But her second turn is a dance, and this is received with consider- able favour, so perhaps she will be kept on after all. To ii8 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON fail at even an East End hall must be a terrible business for an artiste; it means, if it means anything, the streets, starvation, death. While your mind may, per- jjjgB^g° „ haps, run on in this melancholy fashion a lion comique puts in an appearance, and your thoughts are whirled away. The lion comique is nothing if not immensely patriotic. In an enormous voice he shouts that King Edward is " one of the best" of kings; is a second verse he yells that Lord Charles Beresford is "one of the best" in the navy; in a third that General Buller is " one of the best" in the army — all of which statements are uproariously welcomed. This patriotic ditty is followed by a sentimental song, " When the Chil- dren are x\ll in Bed," and it is keenly appreciated. The audience, led by the first \'iolin, w'ho plays and, at the same time, sings the air with all the strength of his lungs, takes up the chorus with might and main. For your East Ender loves a sentimental song nearly as much as he loves his beer. And now there comes the chief turn on the programme — it is a Sketch, by the Lynn family— Brother Lynn, so to speak, and two Sisters Lynn, though the family resem- blance Ijetween them all is remarkably faint. The two ladies prove to be the same w'ho appeared in the Abusive Duet of which " Charlie" was the subject a little while back. ]\Ir., or Brother, Lynn, is new to you. The su- perior shop-assistant is now " Mrs. Guzzle," and the PELT . AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 121 factory-girl is her servant, " Sloppy." Brother Lynn is " Mr. Guzzle," Mr. Peter Guzzle. These are The Guzzle the drainalis pcrsoiuc. When the curtain goes Family Sketch. up Mrs. Guzzle is hewailing to Slopp}- the sad fact that her Peter no longer comes home early o" nights, and that when he does come he is invariably the worse, much the worse, for "booze." They take counsel to- gether as to what is to be done to win Guzzle from his evil ways, and they hit on a great idea. This is nothing less than to lie in wait for Peter this very evening as ever 122 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON was, get him to bed, and then pretend when he wakes up that he is dead — as dead as a red herring, or anything else that is most emphatically dead. Peter arrives upon the scene very drunk — he explains that he has been pre- siding at a teetotal meeting, and that it has gone slightly to his head. He is got off to bed, but in a surprisingly short time he reappears attired in his nightshirt, which is a commodious garment, whereunto is attached an enor- mous frill. He announces that he is come in search of the " water-bottle," a statement which the audience recei\'es with a yell of derision. And now enter Sloppy, who with tears (perhaps they keep her from seeing her master) laments the death of " poo' mahster," but is inclined to rejoice that her missus is rid of such a scamp. " It won't be long before she marries agin. There was that 'and- some young feller that admired "er sech a lot — o' course, they'll make a match of it !" And so on. Guzzle listens in amazement, exclaiming that he is not dead, but Sloppy makes as if Guzzle did not exist. So much so that Mr. Guzzle begins to think there must be some truth in what she says — he is dead, and he howls out the question, " Where am I — in Heaven, or in the Other Place?" (Great laughter.) The action is advanced another stage by the arrival of the undertaker to measure Guzzle for his coffin. The undertaker, you see without any wonder whatever, is no other than Mrs. Guzzle. Assisted by Sloppy, they lay out AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 123 Mr. Guzzle on a sofa — Guzzle keeps on protesting he is not dead, hut that makes no difference — and measure him. " He's the sort o' size," says the pretty undertaker, otherwise the superior shop-assistant, otherwise Mrs. Guzzle, with husiness-like grasp of the situation and of Peter, " that we keep in stock. I'll send the coffin round at once. He'll look pretty well laid out." Guzzle (Peter groans.) But, hold, something has andihe undertaker. been forgotten. Peter died suddenly, it seems, and the circumstances are a little suspicious. It is neces- sary, therefore, that there shall be an inquest by the coro- ner — Peter w ill have to be " opened up." ( Loud and long-contiimed shrieks from Peter : " Cut up ! Opened up! I won't be cut up! I won't be openfed up! I'm not dead! O! what a bad dream! What an awful night- mare!") Then Sloppy and the undertaker talk about the '■ dear departed." Sloppy tells him that her master was a good 'usband to missus until he took to bettin' and drinkin'. \\'ell. Guzzle was dead now ("I must be dead!" cries Guzzle, with sudden conviction), and missus would soon console herself — " A 'andsome woman like 'er won't have to wear the wilier long." (Peter groans dis- mallv.) Exit undertaker, promising to send the coffin at once. Meanwhile there is a noise outside, and Sloppy remarks that must be the coroner come to hold the inquest, and he must be sharpening up his instruments to " open up 124 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON mahster." (Peter shrieks, howls, kicks, tears his hair — the audience shouting with inextinguishable laughter the while.) But the coroner never comes upon the stage; instead of him enter the Devil to take Peter off to the Other Place. (The Devil, you will notice, has Devil. '^^ ^^^^ occasion a trim female figure — in fact, that of Mrs. Guzzle.) The Devil is too much for Peter, and he (Peter) goes off into a fit. When he comes out of it, his wife and Sloppy are by his side. He tells them he's had a frightful nightmare, but that, thank goodness, it was nothing else. " Do you know," he says confidingly, " I dreamt I was dead, and that the under- taker came to measure me for my coffin, and that there was to be an inquest, and that I was to be opened up, and that the Devil — but it was all a bad dream ! Well, my dear, it's taught me a lesson. I'll never bet or go to the Pig and Whistle again." Brother Lynn and the two Sis- ters Lynn now join hands, while the crowd rocks and reels with tumultuous cheers, hand-clappings, and cat- calls. The Lynn Family, or Guzzle Family, as you like it, has scored a huge and gorgeous success ! To them succeed acrobats, who appear to think that jumping in and out of barrels, blindfolded, is quite a usual way of " getting around," — but by this time you have seen enough. You abandon your fauteuil, get out of the smoke-laden, beer-stained atmosphere, and pass out into the street. CHAPTER VIII EARL S COURT " Gauntlet . . . therefore proposed to pass part of the evening at the public entertainments in Marylebone Gardens, which were at that time frequented by the best company in town." Smollett, Peregrine Pickle. The congeries of shows, entertainments, shops, and exhibitions of one sort or another, compendiously known as Earl's Court, is a prominent feature of the Night Side of London from May to October. In some measure it may be regarded as a descendant of those " public enter- tainments" to which Smollett referred in the last chapter of the evergreen Peregrine Pickle, and which is quoted above. Another of its prototypes was famous Vauxhall, and another, nearer our own time, Cremorne. It may be doubted, however, if any of these places, not excepting A'auxhall. approached Earl's Court in size, or splendour, or popularity, or afforded anything like the same variety. Earl's Court can scarcely be said to have a rival at present. But when Cremorne was at a unique '■ ])lace. the height of its vogue, it had competitors in Xorth Woolwich Gardens and Highbury Barn. The Crystal Palace does not draw the crowd as does Earl's 125 126 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON Court, nor does the Aquarium, in spite of its boast that at no other place can so many shows be seen. The vast extent of Earl's Court, the diversit}- of the attractions of all kinds it furnishes, the picturesqueness of its grounds, its myriads of coloured lights, its magnificent music, and other things, have given it a unique place in the life of the town. Of a summer's e\'ening there is no more agreeable lounge to be found anywhere, nor is there anything at all like it in any other city of the world. It seems strange that there is not something of the sort in Paris, but there is not. Earl's Court is by way of combining instruction with amusement. It calls itself primarily an Exhibition — Earl's Court Exhibition. Each year there is a different Exhibition. One year the subject, so to speak, was the Empire of India; in another, the Victorian Era; in a third. Greater Britain ; last year there was a Military Exhibition; this year (1902) there is a Coronation Ex- hibition — a name, rather curiously, which covers a repro- duction of the Paris Exposition of last year. It is diffi- cult to institute any comparison between these various exhibitions, but the feature which has been °" ., .,. common to them all is what mav be called the exhibitions. spectacular. The Director-General of Earl's Court (a native of Buda-Pest) is a man who has the veri- table Oriental love of gorgeous display and sensuous magnificence. He has a positive genius for contriving a EARL'S COURT 129 great spectacle. To his native fondness for it he adds a wide experience gained in the United States, particularly at the World's V'dh in Chicago, where his spectacle of '' America" is said to have had the biggest artistic and financial success of any show in history. He is at his best, however, when he is doing something relating to the East — as, for instance, in his Exhibition of India, with its prodigality of types, its vivid contrasts, its blazing col- ours, he fairly revelled in producing striking and even extraordinary effects. It will perhaps be asked if any one learns much, or even a little, from these exhibitions. It does not answer the question, but there is very small doubt that not one in a thousand goes to Earl's Court to get knowledge or information. Yet knowledge and informa- tion are there — if anybody wants 'em; but people hate being " informed" — they go to Earl's Court to be amused, to see the Show, to talk, to hear the music, to flirt, to "pick something up" (not necessarily information). Earl's Court is open all day long, but it is in the evening when most people go there. And it is in the evening that you had better go, though you will not find one evening enough to take it all in. If you go during the daytime you will see far too well how the effects are obtained ; night throws mystery and illusion over the scene, which are en- hanced rather than dispelled by the multitudinous col- oured lights. Perhaps you are too blase to have any other feeling than that you are looking on at an unusually 130 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON t-airv-land. big pantomime; if, however, this is not the case, you may be incHned to sympathise with the Httle country cousin who says enthusiasticahy that it is " Hke fairy-land." And the particular entrance to the Exhibition which is most likely to help you to this point of view is that in Earl's Court Road. For there, when you have paid your shilling, and passed within the turnstiles, you soon come upon the most fairy-like place in the whole Show. Here in the centre is a lake, and round its edge run