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THE LONDON SPY 
 THOMAS BURKE 
 
By Thomas Burke 
 
 The London Spy: 
 
 A BOOK or TOWN TBAYELS 
 
 LiMEHOusE Nights: 
 
 TALES or CHINATOWN 
 
 More Limehouse Nights 
 
 TwiNKLETOES 
 
 Nights in Town: 
 
 a london autobiography 
 
 London Lamps: 
 
 a book of songs 
 
 Out and About: 
 
 MORE nights IN TOWN 
 
 The Song Book of Quong Lee of 
 
 Limehouse 
 
 The Outer Circle : 
 
 rambles in remote LONDON 
 
THE LONDON SPY 
 
 A Book of Town Travels 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS BURKE 
 
 AtJTHOE OF "LIMEHOUSE NIGHTS," "tHE OUTER 
 CtBCLE," ETC. 
 
 NEW ^^SP YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
^^'Ia* 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 V> • 
 
 
 THE LONDON SPY. II 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 m20 72 
 
 C1A692471 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I In the Thick of It 9 
 
 II In the Streets of Film-Land ... 58 
 
 III In the Streets of Rich Men ... 83 
 
 IV In the Streets of the Simple . . .113 
 V In the Shops and the Markets . .140 
 
 VI In the Streets of Cyprus-on-Thames . 167 
 
 VII In the Streets of Good Company . .179 
 
 VIII In the Street Called Queer . . . 214 
 
 IX In the Streets of the Far East . . 238 
 
 X In the Street of Beautiful Children . 256 
 
 XI In the Streets of Don't-Care . . . 292 
 
THE LONDON SPY 
 
THE LONDON SPY 
 
 IN THE THICK OF IT 
 
 I HOPE the title of this book will not mislead 
 you. I have no shocking revelations with which 
 to humour you ; no exclusive dinner-table confessions 
 to disclose; only a few little pictures of the streets to 
 ofifer you, pictures snapped as we wander among the 
 dim alleys or mix with the thickest crowd, watching 
 the road-men at work in the Strand, staring up at 
 trapeze artists repairing telephone wires, or on the 
 embankment watching the barges go by. . . . That 
 sort of spying. . . . 
 
 Of all our poets who have attempted in one way 
 or another to celebrate London in song, none of the 
 illustrious hundreds, from William Dunbar onward, 
 has, I think, got so near the heart of the matter 
 as that obscure lyrist, who sang discordantly, 
 some fifteen years ago, to the mouth-organ rather 
 than the lyre. How does the doggerel go? 
 
 Let's all go down the Strand ! 
 ('Ave a banana!) 
 
 Let's all go down the Strand! 
 
 I'll be leader, you can march behind, 
 
 Come with me and see what we can find. . . . 
 
10 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 The very London, I think. Not the complete 
 London : only a tiny facet of a many-sided stone ; but 
 large enough to throw up a flash that signals London 
 to the remote corners of the world, as Tipperary 
 once signalled England, The Strand is by no means 
 the gayest street in London. To-day, it is rather 
 business-like. There is none of the caddish larking 
 of years ago : it is no longer the playground of 
 rich ruffians from the Army and Universities. But 
 Its business is the business of pleasure, and its fund 
 of delight shows no sign of weakening. What It 
 wants in sparkle is supplied by exuberance, and the 
 banana belongs to It. The banana, a somewhat 
 solemn fruit, was made, by this song, one of that 
 facetious company of tripe, cheese, kippers, lodgers, 
 and the clown's string of sausages : symbols of 
 Cockaigne. 
 
 And that's what I've been after — the London 
 banana, in its haunts and humours. 
 
 For every Cockney London has a personal and 
 secret significance. Each of us sees It from a differ- 
 ent angle. In each of us it evokes differing emo- 
 tions, intimate and unutterable moods. But I think 
 Everyman's London holds moving crowds, lights 
 glaring or glittering or glowing, profuse shop-win- 
 dows, street-markets, dim alleys, long roads of dark 
 houses running to mysterious ends, the Strand, Pic- 
 cadilly Circus, and the banana. For we have all, 
 once at least, been down the Strand in what I may call 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 11 
 
 the banana mood. We have each, at some time, 
 made one of nineteen jolly good boys. The 
 hitiddley-hi-ti spirit has a knack of seizing you with- 
 out warning in London, when the shops are open, 
 and the boys and the girls are out, and the 'buses 
 glide and impetuous taxis dart and double, and 
 there's a "something" in the air — -a taste of Spring 
 or the bite of frost. Then the joy of the streets 
 comes upon you, and you are in tune with the crowd. 
 You don't care if it snows. You're ready to change 
 hats with anybody. 
 
 This mood gives no warning of its approach. It 
 may come upon you before lunch as hotly as after 
 dinner. It may attack you in Grosvenor Square as 
 successfully as in the Strand; in Stratford Broad- 
 way or Cromwell Road; in Soho or Wigmore Street. 
 Let there be three of you, good wanderers or loung- 
 ers, and a fine evening (if you are young, a wet even- 
 ing will not extinguish your squibs and crackers) , and 
 the spirit of the banana will get you if you don't 
 watch out. For joy of London is no matter of liber- 
 ties or restrictions, of lights and drinks and suppers 
 and late hours. It is within you and the streets, al- 
 ways; and my London mornings and afternoons are 
 as crowded with happy hazards as Piccadilly Circus 
 at seven o'clock In the evening. Although the 
 authorities treat the citizens of London as the author- 
 ities of Oxford treat the schoolboys under their 
 charge, they can't confiscate my tuck-box of London 
 
12 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Delight. They wouldn't know where to look for it. 
 