these coloured lamps, whose gleams are reflected bv the water. At one end is a grotto; in the midst of it is a bridge; along it glide swans that turn out to be small electric launches. At one side of it there stands a Canadian water-chute, down the slope of which sw-eep, with what seems seems terrific speed, flat- bottomed boats into the lake. The people in these boats generally diversify the proceedings by doing a little shouting and screaming, but as a matter of fact they are as safe in these canoes or skiffs as if they were on shore. From beyond the bridge comes the music of a band. Round the lake there runs a " Chinese dragon" railway. EARL'S COURT 131 Past the bridge, on the left side, is a covered building con- taining exhibits of divers kinds ; on the right is another, also fr.ll of " things." It is b}' passing through the build- ing on the left that }nu rcacli a l)ridge which takes }-ou o\cr the tops of some houses to a flight of stairs, passing down which you go into another part, where are the theatre, picture-gallery, and other places of interest or entertainment. Opposite the theatre is the gateway into a large and handsome s(|uare, which is lined with shops and booths of all kinds. In the centre is the inevitable bandstand, and about it arc chairs for those dispcjsed to sit and listen to the l)and. This is per- haps the (|uietest part of Earl's Court, and if }-ou lo\-e music more than shows this is the spot for you. At the far end of the square is an- other gatewa\-, at the further side of which vou will find more shows — mostlv of the side-show variet}-, but generalh- with S(.me relation to the special exhibition being held. Thus, in the India Kxhibiti( )n there were shows in this part of the place of Indian jugglers, musicians, ser- pent-charmers, and the like. Beyond these shows you will come to what has long been the most striking feature of Earl's Court— the Rig Wheel. But on the Big ^^'heel 132 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON sentence has been passed ; it does not draw the crowd as it formerly did, and something new must take its place. And yet it seems rather a pity, for by day you could Bi"'wheei S^^ from the top of it the finest view of Lon- don, and at night there was to be seen a strange and curious night-light picture of part of London — especially of the grounds of Earl's Court itself — which was certainly very attractive. But the public have lost interest in it; it is played out, and it must go. What will become of it? It is not the sort of thing that can easily drop out of sight. Well, if you have not yet been " up" in the Big Wheel, you should make a point of going — if ' for no other object than to see how Earl's Court looks from " 'way up ^ '^^"'^ there." Should it be your luck that the Wheel sticks on your trip, and you have to spend a few hours in one of the carriages (this has happened to other people more than once), why, then, the management will see that you don't lose by it. From the Big Wheel you go on through some gardens to yet another square, with of course another bandstand in the midst thereof. Before you arrive in this square you will notice, as you walk along, that on one side is a " roller-coaster" or switchback, and as the cars thunder EARL'S COURT 133 up and down the thing, you wih liear the laughter and shrieks of the passengers mixed with the noise. But the fickle public are not so keen on the switchback as they used to be, and the cars do not run with any remarkable frequency. But no\\- you are in this third and last square. In some respects it is the most important, for here is the great dining-hall, where you may dine with some sump- tuousness, or, if aou happen to be a member of the Wel- come Club, whose abode is also in this part of Earl's Court, you may have your dinner there — afterward sit- ting out for your coffee and liqueurs within the Club enclosure, which forms one side of this square. The Welcome Club has quite a large number of members, drawn from all parts of the town, "^^^ ^''' ciub' but naturally it is most generally patronised by those living in the immediate neighbourhood.. The Club is closel)- connected with the Exhibition, and of course is shut up when Earl's Court is closed. The Welcome Club is. you might say, the loungiest lounge in the place. And in addition to the Welcome Club, and the dining-room, and the bandstand, there are in this square a theatre, and a diorama, and the entrance to a covered way, which leads }'ou, through an avenue of shops, to that point in your journey from which you smarted on leaving the lake. ^^'eIl, }"ou will have heard some fine music, and seen some strange sights, to say nothing of beholding an enormous number of people. The last-named hold pretty well as 134 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON many types and characters as are to be found in London, vhether in its drawing-rooms or in its streets. And the study of types and characters is always interesting — when not too personally conducted. Verb. sap. ■- **.^- ^^SH^^H CHAPTER IX THE MASKED-BALL " The midnight masquerade." — Goldsmith. " Adventures are to the adventurous." — Disraeli. There were times when the masked-ball was one of the great features of the Night Side of London, but it can scarcely be said to be a great feature of it now. The public masquerade, the masked-ball, the " ridotto" (as it was named at the beginning of the eighteenth century, so as to shock public sentiment less), the bal-inasque, came to England in the time of that gay dog, Charles II. It flourished more or less in the days when George the First was king, but in 1723 it was put down by a discern- ing government. However, it did not long remain sup- pressed, and historic Vauxhall was the scene of many a lively masquerade. Vauxhall had n,asked-baiTs^ its dav (and its night too), and passed away. Forty or fifty years ago the masked-ball came into fash- ion again. From a book written at that time, it seems that masked-balls were held at the Holborn Casino (the Holborn Restaurant replaced it later), at Covent Garden, at the Alhambra, at Highbury Barn, and at Drury Lane 135 136 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON — and they don't appear to have differed very strikingly from those of the present period, such as you will behold in the winter at Covent Garden. Masked-balls fell into bad odour, and almost or altogether ceased in London. Some ten years ago or so they were revived at Covent Garden. From October to the commencement of the Opera season there is a ball once a fortnight. Suppose you take one in? Now for a night of " fun" ! you may have dined at the Continental — if so, it is quite on the cards that some of the ladies you may have seen there will be present later at Covent Garden — or elsewhere. You perhaps took a look in at the Empire or the Alhambra, or at some other music-hall, by way of passing the time. For, although the ball is advertised to begin before eleven, the dancers do not arrive in any numbers till after midnight. So you, too, will not care to reach the theatre much sooner. You can go masked if you like; you may don a Present-dav j • r 1 ^ version ' dommo or some fancy-dress costume; you may go in evening-dress simply — these are matters, you will find, that are left to yourself. Very much so, in fact, for 3'ou will see, by and by, that dancers will be at the ball who haven't even put on evening-dress, but who have hidden their morning attire under a dom- ino. Well, about twelve you get into a hansom. Perhaps you are with a friend ; if not, you will have no trouble in picking up one, if you want to, in the ballroom. It may THE MASKED-BALL 137 be that this is the first Covent Garden ball yon have " as- sisted" at. and when yon have alighted from yonr cab, cnriosity makes yon stand in the vestilnile or hall, jnst inside the door, and watch the people coming in. In some respects this, yon may find, is not the least interesting part of the entertainment. You take your stand near the door by which admit- tance is gained into the ballroom. On yonr right are the steps up to the boxes, where also is the ladies' dressing- room. Here, then, in the hall you will be able to observe the fair creatures as they arrive, and before they have finallv arra}-ed themselves for conquest. On }-onr right also is an office where you can get " masks, dominoes. gloves" — as you hear from some one who shouts out the information from within. To your left is a pay-box, and opposite it is another. There is also a gentleman's cloak- room. The price of admission to the ballroom is a guinea, but if you merely wash to look on, "''pavs' you can get a seat in the gallery for a few shillings. If you desire to be verv extravagant, you can treat yourself to a box, but that will run you into several guineas. Suppose yon pay your guinea. If you intend to stand in the hall some minutes watching the people come in, von will feel more comfortable if you pay at once. For a few paces from yon there is a sergeant of police from Bow Street (which is jnst across the way) and also an ordinary constable, and they are sure to turn 138 THE NIGHT SIDE OE LONDON a very keen eye on you if they see you loitering here. But if you have a ticket, you can defy them with the ex- planation that you are waiting for a friend. For half an hour you have seen, let us say, thirty or forty people step into the vestibule. Sometimes they have come in couples, a man and a woman ; again, it may be, that two or three ladies, sans cavaliers, put in an appear- ance, or two or three young men without any ladies. When a man and a woman come in together, you may observe that the lady is nearly always in a mask. When the ladies come in by themselves (generally without pre- tence at any disguise) you notice that they stand about in the hall for some time. If you spy on them closely, you may or may not be surprised ( it will depend th?e"shoW" o^ your knowledge of life) to see that these ladies are reduced to the unpleasantness of buying their own tickets. Should your sense of gallantry carry you so far as to cause you to desire to be their banker, you will find astonishingly few obstacles placed in your way ; on the contrary, every encouragement will be smiled upon you. But imagine you do not suc- cumb to the temptation — you are not yet tired of watch- ing. You turn to the group of young men who have just got down from a pair of hansoms. They are very, very young; youth, and the high spirits of youth, are written large upon them ; they are a little flushed, a little noisy, a little easy in their gestures. Older men THE MASKED-BALL 139 conic in too; one — as likely as not — or two are old cnouLjli to he the fathers of the youngsters you have had your eyes on a moment ago. Ahout lialf-i)ast twelve, and on until half-past one (•"cidck. there is a great quickening, a rush. People begin and contiime to arrive in large and small parties, and for an hour the \-estibule is crowded with fresh arrivals. In- deed, it is so full that you may find yourself in the way. So in a few minutes you give up your ticket and pass through the door. and. before ascending the stairs that lead }-()U up to the ballroom, you take a look around. Here, in the corridor or hallway, there is a bar. served bv maids adorned with ribbons of red. white, and blue. Be- yond are small tables " built for two," apd you note that they are well ( well, in more senses than one) occupied. As you glance, you see couples merrilv supping, and vou hear the suggestive popping of