 London's banana is always waiting to be eaten. 
 At all hours I may enjoy curious encounters, the urge 
 of the crowd, the glow and rustle of girls; glamorous 
 evenings and deep-sounding midnights. The deli- 
 cate shade and shimmer of Green Park at eleven 
 in the morning, the deep-lunged mid-day laughter of 
 Charing Cross, the opulent lights of the Strand at 
 dusk — in each of these is essence of London, free to 
 all. 
 
 Let us go out then, and mix with the harsh splen- 
 dours of the day, and find peace on the suspended 
 breath of midnight. William Monk and I will be 
 leaders and you can march behind. 
 
 Monk is a good man to know. He is the perfect 
 town companion. He has the right London spirit. 
 He is ready to go "tatts" at any time, anywhere. 
 He doesn't ask what the occasion is, or where we 
 are going now: He is content to go. Plan or 
 programme he detests. Never need you ask him 
 what he would like to do. He will exchange hats 
 in Sloane Street or philosophise in Newington Butts. 
 He will lunch you at Prince's or join you at a Good 
 Pull Up for Carmen. He loves to idle in out-of- 
 the-way corners, wherever his feet may carry him; 
 holding, as all right-thinking people hold, that leisure 
 is the true life, and that Britons never were made 
 to be slaves of the vice of work. He is as happy 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 13 
 
 and playful In Old Ford as In Cambridge Circus ; at 
 Pentonville Road as at Charing Cross or The Mall. 
 For him, "being out" among men Is sufficient holi- 
 day; he asks no dressing or added grace; and being 
 out with him, though he Is by many years my senior, 
 Is like being out with a wide-eyed nephew, avid of 
 excitement. To all the common Incidents and specta- 
 cles of the London day he brings an appetite. Shops 
 and advertisement hoardings, queer characters and 
 the amiable eccentricities of the plain man amuse and 
 enchant him. His Immediate radius is Illumined by 
 large laughter, and his company floats like an island 
 of felicity through the beating sea of the pre-occu- 
 pied crowd. 
 
 As a playfellow of the pavements he is without 
 blemish. If I except his enthusiasm for the novels of 
 Edgar Saltus. (There I cannot meet him, for I have 
 never read Edgar Saltus.) Often have he and I 
 paced twenty streeted miles of London, moving here 
 and there as the mood led us, caring not a monkey's 
 caress where the hours found us or what the weather 
 did to us, but, possessed by London, wandering, gos- 
 siping, or holding rich silences. 
 
 Such a day was yesterday. We did nothing worth 
 remarking. We had, as they say, nothing to show 
 for It, and I can make no claims for It. 
 
 We left home at ten o'clock, the respectable hour, 
 and proceeded leisurely to town. For these morn- 
 ing hours the avenues of work best suit the mood, 
 
14 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 for there is no more stimulating and gratulatory 
 pastime than that of standing in that sterile region 
 East of St. Paul's and West of Aldgate Pump, 
 watching men with ten times our income moving 
 actively hither and thither in zealous busy-ness. 
 They rush or plod, with furrowed brow, pre-occu- 
 pied, while we, whose joint incomes would barely 
 pay the income-tax of one of them, may be excused 
 some feeling of relish in indulging our fancy and 
 turning this way or that, wherever a corner invites 
 to a dog-fight, a horse down, or a Punch and Judy 
 show. 
 
 For we also were once of the City, junior clerks, 
 and, had we stayed there, might now be like one 
 of these, in a position of command, with a swollen 
 salary and a circumscribed leisure, a cave-dweller, 
 working and eating below the earth's surface. We 
 might have followed the example of those well- 
 groomed young clerks in the advertisement pictures, 
 who take "courses" in business proficiency and mind 
 training, and are summoned, six weeks after their 
 first lesson, to the Board Room (chilly words!) 
 and given the secretaryship of the company. We 
 might now be bobbing in and out of the City every 
 day like a bally shuttle — Surrey-City, City-Surrey, 
 Surrey-City. As it is, we buy our bananas where 
 we will, and choose the most ripe, far beyond the 
 Surrey-City section; and while the good hard-work- 
 ing citizens disappear into doorways and go upstairs 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 15 
 
 or below^ to their offices, and earn their country cot- 
 tages and their motor-cars and cigars, we turn from 
 Cheapside Into Newgate Street, and so to Holborn 
 and Kingsway and the Strand. 
 
 Wet day or fine, Spring or Winter, In the candid 
 sunlight or the pensive rain, the morning streets of 
 London carry always full measure of pleasing as- 
 pects. There Is the crowd and there are shop- 
 windows. There are Mr. Gamage's windows, with 
 their marvellous riot of mechanical contraptions 
 that draws you from the other side of the street. 
 There is Leather Lane with its cheap-Jack stalls. 
 There is Staple Inn, offering moments of contempla- 
 tion, and Mr. Glalsher's "remainder" bookshop. 
 There is the great bald-faced boulevard of Kings- 
 way. There Is the full charactered music of the 
 Strand; and minute by minute the sweet spell of 
 sky and mist dressing crude buildings with grace, 
 and the proud procession of traffic. 
 
 Though I best love London in Autumn and 
 mid-Winter, she wears her peculiar beauty in the 
 Spring; and I find that season as generous to her 
 as to the fields and lanes that await Its coming for 
 release from Winter's bondage. To each It lends 
 fresh beauty. To the woods and lanes, while the 
 first green Is barely upon them, comes the swallow, 
 marking the blank sky with wayward curves and 
 angles. The hills show green and blue, with here 
 and there a vivid acre of gold. About the lanes the 
 
16 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 hawthorn leans, and the giant beeches transmute the 
 light to their own unearthly beauty. Cottage doors 
 are newly opened to the air, and the good gossips 
 come out to the porches and talk of the prospect of 
 the fruit crops. In every garden the boughs of 
 cherry and pear are putting forth bright shoots 
 against the flecked blue of the sky, and winged 
 creatures are busy in their lazy way about the hedge- 
 row. It is the time of Germinal; and green, the 
 colour of awakening, has conquered the brown of 
 Winter-time decay. Deep in the woods primrose and 
 anemone are chiming their blue and gold with the hue 
 of last year's leaves, and about the paths at twilight 
 one encounters youth, solitary or in couples. And 
 while the lovers love, the solitaries muse on frag- 
 ments of Herrick or Spenser or Campion, or snatches 
 of Pervigilium Veneris, if they are so fortunate as 
 to hold within their minds those fragile echoes of 
 springtides past. On the upper reaches of the 
 Thames the waters sparkle with a new briUiance. 
 The houseboats are under the decorators, and in 
 the high woods above the river the birds make 
 separate music and communal colour. The golden- 
 footed goddess is walking. The lusty pomp begins. 
 Year by year this miracle is repeated, yet still it 
 moves all men to wonder and revival. They do 
 not accept it as they accept Winter. They marvel 
 anew, and, at the first bland breeze, would, if they 
 were free, be off and away on the roads, not to 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 17 
 
 ride, but to tramp, to saunter, to make casual en- 
 counters at roadside taverns and to make the night's 
 resting-place where the night finds them. 
 
 But for my own part I prefer to meet this miracle 
 in London. I know not where the white road runs, 
 and I'm beggared if I care. I like to let London, 
 transmuted by the random touch of Spring, stir my 
 blood with her new vistas and new aspects. For 
 London, too, is sensible to this spirit of unrest, and 
 turns in its winterly apparel, and listens. The 
 Spring comes more slowly upon us, perhaps, than 
 upon the countryside. We do not suddenly get the 
 first smell of something new in the air, arid follow 
 its delicate trail; but day by day I become aware 
 of an increasing mildness in the air and of a new 
 spirit in the streets, and I begin to debate whether 
 I shall leave my overcoat at home. 
 
 And then one morning, my business or my whims 
 take me through the squares or the parks, and 
 look ! — the trees are alight with buds and busy with 
 birds; and something steals upon me and settles 
 lightly within me, and I become silly and hungry for 
 colour and song; and London feeds me there and 
 then with a revelation of Springtide, and the very 
 trafHc is attuned to my vagrant mood. 
 
 My eyes are opened. My heart sings Foi che 
 sapete ... I note that the girls have packed 
 away their furs and come out in frivolous window- 
 curtains. I see that the painters and upholsterers 
 
18 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 are busy in hotels and on shop-fronts; that Spring 
 suitings are filling the tailors' shops, and that the 
 early sunshine is conspiring with them by betraying 
 the rubbed places of my Dennis Bradleys. Gardeners 
 are busy in the parks and public gardens, bedding 
 out (I think that's what they call it), and all the 
 youth of England is on fire, plying the makers of 
 athletic goods with copious orders. The 'bus con- 
 ductor says assertively that we shall soon 'ave Easter 
 'ere, and old ladies remark to each other, with naive 
 surprise, how the evenings are drawing out, dear. In 
 suburban railway-trains, dusty talk of hard times 
 and political knavery is shelved, and bright hopes 
 are expressed for "my early peas," my "Lady Gays," 
 and "my crocuses." Sage advice Is offered and taken 
 on pruning, slugs, manure, and grass; and eyes shine 
 with the old mild frenzy of the earth. Adam's hobby 
 is the topic; seed catalogues are things that matter; 
 relieved, if at all, by conjectures as to the achieve- 
 ments of Kent, Surrey and Middlesex, on the cricket- 
 field. 
 
 Then I recognise that the Spring has been with 
 us these two weeks, and I throw up my office-window, 
 and the voice of London pours clearly upon my ear 
 with the shock of remembered song. I have heard 
 it through the Winter as a mufiled throbbing, but 
 now the muff Is removed, and we are In close contact. 
 I begin to distinguish its instrumentation — the buzz 
 of the taxis, the hum of the 'buses, and the rumble 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 19 
 
 of horse-traffic, and I recognise that London has 
 other birds than sparrows. Down with substantial 
 curtains ! Throw open doors to the soft morning ! 
 The truant has returned ! 
 