corks and the . At supper. fizzle of champagne m the glass. Some of those at the bar and at the supper-tables have their masks on, but the majority, the great majoritv. are disguised ( the joke is something of the most ancient) as ladies and gentlemen. You begin to take in the fact that a very small proportion of the dancers wear masks, and that though a considerable percentage of the ladies are in fancy dress, a still larger is not. The authorities of the place, to encourage the use of fanc}' dress, give prizes, quite valuable ones too, for the best costumes, and you I40 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON may be inclined to suspect that were it not for these in- ducements fancy dress would be at a greater discount than it is. But all this while music, delicious music, the music of one of the best bands in England, for, probably enough, it is Dan Godfrey's, has been sounding in your ears, and, besides, you can hardly fail to hear the tap, tap, tapping of little heels and lesser toes on the floor, and the swish or rustle of silken skirts. A picture is conjured up with you, and you proceed to verify it. So you ascend the steps, and presently you are in one of the handsomest ball- rooms in the world. All the stalls and seats in the im- mense amphitheatre have been removed, with the result that there is a splendid floor-surface for the bauroom tripping of the light fantastic. The floor is highly polished too, and is in capital condition. The place is brilliantly lighted up, and above the band- stand is a pretty arrangement of coloured lights in fes- toons from the ceiling, which have a really charming effect. Perhaps as you enter there is a pause between the dances, and this gives you a chance to see what the place is like. Your glance sweeps round the magnificent room, and you note that there are hundreds of dancers. You also see that many of the boxes are full, though it may be there are more empty ones. If it is the first night of the masked-ball season, all or nearly all of them will be occupied — so also on the last. Programme in hand, THE MASKED-BALL 141 you make your way across the floor. The next dance is the Lancers, and ^ou secure a place near the band, from wliicli you will he able to get a good view of the scene. The conductor raises his baton, and the band strikes up. The piece they play, and it is played to admiration, is a medley of light operatic airs, taken from a popular musi- cal comedy of the day. The dancers quickly form up on the floor, and they lose no time in getting to work. Unquestionably, it is a merry scene — bright, sparkling, picturesque, but its main fea- ture is that of a sportive and not easily discouraged jol- lity. There is a good deal of cheerful noise. In some sets the dance is rendered to perfection. .Vnd why not? For amongst the men and women are some of the best performers in London. As the dance proceeds each and all abandon themselves more and more to the A dance. gay suggestion of the music, and there is less and less of the orthodox drawing-room style of dancing to be seen. Here a man dressed as a monk catches up his partner in his arms, and holding her aloft waltzes *' around," as the Americans phrase it. Another man, in ordinary evening-dress, follows his example — there is much laughter, for in another moment he and his partner are sprawling on the floor. They pick themselves up, and there is more laughter. Some of the ladies indulge in a little " high kicking," and you have seductive glimpses of flashing, shapely, silk-stockinged legs. And 142 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON all over the immense floor much the same kind of thing is going on, but to get a perfect view you must go up to one of the boxes. And thither you ascend, and then look down. Again you will undoubtedly conclude that the scene is a gay and festive one ; it is full of bright colour, of rhyth- mical movement. You scan the various sets, and you make a catalogue of the costumes. Here is a " Type of English Beauty," there a " Shepherdess" ; here " Pierrot" and " Pierrette," there the " Queen of Hearts" with the " Knave"; here is the " Emerald Isle" in green and gold, there a '* Chinaman"; here a " Courtier of Louis XIV.," there a " Page of Charles II." ; here is " Goosey, Goosey Gander," there a fat " Romeo" along with an amiable- looking " Lady Macbeth" ; over yonder " Mephisto" has a " Hallelujah Lassie" in his arms. And so on. You have no doubt been at other fancy-dress balls, The scene from the and you recognise in the costumes a large boxes. number of old friends. Amongst the dancers are a few in dominoes and a smaller band in masks. And as the night lengthens out nearly all the masks are re- moved. Your lightly roving eye tells you that there are many pretty w^omen here; one or two of them are posi- tively beautiful. And there are plenty of handsome, good-looking men. They all seem to be happy and in high spirits. All appear to be having a " high old time." And of course that is exactly what they are here for. /To.^^"" WL: THE DANCERS QIICKLY FORM UP ON THE FLOOR. THE MASKED-BALL 145 Black care, for a few hours at least, has ceased to sit behind the horsemen, so to say. While you look on, the music comes to an end. And now you notice there is a fresh excitement in the place. Those who have entered for the prizes given for the best costumes now submit themselves to the verdict of the judges. The dancers form a living lane, and up this the contestants walk, amidst the freest of criticisms and no little banter and chaff, to the bandstand, whereon are the judges. This function is soon over. You hear presently that the young lady who represented " Goosey, Goosey Gander," or " The Spider and the Fly," or '* The \\niisper of the Shell." as the case may be, has been awarded the first prize, and you can guess without being told how much she is envied by her less fortunate sisters. And now you ask yourself the impertinent question, Who are all these people, these votaries of pleasure? Exactly, you tell yourself, that is who and wdiat they are — the votaries of pleasure. Amongst the men are ofificers of the army, men from the Stock Exchange, actors, jour- nalists, betting men. men about town, young " bloods," and hosts of men who can only be described as nonde- scripts, except that they are all bent on seeing life and resolved to ciuaff the purple cup to the , ^^^ '■ 111 dancers. dregs. They are all, you may be sure, labelled " fast," but for all that most of them are good fellows enough, and it would be a pretty big mistake to suppose 146 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON they are all travelling post-haste on the highroad to Hades. And the ladies — well, who are they, and where do they come from? You have seen what yon have seen as you were standing in the hall, and you must have your own opinion. Certainly, as the night wears on you will not have two opinions. The ladies for the most part belong to the Half- World, but there! you knew that before. Still, if you have ever been to a hal-masque in Paris, and compare it with the Covent Garden variety, you will acknowledge that the standard of conduct is higher in England than in France. Here there are ushers, masters of ceremonies, attendants, to say nothing of the police in the background of the whole entertainment, and they take care that a certain appearance of decorum is maintained. Another dance succeeds the procession of those trying for the prizes; this time it is a barn-dance. The music is sprightly and catchy, and every one seems to enter into the fun and enjoyment of the thing with the utmost zest. Certainly, it is a gay and attractive picture — the pretty w^omen, the young, handsome men, the dresses, the lights, the big ballroom. There is the measured beat, beat, beat of dancing feet to the lively time, and there is a sound of laughter and merriment in the pulsing air. And so, again, in the next dance — a polka, danced in ten or twenty different styles, but each and all with frank abandon. It is now getting on in the night, or rather THE iMASK ED-CALL 147 morning, and each successi\'e dance is a shade more noisy, its " time" a bit quicker, tlian its predecessor. There is something infectious in the scene, and tired of being a mere onlooker you descend from the box and mingle with the peo])Ie on the floor. Then comes the " Cake Walk" — now all the vogue. But first you take a look at the men and women sitting and lounging about on the seats and benches at the side of the ballroom. Most of them are in pairs, though here and there a aooi'^ nymph sits lonely and disconsolate. Some of these people are evidently having a good time; others seem tired and bored. It is much the same, however, at the Duchess of Blankshire's ball, where you have seen how pleasure and ennui, joy and satiety meet together and sit side by side. 'Tis for ever the same old human comech'-tragedy ! And now you manage to push your wav through the crowd standing looking on at the dancers. You reach the bandstand just as the last strains of the polka die away, and you are caught up by the rush of dancers all making for the refreshment-tables, most of which are situated behind the bandstand or downstairs in the corridor you saw as you came in. You too take a seat behind the bandstand, and call for what you will. The waiters are in great demand, and probably you may have to ^^•ait some time before you are served. So you gaze about you, and you instantly per- ceive that here you are, in a sense at any rate, " behind 148 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON the scenes." There are perhaps seventy or eighty people at the various tables, in twos or in larger parties. Fair faces are a trifle flushed; painted cheeks incline to look the least bit haggard; some of the voices are more than common shrill. Here and there you listen to some half- hysterical laughter. And yet it is a fairly orderly crowd — indeed, remarkably so, considering all that has been going on. There is a long bar, and behind it thes"cenes. ^^^ waltrcsscs (tlicy look tired to death, as no doubt they are, poor things, for they have been standing there for hours), dressed like the others in red, white, and blue. In front of it are men and women two or three deep. And now, as you look, you see something. There is the fat monk whom you have observed earlier in the evening, and lo ! the cord which bound his capacious waist (?) is removed by a lady, and in a few seconds a skipping- rope is at work, and first one, then three or four damsels are skipping for all they are worth, their skirts tucked up or gathered up around them, so that you can see their stockings and THE MASKED-BALL 149 other articles of attire — which you do not generally see; let us put it in that way. and leave something to the imagination. But this phase of the ball does not last long — if you are quite human it is just possible you think it does not last long enough. An attendant comes up and confiscates the skipping-rope ! You turn awa}'. and now something else meets your view. Just under the palm in a corner is a little party — a merry little party it is. There are two girls got up as " coons." and they are dressed in the white " pants" and the sailor-like upper garment you see in the music-halls. There are two men with them ; there is a a running fire of chaff, and in a twinkling one of the coons is taken up from the floor and deposited in the lap of one of the men. He proceeds to " cuddle" her in the most un- blushing manner, a process which appears to meet with her entire approval. An attendant passes by, but he does COVENT GARDEN BALL GIRLS. 150 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON not see, or lie pretends not to see, and the coon remains in the arms of lier lover — is he her lover? AA'ell, perhaps he is ; at any rate, that is the character in which he chooses to appear at the ball behind the scenes ! And there are other equally suggestive pictures to be witnessed here. The night is getting older ; dance succeeds dance, and then comes the distribution of the prizes to the successful contestants. It may be that people are getting rather tired of the wdiole thing, for it is now past four o'clock, and the giving of the prizes causes little or no excitement. Then there are more dances ; with some, hilarity is at its height ! J1-l'c la bagatelle, vivc la joic! At five o'clock there is a last dance, and the thing comes to an end with " God save the King!" You get your wraps, and then LAST WALTZ. you think of breakfast, or " some- thing to eat." Covent Garden is near, and you know that its early market-folk were there Avith their flowers and fruit and vegetables two or three hours ago, and you also know that there are several places of " entertainment for man and beast" open. To the most fa- After ^ the ball— mous of them all you wend your wa}-, in com- breaklast. pany wuth some other revellers of the night. You come on a breakfast-room, \Ahere you can have kidneys and liacon or some other dish. And here you see THE MASKED-BALL 151 the last of the masked-ball. You sit down at table, and }-our z'is-a-z'is is a young lady dressed as a vivandiere, and beside her is a Spanish dancer. Not far off is a young gentleman, and you notice he has enjoyed the ball not wisely but too well. And the talk you listen to is not pru'ticularl)- edifying! But everything comes to an end. Finally, you get into your cab and drive away. If you are wise you drive away alone or with a male friend. " Dinna forget." CHAPTER X THE SHILLING HOP "... This manly, masterful seizure by the waist, this lifting almost off the feet, this whirl round and round to the music. ..." Besant, All Sorts and Conditions of Men. One of the pleasantest and at the same time most wholesome features of the Night Side of London is the Shining Hop. Some forty or fifty years ago London was surrounded with places where dancing was carried on, and for the most part these were open-air places ; but they have pretty well disappeared. You will see on Bank Holi- days 'Arry and 'Arriet dancing on Hampstead Heath, at the Crystal Palace, at Alexandra Park, and elsewhere, just as 3^ou will see children and 3'Oung girls dancing in the streets to the music of the organ-ginders. But it is at the Shilling Hops, held in various parts of Town Hall. the town, that you will behold the most genu- ine devotion to the dance. At one hall alone, Holborn Town Hall, there are three of these " Cinder- ellas" every week during the winter, and many hundreds of people take part in each of them. Of course, these modest entertainments are very different from the great 152 THE SHILLING HOP 153 organised balls, of which there are a vast number given every winter — and also in the " Season" : balls national, such as that known as the Caledonian held at the White- hall Rooms, where royalty has been known to appear in Highland costume, or like that given at the German Gym- nasium in St. Pancreas Road, or balls given by clubs and societies and '" Orders." These Shilling Hops are quite informal, quite humble in comparison with even the least conspicuous of these affairs, but for all that you see some of the \-erv best dancing in London at them. Here are none of the fastidious men, the despair of hostesses, who can't or won't dance. You shall go to one at Holborn Town Hall ; it may be on a Monday, Thursday, or Saturday d\'ening, just as it suits you, for there is a Shilling Hop every week on each of these evenings, or very nearly so, all through the long winter months. As you enter you pay your shilling to a young lady, who probably is a daughter of the Professor of Dancing under whose auspices the Hop is given. You receive a card of admittance, on one side of which is the programme of the dances ; as you glance over it you see the programme, so far as the dances are concerned, is not verv different from that }-ou held in your hand at the Duchess of Blankshire's famous ball; there is much the same procession or alternation of waltz, lancers, waltz, barn dance, waltz, as there was at her Grace's big dance. You pass up the uncarpeted stairs. You arrive during 154 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON one of the intervals between the dances, and the hall at the top of the stairs is crowded with young men and maidens. You don't notice many elderly landiifg. people amongst them — there are a few, and you rather wonder what they are doing there. (And there are no chaperons at these Hops.) You ob- serve that with the exception of two or three the girls have made no attempt to appear in " evening-dress," The only man in regulation war-paint is the Professor of Dancing, who gives the Hop and, as you see presently, acts as the master of ceremonies at it. In fact, nearly everybody is dressed in his or her " Sunday best." On your left is the entrance into the hall ; in front of you is the indispensable refreshment-room. While you are gazing about you, the band within the hall strikes up — it is the insinuating music of an old favourite waltz of Strauss's, and the people press in, but without rudeness or scrambling, into the dancing-room. And you pass in too. Holborn Town Hall is a noble room for dancing in, or for anything else. And on this particular evening its polished floor gleams like ice. At one end is a platform, on which is an organ ; at the far end is a gallery, bare of people. Immediately in front of the organ is the band; it counts some seven or eight instruments, and they who perform on them are dressed — well, not exactly like the members of the Blue Hungarian or Red Ruma- nian Bands. One or two are in a uniform of sorts, two Till': SHILLING HOP 155 or three are in evening- attire (also of sorts), the rest are in "lounge" suits. But the dress doesn't matter; it is the music — but, alas! that might be better. As the music sounds the tloor of the hall is covered in a twinkling with (lancers. Vou watch them, and }ou notice that as a rule they dance excellently well, 1)Ut their enjoyment is of the most sober, decorous kind. The great major- ity, you can hardly fail to see without a smile, "^dTifcr regard dancing as a very serious business — a thing not lightly to be undertaken, but with all gravity. You have an amused sense that every one is determined to get the fullest possible value for his or her shilling. But they do dance well. Here you shall see two hundred couples on the floor waltzing, and you shall entirely fail to observe a young man trampling on his partner's toes, or a pair wildly careering amongst, blindly cannoning against, inoffensi\e and defenceless people. You ask }-ourself, with your usual impertinence, who they all are, and the answer is not far to seek. They are — -at least most of them — from the ranks of the exceeding great army of shop-assistants, and the biggest battalions are drawn from what our American cousins call " dry-goods stores." And if the sight they present is not exactly gay, it is at any rate a pleasant sight — a sight which would have delighted the heart of the great novelist and good man who wrote All Sorts and Conditions of Men, and who gave East London its " People's Palace." 156 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON The waltz over, the dancers flock away to the refresh- ment-room. The Professor of Dancing, meanwhile, has spotted you, and he comes up, bow^s, and inquires if he may get you a partner. You enter into conversation with him, and congratulate him on the success of the Hop. He replies that sometimes he has much larger affairs. He tells you that he has Shilling Hops on the other side of the river which are, perhaps, much bigger. He des- cants on the finer aspects of the thing — how these Shil- ling Hops are looked forward to by many a young girl, many a young fellow, as the brightest spots in their lives. He assures vou that these Hops make for man- The " Professor" lincss and a wholesome pride — are not pupils alks. of his now soldiers of the King in South Africa and elsewhere? " Here," he says, " a man sees many young ladies, and if he takes a fancy for one — you may be sure he has many competitors ; he has to take pains with himself and his appearance; he has to show what he's worth to win her ; it's a very good thing for both." Quite so, you agree. Then his talk drifts off to other dances in the town, and he institutes comparisons between these and his own Hops — greatly in favour of the latter, you may be sure. And perhaps not without reason. '' The Cake Walk," he goes on, " is all the rage now. Would you like to see one?" And he announces in a loud tone that the Cake Walk will be interpolated between the next two dances on the list. First comes the THE SHILLING HOP 159 Lancers — danced with the utmost correctness and a feel- ing for the niceties of deportment wliich would have sat- isfied even the immortal Tur\eydrop. And then follows the Cake Walk. But this is not a huge success. Perhaps it is because there is so much abandon about it — because it is so complete a caricature of Turveydropism — but the Shilling Hoppers do not take to it kindlv. They do ever so much better in their grave, severely serious waltzes; truth to say, they take their pleasures a trifle sadly. CHAPTER XI CLUB LIFE "I was detained at the Club."- — Any husband to any wife (Old Style). London is pre-eminently the city of clubs. In it there are at least fifty of well-established position, as many more of greater or less pretensions to social standing, and a multitude besides, the status of which is " special" or " peculiar." An ingenious American, fond of the statis- tical side of life, has calculated that the " recognised" London clubs have a membership of upwards of one hun- dred thousand. Clubs of one kind or another are now to be found all over the town, but to all intents and purposes they may be said to be prett}^ well confined to Pall Mall, St. James's, and Piccadilly. On the extreme HunT western boundary you shall find the Bache- lors', at the corner of Hamilton Place, and the Wellington, at the top of Grosvenor Place. Leaving out of view the City clubs, you may say that the Senior forms the eastern boundary ; but this is hardly correct, for such a statement fails to take into account a host of clubs, such as the Union, the National Liberal, and the other clubs in Whitehall Court, the Constitutional, the Garrick, the 1 60 CLUB LIFE i6i Savage, the Green Room, the National Sporting, the Vic- toria, the Writers', and the Press, which all lie further east. If you will look at any list oi clubs for this year of grace, 1902, you can count about a hun- dred and twenty-five for gentlemen, and a dozen for ladies. A century ago there were no clubs for ladies, and very few for gentlemen. The rise of clubs is distinctly a feature of the nineteenth century. But though the beginning of the twentieth century sees more clubs in London than ever before, the rise of the restaurants, so conspicuous a feature of present-day London life, has profoundly modified the Xight Side of club life. The club-man of