 The season has begun. Lord's and the Oval make 
 signs and promises. The sharrabangs devise new 
 routes and extend the old. Out come the tennis 
 racquet and last year's flannels for anxious Inspec- 
 tion. The People of Importance (who have never 
 been missed) advise the Morning Post of their re- 
 turn from the Mediterranean. Taxi-drivers and 
 'bus-drivers coquette with courtesy, under the in- 
 fluence of water-colour skies and temperate air. 
 Tops and skipping-ropes break out among the chil- 
 dren; the Italianate ice-cream barrows appear, and 
 the greengrocers' shops assume fresh complexions. 
 English violets and primroses appear at the kerbslde, 
 and everywhere, In the poorest alley as In the noble 
 thoroughfare, In Duckett Street, Stepney, as In Bond 
 Street, there's a something about that sets the good 
 folk chirping. 
 
 Old Pugnutt, of Hoxton, Is giving all spare hours 
 to his three square yards of front and six square 
 yards of back garden, fixing and transplanting, mak- 
 ing his windows gay with newly-painted window-boxes 
 and pots of flowering plants. They won't live. Hox- 
 ton air will see to that, and Pugnutt knows It. Why, 
 then, does he do It? Why make this forlorn enter- 
 prise at beautifying Hoxton? Because It's Spring- 
 
20 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 time ; even his poor veins are filled with genial fire, 
 and "something" makes him do it. Here, as in the 
 country, doors are set open to the ardent air, and 
 Mrs. Pugnutt goes into her "cleaning" not perfunc- 
 torily, as in Winter, but with something of a passion; 
 and as the rooms are cleaned, so something of dusti- 
 ness falls from her heart. She and her neighbours 
 no longer hurry past each other, their arms pinched- 
 in under thin shawls, their noses eager for the 
 kitchen fire. They dally at the corner, and under the 
 candid eyes of their playmate the Spring, they smile 
 kindly upon old enemies. 
 
 "What a lovely day, to be sure, Mrs. Pugnutt?" 
 
 "Ah, quite bucks you up to feel the sun, don't it? 
 Things don't seem 'alf so bad in the Spring, do 
 they?" 
 
 So they renew their serviceable philosophy and 
 their old wonder at the warmth and brightness of 
 the sun, and debate in new terms the hardness of 
 the times, and part cheerfully, whatever the occasion, 
 thanking God that they've got a nice fine day for it. 
 
 The day and the day's work go swiftly, and we 
 no longer dash home by Tube, but try for the top 
 of the 'bus; or, if we live not too far afield, we walk 
 home with Angeline through the chill light of the 
 evening. 
 
 These Spring twilights have not the intimate warm 
 serenity of the first Autumn twilights; rather, they 
 are aloof, perturbing. Nature Is in labour, and the 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 21 
 
 lyric light of the day is settled into something 
 strained. Nowhere, I think, not even in a desert of 
 snow, does one suffer the sense of desolation so acute- 
 ly as on a March evening in a side-street, with a 
 lone bird piping to the clouded sky. Life seems colder 
 than a January dawn, sadder than that plain where 
 Childe Roland journeyed. The pulse of things is 
 then at its lowest beat, for it is the long moment of 
 the earth's agony before the sudden rise, the new 
 birth. Yet, though melancholy more profound than 
 the melancholy of Autumn be about us, we are not 
 dismayed: We know its meaning. We know 
 that in the morning we shall have flowers and kind 
 air and frolic skies; and with Angeline we discuss 
 field-path rambles and Saturday and Sunday walks 
 round the more pastoral Home Counties. 
 
 Under the smart sunshine every little lost corner 
 awakes and chirps. Even the morose alleys of the 
 City — Walbrook, Bucklersbury, Budge Row, Loth- 
 bury — shed a little of their dinge and misanthropy, 
 and seek harmony with humanity. The river, from 
 Chelsea to Woolwich, throws back the fresh light 
 in the morning, and never is it so lovely as on a 
 night of Spring under the moon. In the Parks and 
 on the Commons, from Finchley to Wimbledon, 
 from Barking to Ealing, youth is "out to play," and 
 they go to their games like prisoners from cells. 
 A vast increment of energy surges through the city 
 and through its people. Everywhere something is 
 
22 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 doing. The Spring has got into them. Our laugh- 
 ing Lady Greensleeves has kissed them. 
 
 It soon dies down, this sudden burst, and by June, 
 when the hot days begin, there is a perceptible 
 languor in the streets, and men talk of their holidays. 
 But while it lasts it is magnificent. It is a city 
 in full holiday. We are all appetites, and the Spring 
 gives zest to all our doings. We let business stay, 
 and we drink with gusto, not to quench thirst or to 
 warm or to cool ourselves, but for joy of the Spring. 
 We sing old songs, and we make new songs, and 
 London joins in the chorus. Even a 'bus-ride be: 
 comes a holiday event — not organised and decked 
 with White City flam-jams, but an impromptu carni- 
 val of Spring Worship, deep, rich, fluent and com- 
 pelling. The fountains in Trafalgar Square seem 
 charged with effervescence, and break the morning 
 light into a million drops of sunshine. We no longer 
 go about our business with set faces. We are awake. 
 We look about us and upward. After long crouch- 
 ing over Winter fires, we straighten our shoulders 
 gladly. We begin to dawdle and the windows of 
 Mr. Thomas Cook and the railway offices are set 
 out with allurements that give excuse for dawdling. 
 