seventy or eighty years ago, who spent most of his evenings at his club dining, gaming, drinking, gossiping, were he to come to life again and revisit his former haunt at his accustomed time o' night, would more probably than not i62 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON find it almost empty. And were he to be told that clubs are most populous — indeed, only populous — at the hour sacred to afternoon tea, he would not believe it, or if he did he would get himself back in immitigable disgust to the shades again. Some of the older clubs, as you may see from the famous book at Brooks's, wherein are recorded the bets of its members in days long bygone, were gambling-clubs and nothing else. In St. James's Street you can find the Cocoa Tree, whose name recalls the ancient seat of gaming, and hard by is the Thatched House, built on the site of a once celebrated tavern of the same appellation. And here it may be noted that the London clubs, the pro- genitors of the modern clubs, grew out of the London taverns. A hundred and fifty years ago men spent their eveninp-s in the taverns of the town — one of Clubs ^ grew out the best known to the bucks of the time being of taverns. the Thatched House aforesaid ; another was the Bedford in Covent Garden, of which you may read in the veracious pages of Smollett. Perhaps White's is the oldest of London clubs — you will find a good deal about it in Thackeray, who laid several scenes in his novels there. In former days play ran high and was not unat- tended with bad blood — some of which was " let" in duels in the Park. How degenerate would the clubs of to-day, with their devotion to afternoon tea, appear to the men of that period ! CLUB LIFE 163 Tn the story of last century political clubs played a great part. Over against each other (in history as in the street) stand the Carlton and the Reform. Of the inte- rior ol tlie lormer )'OU can see nothing unless you are a nieniher. for no stranger is allowed to dine there or even enter its rooms. But then 'tis whispered that a dinner at the Carlton Club is not a joy for eyer. The Reform, true to its i)rinciples, is liljeral. for it does admit the stranger w ithin its gates, and there, should a member inyite you, }ou may dine yery well. And per- ^^.^ haps the memljer of the Reform ^\•ith whom you dine will not forget to tell }'ou that they ha\'e a better chef than there is across the road. Brooks's at one time \yas the great Liberal, (M* rather Whig, club, but though the Carlton and the Reform still remain the chief political clubs, there are now many others. As for example, there are the Conservatiye, the Junior Carlton, the Constitutional, the Junior Constitu- tional, the Junior Conseryatiye, the St. Ste- phen's, on the one side of ix)litics, and on the ,^.'"*';^ ^ i political. other the Deyonshire ( which, howeyer, is now more of the "social" type than of the "political"), the Eighty, the National Liberal, and the New Reform. Considerable gatherings of members are to be seen at nearly all of these clubs, except when Parliament is sitthig, i64 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON in the afternoons, and again oh special nights during the year when there is " anything on." A few of these poHtical clubs have members who are not politicians first, last, and all the time; the Reform has several men of letters on its roll at present ; in the past it had Macaulay and Thackeray. The Eighty is '' addressed" periodically by leading lights of the Liberal party. A large number of journalists belong to the younger political clubs. Some of these political clubs are aristocratic, others are as distinctly of the middle class. But whether a politician is Conservative or Liberal, an aristocrat or of the middle class, he rarely dines at his club; hardly ever does he invite guests to dine with him at " the Club" ; he prefers to show his hospitality either at his own house, or, vicariously, as it might be put, at a restaurant. This is perhaps not quite so much the case at the Ser- vice clubs. The veteran has not taken with as much en- thusiasm to dining at the restaurant as has his junior, but still, even the most old-fashioned of the Service clubs is more or less deserted in the evenings. It is at Clubs naval j j ^^ ■ ^j aftcmoous that you shall see and mililary. -' many distinguished officers, both naval and military, at such clubs as the United Service, called by the frivolous the Cripples' Home, but spoken of as the Senior by the more sober-minded, the Army and Navy, otherwise known as the Rag, the Naval and Military, which has its CLUB LIFE 165 abode in the house formerly occupied by Lord Pahiier- ston, and the scene of Lady Pahiierston's once celel)rated " Saturdays," the East In(Ha United Service, tlie Junior Army and Xavy, and the Junior Naval and !\lilitarv. Some of the Service clubs are devoted to special branches of the military profession — such as the Cavalrv and the Ciuards' ; the former is in Piccadilly, the latter in Pall Mall. But of course many of the members of the Service clubs be- long to other clubs, and, also of course, officers who are on duty in London ha\'e their own mess. It may be of interest to state that at least in one case ( that of the Household Cavalry) the members of the mess sit down to dinner in ordinary evening-dress — this has the advantage of allowing these gentlemen to go into society without having to " change." There is in London an immense number of clubs de- voted to sport in one form or another. You can begin with the Alpine and go on to the Victoria. All kinds of sports and all forms of sport you shall find have club- houses — mountaineering, automobilism. coaching, ath- letics and swimming, chess, photography, fly-fishing, golf, pigeon-shooting, polo, cricket, rowing, rackets, skating, yachting. In this class you may include such a club as the Travellers' — its house is in Pall Mall, and it i66 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON is one of the most exclusi\'e in the town. In Piccadilly is the Turf Club, the most fashionable of all the sporting- clubs, and a centre of interest for the horse- racing world. Two or three of the sports- ^dubs^ clubs go in for sports all round, and a few of the social clubs add something- connected with sports or sporting to their ordinary programmes. The club which calls itself, and is. par excellence, the National Sporting Club is treated of in a separate article which will be found further on in this book. On certain afternoons and even- ings this club has competitions and contests. There are one or two of the other clubs that come within this para- graph which are tolerably wtII filled on special e\'enings, but here again they are better patronised during the after- noons, as a rule, than the evenings. So far as betting and card-playing are concerned, there is, as a matter of course, not a little of these going on all the time in most sporting- clubs ; but a card-room is to be found in the majority of London clubs, where whist, poker, or bridge, the most popular now of games of cards, is played for stakes of varying amounts. The Baldwin makes a feature of whist and bridge for small points. And as the evening rather than the afternoon lends itself to a game of whist or bridge, there is always a certain number of members to be seen in some of the clubs after dinner. And as for bet- ting on races, this form of gambling is so national a char- acteristic that the wonder is, not that there is so much of CLUB LIFE 169 it in the clubs, but that there is so Httle. That there are two (»r three gambHng-chibs — which exist for o-aml)hng and nothing else — is well known to the initiate, but these lie as far under the surface of the life of the town as pos- sible. The activity of the police has rendered the exist- ence of these places exceedingly difficult, and in fact almost impossible. The vast majority of London clubs fall under the head of social clubs. Some of these minister to a class, as for instance the St. James's, which is not in St. James's but in Piccadillv, where gather together the diplomatists of all nations, and the various University clubs, to which be- long men from Oxford and Cambridge. Others, again, speciallv cater for artists, litterateurs, and dramatic folk. The gra\'e and ineffably respectable Athenjeum Club, which stands opposite the Senior, places literature in the forefront of its programme; but you will see not many literary men in it — rather will you behold, with a proper chastening of spirit, bishops, cabinet ministers, judges, and other erect pillars of the state. You have only to become a bishop to be at once admitted amongst its mem- bers — how simple a thing that is ! Of literary men you will see a number (come for afternoon tea, as in so many other clubs in these days) at the Saville, the Authors', the Arundel, and the Savage; of artists at the Arts', the Bur- lington, and the Savage; of dramatic people at the Gar- rick, the Green Room, the O.P. (Old Playgoers'), the 170 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON Playgoers', and, once again, the Savage. Some of these clubs have special nights, and in the next chapter you shall go to a Saturday at the Savage, dine, and spend the evening. Most of the social clubs bear no particu- lar label. You may start with Arthur's in St. James's Street, where you will find yourself in very Socia clubs. excellent society indeed, or Boodle's, in the same street, with its famous bay-window, and a class of supporters very similar to that at Arthur's. You may call in at the New Lyric, and wind up in the wee sma' 'oors at the Eccentric — of which a sketch is given in a succeeding chapter. If you desire something particularly exclusive — well, there is the Marlborough in Pall Mall, of which His Majesty the King, when Prince of Wales, was a member. The social clubs of the town are many — of all shapes, sizes, and prices, so to say — and it is impossible to imagine that there exists a man who would not find himself pro- vided with a club to suit him (always pre-supposing he will suit the club) in one or more of them. A few of the clubs are extremely difficult to get into, whether as member or guest, as, for instance, the Beefsteak — more than one man, covetous of its membership, has found it " impossible." Again, there are some social clubs whose sociality is strictly confined CLUB LIFE 171 to particular nights or occasions. As illustrations, take two of the literary clubs, the W'hitefriars' and the N^ew Vagabonds'. Both of these are dinner-clubs, with discus- sions or speeches, or some other way of passing the e\'en- ing after coffee and li(iueurs ha\-e been sent round. Such exenings as these are pleasant enough, l)ut there is noth- ing that can be called wildly exciting about them. Then in addition to the diiuier-clubs there are the supper-clul)S, of which the most fashionalile and popular is the Grafton. The Grafton is a Saturday Night club, and the Grafton Galleries, where the club holds its revels, lend themselves admiral)l}- for such affairs. 'Tis said that the raisoii d'etre of the Grafton, as of other Saturday Night clubs, is the fact that as all the restaurants must close at midnight on Saturdays, there must be found some meeting- place (or rather eating-place!) for people "after the theatres" — hence the Grafton Supper Club. But it is pat- ronised by other people besides theatre-goers ; there is the attraction of dancing as well as of J^^^'"!