 The pale oflice-boy ("Sydney's holidays are In Sep- 
 tember" — Miss Vesta Tllley) looks longingly upon 
 them, and lags In his errand; September is half a 
 year away, and already he feels the pull. For him 
 and for me, the exhortation "Spend Easter In the 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 23 
 
 Tyrol" is but a gibe, an aggravation of our vernal 
 unrest. The best that we shall achieve will be a 
 Bank Hohday at Southend or the South Coast; but 
 I warrant that even that brief pilgrimage will ren- 
 der him and me a measure of travel-ecstasy denied 
 to those whose circumstances make them always free 
 of Homburg, Norway or the Rhine. We shall carry 
 the Spring under our waistcoats. 
 
 But if I cannot go to the clime where the Spring 
 is born, there are many little corners of London 
 where I can touch hands with It. In the Winter, I 
 am for the dark warmth of the Slavonic Quarters — 
 Aldgate, Stepney, Spitalfields, St. Luke's — where 
 Winter has a native cousinship; but In the Spring 
 I am called to the nonchalant skies of our Latin 
 Quarters — Soho, Charlotte Street, and Clerkenwell. 
 It is to Clerkenwell and its lazy laughter that I 
 am first called at the earliest taste of soft weather, 
 and thither I make pilgrimage to greet old friends. 
 I lounge down Eyre Street Hill, catching an aro- 
 matic whiff from the hot bright byways of Genoa, 
 and humming L'Addio a Napoli; and at my keyless 
 humming out swings, from his store, Vincento or 
 Alessandro, and I am bidden enter, and a cork Is 
 drawn and we drink a brisk bottle to La Primavera. 
 And Alessandro takes down his guitar and sings some 
 lucid melody of old Naples. 
 
 After an hour In Italy, I take an hour In France, 
 in Frith Street, and take my lunch In Charlotte Street, 
 
24. THE LONDON SPY 
 
 with its Austrian-Swiss atmosphere, its little white 
 cafes and coffee-bars, and its flasks of rude but jocund 
 Chianti, which is very Spring — sharp, rough, but 
 tinct with sunshine. The season demands these 
 things. Steaks from the grill, cuts from the joint, 
 and tankards of beers are an offence to the occasion; 
 the coming of Spring presumes more gracious ob- 
 servance. One must greet the visitor with the cus- 
 toms of the visitor's country, with a little bunch 
 of violets for courtesy, and wine for celebration, 
 and songs under the moon of April. 
 
 Strangely moving are those Spring moonlights In 
 the city. During the day, the Spring Is In your blood. 
 It is expressive; visible and vocal. But under the 
 young moon It creeps to your soul and makes sanc- 
 tuary there, and cleanses you and blesses you. The 
 moon of Winter has its austerity, the moon of 
 Autumn its majesty, the moon of Summer Its glory; 
 but this moon of the child-season — one is hushed and 
 humbled before it as before young virginity. In 
 field or on hill-top, in street or alley or square, the 
 moon of Spring makes the night mad with secret 
 raptures. You may stand in Pimlico under that 
 moonlight, and be shaken out of yourself, and come 
 chastened from Its delicate hauntings. You may get 
 an echo of Its mysteries In Cheapside, and draw 
 refreshment from it on the Embankment. 
 
 For Spring Is the true beginning of the New Year. 
 Then, not In January, do we, old and young, look 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 25 
 
 back and forward, and remember and resolve. It 
 Is then that we desire to go apart and seek self- 
 communion, for this season of the purification of 
 Nature is the season of the purification of man, the 
 season of avowal and renewal, 
 
 'Now love ye to-night who loved never, now ye 
 who have loved, love anew!" 
 
 But I Indulge too much my habit of wandering. 
 Where were we ? 
 
 Oh, yes, In Kingsway, going towards the Strand. 
 In the Strand, we had an encounter. Monk and I ; 
 one that Indicated a morning draught. We took It 
 at Rule's, a place that has blossomed Into a "second 
 period," and become a "place," where the merry 
 old actors meet under the guaidlanship of Mr. Tom 
 Bell. They are the last of the old guard, for the 
 younger school of actors wears now the respectabil- 
 ity of Golder's Green. The ambitious young don't 
 lounge. They are not to be seen in crowded places. 
 They live the quiet life of the bank manager or the 
 merchant. 
 
 But In Rule's, the old style Is met at mid-day, 
 or after the show ; comedians erect, with bent elbow 
 and back-thrown head, tragedians leaning on the bar. 
 Each harks back to the speech of an earlier time, 
 and my-dear-old-boy's the new comer, apparently 
 overjoyed at meeting again. Each persistently begs 
 the other to have It with him; "It's my turn, dear old 
 
26 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 thing!" And always they act; always they talk to 
 their neighbour as though he were at the back of the 
 house, articulating each syllable and opening each 
 sentence with "Dear — old — chap — let — me — tell — 
 you — this. . ." so that one fears to listen lest some 
 secret of high Import, better unspoken, be about to 
 leave their lips. 
 
 They have cascades of talk, but no conversation. 
 Before one man can finish a sentence, the other is 
 off on a new theme. While one is in the middle of 
 a funny story, you may see the other's lips twitch- 
 ing to tell a better one. Always they complain about 
 the times, and always they are friendly to all comers. 
 The star drinks with the chorus gentleman, the be- 
 ginner with the bill-topper; and each congratulates 
 the other on his work, dear old boy ! And truly they 
 are dear old boys. I have heard Stock Exchange 
 men and others in the city use the term, but there It 
 is false in spirit and application; a mere skeleton 
 without flesh or soul. But these are a happy band 
 of brothers, who make of Rule's a large-spirited and 
 democratic club. 
 
 When Mrs. O'Brien (Carrie Julian) left Its doors 
 It fell away and ceased to be known as a "place;" 
 but after its decline In the war-years, it has picked 
 up; and now, while it Is not a place to which a man 
 should (or would) take his wife, it Is what a bar 
 ought to be — a place where men are honestly them- 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 27 
 
 selves in their raw and natural state, free from the 
 imposed niceties of speech and intercourse. 
 
 I know no reason why women should not take a 
 glass of wine in a bar, as they take their coffee 
 after shopping, and they should have their own bars. 
 The mixed bar is an anomaly and neither men nor 
 women are comfortable in them. There should be 
 dainty taverns, owned and conducted by women for 
 women. As the man, lonely and seeking company, 
 may, in any part of London, find conversation over 
 a drink, and sometimes meet quaint or brilliant char- 
 acter, so should the lonely woman be able to freshen 
 her mind with talk with other women. There is no 
 conversation so racy as that held with strangers. on 
 the common ground of a tavern. It is always 
 amusing and often surprising; and those who 
 love to explore other minds, and discover curious 
 points of view, may have excellent and rich talks 
 with unknowns in bars. The clerk, the shop-keeper, 
 the taxi-driver, the merchant, will illuminate for you 
 positions and attitudes and forms of conduct that 
 may long have been mysteries to you, dark spots 
 in the inwardness of the Englishman. 
 
 And I have never understood why women should 
 not be, among themselves, free of this casual inter- 
 course and acquaintanceship. Many of my personal 
 friends were first acquaintances met in these public 
 places, which offer illimitable fields of human com- 
 panionship; and acquaintance grew, from occasional 
 
28 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 meetings and talks, into close knowledge and under- 
 standing and friendship. Too often our friends grow 
 upon us and with us from school and business and 
 family; we have not each sought the other out. But 
 with these friends of mine, we met, surveyed, and, as 
 the phrase goes, "took to each other." Outside the 
 tavern we would never have met, as our interests 
 were worlds apart; and we would have missed much 
 goodly communion. How the lonely woman ever 
 finds friends or acquaintances, I know not. Every- 
 body feels that somewhere exists the ideal friend, but 
 if you are limited to your home circle or your office 
 set, how to find the friend? Well, I have found mine 
 by ranging hither and thither, and picking and choos- 
 ing sympathetic spirits, and I would like to see the 
 lonely woman free to enjoy similar opportunities. 
 The tea-shop affords no such opportunity. You dare 
 not speak to your neighbour in those places; if you 
 do, you are met at once with a suspicious eye and a 
 grunt or a monosyllable. You are checkmated at 
 first move. 
 
 That attitude is frowned upon at Rule's and all 
 such good places. When we entered we were at 
 once recognised by a man, who drew us into a goodly 
 circle of four. The bar was crowded with choice 
 fellows and merry comedians, who, by grace of tav- 
 ern atmosphere, are much funnier there than they 
 are allowed to be on the London stage. Unhappily, 
 much of that fun may not be transferred to the 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 29 
 
 printed page. There were stories . . . and 
 stories. 
 
 We gathered half a dozen of the best; then moved 
 westward from the gasconade of Maiden Lane to 
 the sparkle of the Square, and lunched at the Ivy, 
 where are perfect cooking and that excelling service 
 that conceals itself. I am often asked by young 
 country friends which is the best restaurant in Lon- 
 don, and I can never answer them. There is no best 
 restaurant in London, and there is no best church 
 in London. In so intimate a matter as religion or 
 food there can be no standard of perfection. Each 
 man has his own best. My choice is always the Ivy, 
 opposite the Ambassador's Theatre. There you 
 have elegant appointments, a masterly chef, arid a 
 noble cellar. 
 
 I have no interest in the Ivy, and I am not getting 
 paid for this. Far from it. Even when I can afford 
 to lunch or dine there (and I seldom can) I miss the 
 welcome that was mine when it was in its beginning 
 days. Only the very regular or the very expensive 
 customer gets that now. Instead of being ushered 
 to the old corner-table on the ground flour, by the 
 window, I am sent upstairs. You see, the Ivy is 
 now successful and famous, and I do it no credit. 
 When it first opened, under the original ownership, 
 it was only one room with a bare floor and a few 
 rough mural decorations, and you could dine there 
 for two shillings. Now it has acquired the whole 
 
30 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 corner-block, and wears oak panelling, thick carpets, 
 and shaded lights for each table. Formerly It was 
 the haunt of hard-up gentlemen of the theatre; now 
 It Is q-owded with plutocratic "stars" and the smart 
 people who affect that company. In Its new and 
 elaborate raiment, It looks with slightly raised eye- 
 brows at my three-year-old suit. I don't fit. Still, 
 when I am asked out to lunch and asked to name 
 my restaurant, I always name the Ivy. 
 