*°" f> Supper Club. supper. And at the club there is a certain amount of dancing during the evening — both before and after supper; perhaps you may see thirty couples or so dancing. But the great majority don't dance: they sit about and talk and flirt — all the usual human business, in fact. But probably nowhere in the town will you see a 172 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON bigger crowd of pretty, well-dressed women, and in the number there is a goodly sprinkling of the best-known actresses of the day, for amongst them and other mem- bers of the " profession" the Grafton is in high favour. And if you want to dance at two o'clock of a Sunday morning, why, then, get some one to take you to the Grafton, and " take no other." The clubs of London represent in a measure the whole life of London. They are not confined to people who are in society, or even on the outskirts of it, or to the middle classes ; the East End also has its clubs, or what corre- sponds to clubs. Every class of the community, even to the lowest with its thieves' kitchens, has something of the kind. Discussion clubs are not so numerous as they once were, and the days of what used to be known as Judge and Jury clubs are past. In Soho, at once the most mysterious, interesting, and sinister (pray let the word pass, Mr. Critic) district of London, Soho clubs. there is a variety of strange and curious clubs, some more or less well known, others deep and dark below the surface. It could hardly be otherwise in Soho, with its extraordinary mixture of all races and tongues. Of course, there is a Nihilist club — in all likelihood there are two or three Nihilist clubs — in Soho. And there are little clubs that meet in rooms far back from the shuttered windows that front the streets — mysterious little clubs that keep their business well out of sight. In this quarter, CLUB LIFE 173 at one time, there used to be more than one specimen of the " Niglit Chib," but such dens have been raided by the poHce out of existence. Still, elsewhere, a Night Club is to be found, and, in another chapter, you shall see one. It is said, at the time this chapter is written, to be the only one left in the town. CHAPTER Xli A SATURDAY NIGHT WITH THE " SAVAGES" " I am given to understand that your qualifications are that you must belong to literature and art, and also that you must be good fellows." — His Majesty the King (when Prince of Wales) in 1882. It is just about tweuty years ago since His Majesty, then Prince of Wales, uttered the words which stand at the head of this chapter, in a speech addressed to the assembled members of the Savage Club at one of their famous Saturday Night dinners. And the qualifications attaching to membership in the club are the same to-day as at that time, though the club itself has changed its character to a large extent since its first estab- lishment. There is no more celebrated club in Past and present. its way than the Savage. To it have belonged a great many eminent men, and it still has on its roll a large number of distinguished names. In the beginning of its history the Savage was (to quote from one of its members) " a small strip of that charming land of Bohe- mia," but though it still strives to cling to the ancient ways, it is undoubtedly a good deal less Bohemian than it used to be. Some one said of it the other day that it 174 WITH THE "SAVAGES" 175 now contained more Respectabilities than Savages. In- deed, at the hmch-hour, seated at table, there may be seen ahnost any day, bar Saturdays and Sundays, half a dozen (or more) editors of the great London papers, and every one knows that there is no one more respectable in the 'varsal world than the editor of a great London journal. To the primitive Savages these editors seated in their club would have been the saddest of spectacles. Mr. Harry Furniss in his entertaining Confessions of a Caricaturist, recently published, and a former member of the Savage, says : " The Savage Club is a remnant of Bohemian London. It was started at a period when art. literature, and the drama were at their lowest ebb — in the ' good old days' when artists wore seedy velveteen coats, smoked clays, and generally had their works of art exhibited in pawnbrokers' windows; when journalists were paid at the same rate and received the same treatment as office-boys; and when "^^^^ P/'-^i'^e •^ Savages. actors commanded as many shillings a week as they do pounds at present. This typical trio now exists onl)- in the imagination of the lady-novelist. When first the little band of Savages met. they smoked their calu- mets over a public-house in the vicinity of Drury Lane, in a room with a sanded floor; a chop and a pint of ale was their fare, and good fellowship atoned for lack of funds. The brothers Brough, Andrew Halliday. Tom Robertson, and other clever men were the original Say- 176 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON ag'es, and the latter {sic) in one of his charming pieces made capital out of an incident at the club. One member asks another for a few shillings. ' Very sorr)^ old chap, I haven't got it, but I'll ask Smith !' Smith replies. ' Not a cent myself, but I'll ask Brown.' Brown asks Robin- son, and so on until a Croesus is found with five shillings in his pocket, which he is only too willing to lend. But this true Bohemianism is as dead as Queen Anne, and the Savages now live merely on the traditions of the past." So writes Mr. Furniss, though later in the same chap- ter he is kind enough to admit that " no doubt some excellent men and good fellows are still in the Savage wigwam." He talks of now finding in the Garrick Club the desired element in its maturity, that is, the true Bohe- mian character " the Savage endeavoured at that time to emulate." But even the Garrick at midnight, w'hen it is at its most Bohemian pitch — during the day-time it is as solidly conventional as any place in town — is not what it was. It is a Bohemia in evening-dress ! Fancy a Bohe- mia in evening-dress ! The truth is that there The '^ vanished is vcry little genuine Bohemianism in London ; Bohemians. and Mr. Furniss to the contrary notwithstand- ing, there is more of the real thing to be found surviving at the Savage than at the Garrick. Still, there is no great amount of it there either. More extensive remains, so to speak, of the old Bohemianism may be viewed at one or two of the smaller clubs, such as the Yorick. But the fact WITH THE "SAVAGES" 177 is that tlie clublands of literature, art, and the drama are, for much the most part, peopled with i)rosper()US men who, if the}' do not fare sumptuously ever^• dax', li\e in a state of a continuous series of " square meals" — a state which would ha\e heen esteemed h}' the old Bohemians one of monumental luxur}-. As a writer on this subject lias well remarked : " The poor man of genius— often drunken, dirty, and disreputable — is wellnigh as extinct as the dodo." How the Savage came to get its name is not (juite clear. Sala always declared that the name was taken in mere fun — the idea l)eing largely assisted by the fact that the club was presented with some old tomahawks and mocas- sins, a collection of spear-heads and wanlpum-belts, and a scalp ! Be this as it ma}', it is certainly the case that " Lo. the poor Indian," otherwise the North American abori_i;;'//t\ is much in evidence not sava^e^ only in the decorations of the club itself, but also on those elaborate menus which make their appear- ance on the occasion of the Saturday Night dinners — to one of which you shall presently go. On the walls of the clul) are to be seen a large number of savage weapons and trophies, and there is at least a grain of truth in the legend that the chairman keeps his fellow Savas'es in order witli a " ""reat hip" club." For the gavel or mallet (it isn't a mallet, but no word more appro- priate suggests itself) with which the chair calls atten- 12 178 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON tion to its behests is undoubtedly a genuinely savage; article — quite literally, it is a savage club. Now, when " poor Lo" was engaged in an earnest argument with a rival, he did not use a club at all; the use of such a A\c:/^y. 59UPS Mi^oiii^ic ^(.h Turtle PiLLfTJop ScLejilaCAPni^AL. t/^TREE PATTIES OF C«icKe/<( L ^^nn joi/vY fVK QOABTCR or UnB r«n,aro Mid ■ SpimcJi cKnt PARTRIDGE'S CMID> SVC E'er 5 -^.;<^. cAiAiR . y weapon would probably have damaged the scalp of his opponent, and that was a thing which Lo's Feeling for the Beautiful did not permit. So, 'tis evident that while the Savasfes of London regard the North American WITH THE " SAVAGES" 179 Hiavvathas as their prototypes, they yet hold other savages in reverence. The chil)-house is on Adelphi Terrace, overlooking the ri\er. And, of conrse, }"on \\onl(l like to take a peep at the rooms hefore yon sit do\\'n to dinner with vonr hosts. The dining-room, an apartment of some size, has in it a piece of fnrnitnre yon don't often see in dining- rooms, and that is a grand piano. The fact that it is here at once snggests that the Savage hreast is soothed — well, as savage hreasts are nnderstood to l)e socjthed all the world over. On the walls are a great manv pic- tnres, the work of well-known artists. Across a hallway is a snpper-room, and in it }'ou will see on the walls a collection of the fancifnl menns, done hv members of the clnh. of l)ygone Saturday dinners. These menus are not the least interesting things in the club. On them there are portraits oi the Savage chief n^emfs^ in tlie chair, (_)f some of the more prominent of his supporters, and of the guests, on the particular evening. To refresh }'our memory of these menus one of them is reproduced here. Extremely contagious to both dining-room and supper-room is a liquid-refresh- ment bar, and here Savage hospitalit}' will not be satisfied unless }-ou get outside of a more or less considerable quantitv of fire-water, ^'ou \vill, of course, remember that the consumption of fire-water has notoriousl}' always been a marked characteristic of savage (small s, i8o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON please, printer — so as to prevent any misunderstanding) life. Upstairs are the library, billiard-room, and card- room. You really have no business to glance into the library — it is the den specially reserved in the club for Savages. But if you do happen accidentally, as you might put it, to look in, you may behold evidence that the historic " savage roar" is not unheard in these parts; in other words, you will see an Appeal to Members not to make quite so much noise as it seemed they had done on some previous occasion ; there may be even more than one such pathetic Appeal. And now you sneak out of this savage lair into the billiard-room, where is a capital table; and then into the card-room, in which is a table whose shape may hint to you that these gentle Savages are familiar with " seeing" and " raising" other things besides " hair," but doubtless in a strictly " lim- ited" manner. And now you descend into the dining-room, where the feast is spread. Along the end of the room next the river runs a long table: in its centre is your Savage host, right and left of him are the guests of the evening. At right angles to the " high table" are the other tables, and if the occasion is a big one, they are some- Irsavagls"' ^^'hat apt to bc morc than a bit crowded. You look around, and you observe you are in very excellent company. The dinner itself is modest enough, but it too is excellent — soup, fish, entree, joint, remove, WITH THE "SAVAGES" 183 sweets, ices. And all the time the room is in such a buzz ! The hum of talk, the cackle of lang'hter, the splutter of corks, the whole agreeable if not ideally beautiful human business of eating and drinking, fill the place with what the Scottish paraphrase calls " a joyful noise." Dinner over, the chairman pounds three times (the mystic Savage number) on a table with the savage club here- inbefore mentioned, toasts the King, and allows the 1 84 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON assembled braves to puff the Pipe of Peace. And next succeed more talk, more laughter, more noise — which, as might be expected, has now an appropriately " full" tone. Presently, the club again is hammered on the table, and the chairman rises to propose the health of the guest -Tne. M^R-^e-^T ko - pip Pip pit - Por^e^ or guests of the evening — there are generally several. The guests of the Savages are always those who have " done something." It hardly matters, short of burg- lary, what the something is, for the hospitality of the WTTII THE "SAVAGES" i8s club is of the most catholic and tolerant character. So the Savages have welcomed with fit entertainment great (and not so great — for everybody can't be great) folks of evcr\- kind — soldiers, sailors, artists, an- ^1 , • • . 1 , Guests of the thors, actors, mnsicians, war-correspondents, savages a!id such lesser lights as princes, and dukes, and members of Parliament. The guests are all of the male persuasion, and the Sa\'ages themselves leave be- hind them their scjuaws in their wigwams in the wilds of Kensington and Clapham. This contempt for women- kind, how^ever, is an ancient, ineradicable " note" of your true savage. On the whole, the Savages of Adelphi i86 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON Terrace are not over-fond of listening to long or many speeches. Is there some subtle connection between this fact and the absence of the fair? Nay, nay, it cannot be! Yet — yet — you donno! As a rule, at these dinners there are either no speeches, or else they are " cut very short." But to every rule there are exceptions, and when a really bright man talks, why then really bright men are very glad to listen to him, unless, as sometimes un- fortunately happens even in the best-regulated families, they happen to want to talk too. Now, the want-to-talk is the worst-felt want of life, and the Savages feel it as strongly as most, but they set their faces like Stoics against giving in to it. Therefore is the pow-wow cur- tailed. At most, " few and short" is the motto. But the chairman is speaking. His remarks are of the humorous variety, and you will be surprised how little sad they make you. As a general thing there is nothing more depressing than a humorous speech, noth- insf duller. But dulness is at a tremendous discount among the Savages, and the chairman is well aware of it. And so he says only a few words, more or less com- plimentary (if he can make them less complimentary, but without offence, so much the more will Toasting ^^ | relished ) to the guest or guests of guests. - / & & the club, and he tells a few stories. Lord Roseberry, who among other things is a wit, once defined memory as the feeling which steals over us when we WITH THE "SAVAGES" 187 listen tt) the original stories of our friends. And it may be that vour memory will be touched by the chairman's stories, but more likely than not it won't. Mere is a savage, a genuinely savage story, which was heard on one ctf these occasions — that on which the guests of the club were several of the war-correspondents who had won distinction in South Africa. After having said a lot of nice sugary things, he pro- ceeded to add the salt of humorous depreciation. He remarks that the main elements in the make-up of a war-correspondent are his facility for spending money, and his difficulty in accounting to his " proprietors" for it, " A short wa}' with war-correspondents," . 1111 J. ' < < A Savage he says, shcuild be: no accounts, no money. savage story. Then he illustrates. " Once upon a time," he - continues, " a new missionary Bishop, with very strict ideas, went out to a diocese in savage parts, in succes- sion to a Bishop who had been somewhat lax. The new Bishop saw that his flock smoked, drank, ate, wived, to excess. Sad at heart but resolved to show them that they must ' change all that,' he determined that tobacco, gin. feasting, and polygamy must go. He called the chief to him, and told him what was in his (the Bishop's) mind. 'What!' exclaimed the chief; 'no more bacca !' ' No/ replied the Bishop firmly. ' \\diat !' said the chief; 'no more square-face!' 'No,' answered the Bishop .sternly. ' XMiat ! no more fat pig sing-song!' 'No,' i88 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON cried the Bishop, with decision. ' What !' shouted the chief; 'no more than one wife!' 'No,' returned the Bishop, very peremptorily. The chief looked at the Bishop, but the Bishop showed no signs of relenting; his fiat had gone forth. ' What!' said the chief angrily; ' no more bacca, no more square-face, no more fat pig sing-song, no more than one wife!' 'No,' said the Bishop. ' Then,' decided the chief, ' no more alleluia!' " SAVAGE CLUB CONCERT. Yells of delighted laughter greet the chairman's story — none laughing more consumedly than the war-corre- spondents themselves. After the chairman come the responses of the guests, who of course catch the Savage ear, but may not always catch the Savage heart ; some- times they catch something else. As, for example. Not WITH THE "SAVAGES" 189 long ago a young member of Parliament, who is un- questionably a ver\- clever fellow, but who unluckily for himself made the mistake of posing as A Superior Per- son, in which role he read the assembled Savages a little essay on English, was gravely thanked for the " fifth- form" lecture he had been good enough to deliver. The same member, a moment earlier, reduced a certain noble duke to the common level by reminding him that at school he had been called " Grease-pot." After the speeches comes the serious business of the evening, which takes the form of an improvised enter- tainment contributed con auiorc by the Savages. It is a smoking-concert of a superior sort. And now you will listen to some of the cleverest entertainers of the town, that is to say, of the world. You will perhaps hear a tenor tell you once again that the Miller's Daughter has grown so dear, and, sung like that, she grows dearer every trip. Then will follow a recitation, a piece of declamation, an amusing sketch, a funny story; then another song — perhaps in a thunderous, immensely patriotic bass. Next an artist will draw a lightning picture — more probably a dozen of them, taking for his subjects, it may be, the chair- s^lHH^ man, the guests of the evening, or some well- known Savages. These portraits are almost certainly to l)e of the species yclept caricatures, but caricatures or not, they are sure to be good. After the pictures there I90 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON may come an original poem, sure to be funny, or another song, humorous or sentimental, as the case may be. Or something on the piano, or on the violin, also as the case may be. And then you may hear some plain truths about a certain Dr. Samuel Johnson from his friend Boswell — which may remind you of some " plain truths" re- cently put forth by a living author with respect to a dead one. And so the evening goes on, quickl}-, trippingly, entertainingly — this is one of the entertainments that do entertain. Between eleven and twelve the assembly begins to thin, as the Savages go off to wigwam and squaw and papooses. By midnight it is pretty well all over. CHAPTER XIII WITH THE " eccentrics" 3 A.M. " Come along to the Eccentric for a bit of supper."— Any Member. The invitation at the head of this chapter has been given you. Perhaps you have never entered the hos- pitable doors of the Eccentric Club, but you have heard about it, and the very name itself piques your curiosity. Besides, it is now nearly three o'clock, and you are raven- ous. Why you should be up so late ( or' early ) is your own affair, and you are not called upon to incriminate yourself. But the invitation is extended, and you gladly accept it. The rooms of the club are iii Shaftesbury Avenue, not far from Piccadilly Circus, and hither you hie with the friendl}- member whose guest you are to be. En route you will probably make Eccentrics^? incjuiry as to how the club comes by its sug- gestive appellation, and you hear, with some little natural disappointment it may be, that the only eccentric thing about the club is its name. But has the club no special features? you ask; and then you hear that it has at any rate one peculiarity, and this peculiarity consists in certain of the members from time to time making up 191 192 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON " surprise" theatre-parties. A furniture van, for choice, is hired, the " surprisers" get into it, drive off to the particular theatre selected for the visit, and then descend upon that theatre in force and capture the stalls (with the benevolent consent of the management or without it). There are not a few theatrical managers who are quite willing, strange as it may appear, to be Eccentri- cised in this manner — more especially as the raiders pay, pay, pay. Arrived at the entrance of the club, you go in from the street, now silent and deserted save for one or two wandering shadows, and ascend a flight of stairs, the walls of the stairway being decorated with large photo- graphs of celebrities. You then walk into a handsome room — the smoke-room and general talk-room of the place. A big canvas by " P.A.L." (Paleologue) imme- diately takes your eye — it is the only picture in the room. Its subject is mythological — a group of nymphs and satyrs having a high old time, in a climate, so to speak, where even the fig-leaf was considered too pronounced a garment for really well-dressed people. At The smoking- one sidc of the painting is a grand piano, and room. on it are books of cuttings, menus, and other memorabilia. In another place you are sure to notice a programme of a theatrical entertainment given by the " Lambs" of New York, a club whose members are also, by arrangement, members of the Eccentric, and vice WITH THE " ECCENTRICS" 193 z'crsa. Tlie piece given on that occasion was " His Cliristnias Alimony," and the programme bears the signatures of a great many distinguished " Lambs," foremost amongst them being tliat of Mr. Nat Good- win. The badge of the Eccentric is a stuffed owl, from whose mouth there depends a clock whereon appear the figures " Nil" and " IIII." And vou will see the badge 13 194 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON repeated in the pattern of the carpet on the floor. About this clock more presently. But your host has ordered supper for you, and you proceed into the dining-room, which is in several respects one of the most striking sights in London. To begin with, the walls are covered with paintings and " things," such as old picturesque weapons and the like. On the cross-piece of the doorway through which you have just come in is the verse — " O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us !" (And you think it wouldn't be a bad idea if these lines were placed above the doorposts of every club smoking- room you know.) In one corner of the room is the bar, and the barmen are kept pretty busy, for though it is three