 We lingered over coffee and watched the new ar- 
 rivals. A pleasant pastime, this. Taking meals out 
 is not yet an instinctive habit with the English. Popu- 
 lar In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it 
 fell into disuse In the nineteenth, and It Is still much 
 of a function. Manners and manner for the restau- 
 rant and the home differ sharply. The Englishman 
 does not walk into a restaurant as Into his own dln- 
 ingroom. He "enters" as to a stage. It Is a self-con- 
 scious parade, and natural grace becomes deliberate 
 gracefulness. The Englishman — ^bless him for it — ■ 
 always blinks at the limelight. He Is conscious of 
 making one at a public occasion. He looks about him 
 with a cold glassy stare. Seldom does he appear at 
 home. He seems to miss the conveniences of his own 
 table, and its ever-present attendance; and the covert 
 eye-shots at the waiter, who is always somewhere 
 else, weary him. 
 
 After coffee we again wandered. We thought of 
 a matinee, and thought better of it. There was no 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 31 
 
 concert that attracted us, so we parted for awhile — 
 Monk to do a little work, I to the august quiet of 
 the London Library. A wonderful institution, the 
 London Library; and it and St. James' Square are 
 in happy accord; their moods blend. It gives me the 
 use of the second-best library in London, and the 
 very best reading and writing room; it permits me 
 to borrow ten volumes at a time and keep them for 
 three months if I wish; and all for a yearly charge 
 of — three guineas. There is no other library in Eng- 
 land that affords such facilities to its subscribers at 
 so low a rate. One salutes Carlyle, its founder, 
 every time one enters its doors. 
 
 We met again later, in those suave hours be- 
 tween tea and dinner when London is tuning-up 
 for the evening surge of song, and the feminine twi- 
 light gleams in primrose and grey, and the piquant 
 odour of tea and toast pours from the tea-shops 
 with compelling advertisement of the delights of five 
 o'clock. Full of wonder were the streets, cluttered 
 with the going-home crowd, lit by lamp and shop, 
 magical with movement, and calling us with deluding 
 distances and starry miles. The shops were open, 
 and their treasures lay before us, newly guised by 
 the lustre of concealed lamps. Regent Street glowed 
 flamboyantly against the night, each of its butter- 
 fly shops a jazz of colour, a vers libre of publicity; 
 while Piccadilly Circus was a transformation "set," 
 a riot of colour and dazzle and blaze. 
 
32 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 This bravura would not suit all parts of London. 
 There are women who are decorated by jewels, and 
 women who beautify the jewels, and women who do 
 neither. They sit well upon Piccadilly Circus, lend- 
 ing beauty and receiving dignity, but the homely 
 beauty of the East End is not of the kind that Is 
 emphasised by the lustre of gems. The hushed semi- 
 tones of dim streets, of silken twilights interrupted 
 by suave lamplight — these require no bedizenment. 
 But to Piccadilly Circus the jewels belong, and she 
 wears them splendidly. I pass through it every 
 night, yet never can I pass without an applauding 
 thrill and that catch of the breath which marks our 
 recognition of good dramatic work. 
 
 Away they go — these movies in light: motor- 
 cars in motion, liquor flowing from bottles, flags fly- 
 ing and messages calling to you across the face of the 
 night to Eat This or Drink That or Keep That 
 Schoolgirl Complexion. Blue and green and red 
 and yellow and amber, flowing and flashing, they 
 spell their foolish fables into the night and into my 
 eye and brain, and vex and dazzle and delight me. 
 Your Londoner Is always a child, loving "sights" 
 and spectacles, and our advertising experts have 
 gauged him well, in this matter. It behoves Mr. 
 Brock, of the Crystal Palace, to look to it. Every 
 night we have six or seven displays, each of which 
 Is as exciting as the fireworks; and none of them to 
 the benefit of Mr. Brock. Piccadilly Circus has the 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 33 
 
 best show, but that at Leicester Square runs it close ; 
 while Cambridge Circus, the Embankment and Ox- 
 ford Street all array themselves In an evening dress 
 of spangle and gem that brings them into competi- 
 tion with Broadway at night. I hope Broadway 
 knows about it, and is pulling up its socks. 
 
 Around Soho we wandered, meeting friends re- 
 leased from toll, and calling here and calling there. 
 A chat and a stroll and a drink and a stroll; and our 
 party became four, and we took a tray and a tankard 
 at Snow's, the cheapest decent dining-place in the 
 West End. 
 
 All types and characters dine at Snow's — rising 
 actors, rising or decaying journalists, taxi-drivers, 
 ladles of the chorus, clerks, film workers, wanderers 
 like ourselves, and those nondescript solitaries, who 
 are too shabby and diffident to be anybody, and too 
 distinguished of brow to be nobody. Snow's is ar- 
 ranged on the old pew system, and there are no 
 table cloths. Your dishes, your bread and your drink 
 are brought to you on your own little tray, and for 
 something less than two shillings you may feed 
 splendidly there on plain English food, in a pleasant 
 homely atmosphere, and may read all the papers. A 
 good place to know. Now that "The Sceptre," with 
 its age-long tradition, is closed. Snow's and Stone's 
 are the only chop-houses left In the West; and of 
 the two I prefer Snow's. The company is more 
 interesting and diversified and less prosperous than 
 
34 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the company of Stone's, which is mainly lawyers and 
 Civil Servants. 
 