in the morning there are plenty of members about. And on the walls at the same side of the room are a series of clever portraits of some of the better-known Eccentrics, done by Julius Price, the heads being life- size, the bodies dwarfed. Then you look at the other pictures. There, flanking both sides of one dk.!ng-room. °^ ^^"^^ doors, are Dudley Hardys ; beside one of them is a Ludovic — " St. Eccentricus and the Temptation" (an Eccentric rendering of the St. An- tony business) ; a little further along is a " Nocturne in Blue and Silver" ; near it is what might be called WITH THE " ECCENTRICS" 195 "Venus through the Looking-Glass" ; then more pic- tures. \\)U will hardly fail to observe that the ladies in these paintings belong to the period when clothes were at a fa])ulous discount, and Ijargain-sales were still un- in\enled. Ha\-ing gazed on the charms of these nude figures, you look at the clock, the most characteristic piece of furniture about the club. Set in a frame on which is writteii the legend of the Dancing Hours, accompanied by the words — " When time turns torment A Man becomes a Fool," is the famous clock, on whose face there are displayed but two hours, " XH " and " HII," which may serve to suggest to you that the club takes no count of time from midnight till four in the morning. If you look at the sketch of it in this chapter you will see exactly what it is. Well, you have supped — perhaps you have had some l^laf, such as had- dock and poached eggs, for which the club has a particular liking — and there is still half an hour or so before the Eccentric reluctantly closes its doors upon you, 196 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON and your host asks you up to the billiard-room — there's " just time for a game." But when you go upstairs, you find more members up here playing the wee sma' 'oors away. You look on, and have a last drink and a smoke. Here, in this room too, are many portraits of distin- guished people — not necessarily are they all members of the club, but they are all of men who have won the great diploma — they have all " done something." Eccentrics. Your host tells you meanwhile something about the members, mentioning w-ell-known actors, ar- tists, dramatists, financiers, and you can see for your- self from the predominant type of face, that the last- named seem to be in something of a majority. You have heard of that strangely beautiful creature called the " Oof Bird," and you conclude without much hesitation that he must be very much like an owl, with a clock hanging out of his beak, whereon (on the clock, not the beak) is marked " XII " and " IIII." An Eccentric bird, in fact. But now it is time to go, and you sally forth into the street. CHAPTER XIV " LA VIE DE BOHEMe" "... And then vogue la gaVere! and back again to Bohemia, dear Bohemia and all its joys. . . ."— Du Maurier, Trilby. Shakespeare gave " Bohemia" a sea-coast; it would he nearly as incorrect to say that London nowadays has within it a Bohemia. In former times there was some- tliing of the sort in Chelsea, hut London has never had a Bohemia, well delimited and recognised as such, in the same sense that Paris has, or perhaps rather had, one in tlie " Latin Quarter." Not that London has ever lacked Bohemians in plenty, but it has had no real Latin Quar- ter. Xo English author can ever write about a London Bohemia as, for instance, Du Maurier wrote No London of the Paris Bohemia. In Trilby he speaks of Latin 1111 " Quarter. those who only look upon the good old Quar- lier Latin (now no more to speak of) as a verv low, common, vulgar quarter indeed, deservedly swept away, wliere ' misters the students' (shocking bounders and cads ) had nothing better to do, day and night, than mount up to a horrid place called the thatched house — la chaii- mU'rc — 199 200 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON ' Pour y dancer le cancan Ou le Robert Macaire — Tou jours — ton jours — tou jours — La nuit comme le jour . . . Et youp ! youp ! youp ! Tra la la la la . . .la la la!'" Well, London has no " good old Quartier Latin." In a kind of a way the Soho district may be called a Latin Quarter of London, but in quite another sense from that used in connection with Paris. For one thing, the system of art-teaching in England is very different from that wdiich prevails in France. In the latter country, or rather in Paris, for in art Paris is France, as it is in so many other things, " misters the students" study and work in the ateliers of the great painters as pupils or disciples, w'hereas in England they do nothing of the dubs°" ^''^ s*^'"^' ^^^ study and work more or less indepen- dently of the recognised Masters, such as the Academicians and the like. On the other hand, the stu- dents and the younger artists who ha\'e got beyond the student stage, and some of the older men too, have banded themselves into clubs for the purposes of mutual criticism, encouragement, assistance, and sympathy, the practical side being kept well to the fore. There are some art clubs which are purely social. And, again, most of the greater painters are members of clubs that have nothing to do with art. But there are two or three clubs which are de- voted solely to art, by which here is meant the Art of "LA VIE DE BOHEME" 201 Painting. In this chapter }-cm are invited to take a look at two of these clubs, the Langham and the London Sketch Clubs. What may be styled their Night Side is one of the most attractive phases of London. The Langliam, which has its rooms in a little street w ithin a stone's throw of the Langham Hotel, is the older club ; indeed, it is the parent of the other. It got to be somewhat overcrowded, and threw Lan-iinr off a colony, as it were, which presently set up business for itself as the London Sketch Club. To the Langham have belonged (and still belong) some of the best-known painters of the day — you will see them on those occasions when the club has its reunions, which generally take the shape of the smoking-concert that is so common a feature of the Night Side of London. But, for the most part, it is a considerable number of the younger men, who are following in the footsteps of their elders, some very near and others, of course, at some dis- tance, who use the Langham, and the same is true of the London Sketch Club. Two features both clubs have in common : one is, as might be expected, they are closed as soon as work can be done in the open air ; and the other is that each, during the winter season, devotes one even- ing each week for exactly two hours to painting two sub- jects — of which more anon. In fact, these two-hour sketches (naturally one doesn't imagine pictures can be styled " finished" that have takeri only two hours' work) 202 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON are the sole feature of the London Sketch Club. At the Lang-ham, however, there is on the other evenings of the week painting from life-models. In one features ^^ ^^^^ rooms is the " model-throne," and round it is arranged a kind of gallery, with head- lights, for the men to paint at. If you take a glance about you, you will see the rooms are something of the quaint- est, with plenty of artist properties to be seen. Work over for the evening, the artists compare notes — a pro- cess which can hardly be otherwise than valuable. They then have some supper, to a running accompaniment, you will readily believe, of badinage and sportive remark. The artist who is illustrating this book is a member of the London Sketch Club, and you shall now go with him to it, and have a peep at one of those two-hour sklt'cher'^ sketching tournaments of friendliest competi- tion which are the specialty of this institution. Their rooms are in Bond Street at the Modern Gallery, and they meet every Friday evening while the winter season lasts. Generally there is a choice of two subjects, a landscape subject and a figure subject, so as to give the landscape-men and the figure-men an equal opportunity. One or two artists — a man like Dudley Hardy, for ex- ample — will one evening select a landscape theme, on another a figure subject. The former may be *' The Land- was broad and fair to see," while the latter may perhaps be " After the Ball." The artists begin work (" to slop "LA \'1E DE BOHEME" 203 colour," in llie words of the candid friend) at seven o'clock ; at nine tlie whistle is blown, and the brushes are thrown dow n. Tlien there succeeds a cjuarter of an hour of frank but friendly criticism. Each artist has his own idea how the subject set is to be treated and hence there are as many ways of treating it as there are artists. For instance, take the subject " After the Call." Mr. Jack Hassall's idea of it will be. you may suppose, an old gentleman sound asleep in a chair, his head drop- ping on to his crumpled shirt-front — there is a certain suggestion of the old chap having partaken of the ball supper not wisely but too well. Mr. ^^^J^ Robert Saul)er will present the figure of a dainty girl, a little bit tired perhaps, but not too tired to studv her programme with interest as she recalls the men who ha\-e been her partners. Mr. Cecil Aldin will show us a match at polo, where men are " after the ball" in a \erx different sense from that given to the phrase by the two foregoing painters. Mr. Starr-Wood will, you may be sure, have a humorous concept of the subject. Mr. Lance Thackeray will as certainly delight you with some- thing pretty. Mr. Tom Browne, who is acting in this case as your guide, philosopher, and friend in a double sense, will undoubtedly have given the subject a touch of that broadly human humour for which he is famous. Likely enough, he will show up a realistic sketch of a most powerful, not to say brutal, footballer, in full stride 204 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON " after the ball." And so on. And now you have mas- tered the feature of the Sketch Club, so far as its work- ing side is concerned. x'\nd when the cjuarter of an hour's criticism (not at all a mauvais qiiatre heure!) is over, the members sit down to supper at a long table, at which they again, to use the classic terms, " distinguish themselves." You see the whole thing is a happy combination of work and play. At both the Langham and the London Sketch Clubs there is no little jollity. Larks, frolics, jokes, some of them of the practical variety, tricks, and genial buffoon- eries are " frecjuent and free" amongst their members, as might be anticipated from the fact that so many of them are young men — some of them are " very Bohemians. youug indeed." But what an infection of good spirits, what a contagion of gay and genuine camaraderie, characterise them all ! Here, at all events, are to be found some true Bohemians. For Bo- hemia is not the name of a country, or a place, or even of a " quarter," but is that of a condition, a state of mind and heart, the outward expression of a temperament which revels in the joy of life. Yet it must be confessed that there is less of the Bohemian in the art-life of Lon- don than there used to be. The artist has become a member of the " respectable" classes ; he is in " society" — if he wishes to be in it, and he generally chooses to be so. True, the English artist never was of the Murger "LA VIE DE BOHfeME" 205 type. If you have read Stevenson's novel, The Wrecker, you may remember how Loudoun Dodd speaks of being " a Httle Murger-mad in the Latin Quarter." And he sjoes on to sav. " I lool MAY 2 H 1902 1 COPY DEL. TO CAT. OIV. MAY 28 ia02