 It occurs to me that there is a fresh field for the 
 restaurateur in London. In odd corners of London 
 you will find restaurants for all nations — French, 
 Swiss, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek, Chinese, 
 Japanese, Hungarian, Russian, American, Serbian, 
 Norwegian, Armenian, Albanian, Czecho-Slovakian, 
 and Welsh. But — there are no restaurants for the 
 provincials. Why not? I am sure that the visitor 
 from the remote shires, bewildered by the choice 
 of restaurants, or weary of cosmopolitan cuisine, 
 would turn with delight to a cafe where he might 
 get the food of his country and hear the accent of 
 his lanes. There should be a Yorkshire restaurant, 
 a Lancashire restaurant, a Devonshire restaurant, 
 a Cornish restaurant, a Norfolk restaurant, offering 
 pasties, junkets, pies, hot-pots, Bakewell puddings, 
 dumplings. Not only would they attract their wan- 
 derers and the "Society of So-and-so Men in Lon- 
 don" but the curious Londoner, who is always 
 searching for new table thrills, would gladly renew 
 acquaintance with dishes tasted on rare holidays. 
 I'm sure there's money in It, and I present the Idea 
 to any enterprising woman anxious to start In 
 business. 
 
 To the streets again. A theatre? A music-hall? 
 The Holborn, the Euston ? Not to-night. The thea- 
 tre is a pleasant refuge, but we were in the mood for 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 35 
 
 less formal entertainment; and I knew that about 
 the streets we would find bands and organs and cof- 
 fee bars and other bars, and Immediately outside 
 the theatres good fun for which there is no charge. 
 Walking up Shaftesbury Avenue, we were enter- 
 tained by contortionists, the gentleman with soup 
 spoons who makes merry music with them against 
 his poor knees and elbows, itinerant gramophones, 
 vocalists, elocutionists, real kilted Scots with bag- 
 pipes (from Aldgate) and small boys with their 
 attempted songs and their abrupt breakdown at the 
 warning cry of "Caw-pur!" Why go inside? More 
 healthy and more refreshing to eat your banana 
 or your toffee-apple down our alley. 
 
 So we strolled East and West, and London soaked 
 Into us and enriched us, and brought us out in full 
 flower of amiable and peculiar talk. We ranged 
 the philosophies, and remembered good stories, and 
 told better ones, and Monk with buxom face and 
 twinkling eye, quoted Edgar Saltus, and we walked 
 to the fluent pace of the night. 
 
 We covered many miles. Starting from Piccadilly 
 ■Circus we challenged the mysteries of Barnsbury and 
 Canonbury, and finished late in "The London Ap- 
 prentice" at Hoxton, striking in our path beautiful 
 episodes and curious drama in those shy quarters 
 that are so generous with impressions to the ama- 
 teur. Not In the great roads of London, Its hotels 
 or big houses, do you come upon these nocturnes. 
 
36 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 These show the things of the moment, the spirit of 
 the times, the vexations and dismays, the patching 
 and changing and shifting. The enduring things, 
 the steady, soft-moving life of London, are In the 
 background. Down the side-streets — that's where 
 joy lies. That's where you must seek her; in small 
 taverns, in the movie-houses, in the recreation 
 grounds, in the little local clubs, among the clerks, 
 shop-assistants, labourers, charwomen — anybody, In 
 short, who works hard for a scanty wage, and takes 
 fun, when it comes, with both hands, voraciously 
 and gleefully. 
 
 Beauty and sweet temper live in these side-streets, 
 with their ardent dark and meagre light, their 
 flowing murmur of voices. Through their half- 
 open doors or unshaded windows the passer catches 
 sudden vignettes of tea-table and fire and strange 
 figures. We see them as figures of another world, 
 idly busy upon their various occasions, reading, 
 sewing, eating, lounging, posed In their harmoni- 
 ous setting as exquisitely as In the frozen moment 
 of statuary. I have known these byways from 
 earliest childhood, and I hold them closer than 
 any of the grander beauties of the town. I think 
 with peculiar affection of certain side-streets In 
 Islington, Bermondsey, Paddington and Canning 
 Town, and the glamorous interiors that have held me 
 with the shock of sudden poetry; and there's a street 
 in Stepney that I have named The Street of Beauti- 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 37 
 
 ful Children. But of that I will tell you in another 
 chapter. Through and through these streets we 
 went noctambulating, presented at every turn with 
 warn nooks, robust highways, or heartless spaces that 
 filled the night with inuendoes of dread or romance; 
 and stumbling here and there upon the midnight 
 lovers. 
 
 Don't we all know them — those midnight lovers ? 
 Haven't we all, at sudden corners, blundered upon 
 them? Nay, we who have been boy or girl, have we 
 not all, at some time or other, made one with that 
 scattered crowd of the late hours that stands in the 
 sweet security of two in dark doorways and discreet 
 alleys where the lamplight does not gloat; saying 
 good-night until to-morrow? In the larger hours of 
 the city's night, in all such retreats, you will come 
 upon this still, rapt, wordless sacrament of first love : 
 the flutter of a white frock against the railings, boy 
 and girl in shadow, heart to heart, careless of all but 
 their own ecstasy. 
 
 For the streets of London are, for the poorer 
 young people, what the drawing-room, the dance, 
 the conservatory, the quiet garden, and the taxi are 
 for those in happier circumstances. Only in the 
 misty lost corners of the thickening streets can they 
 attain the solitude they seek. For them there is no 
 elsewhere. Monitorial Councils drive them out of 
 the parks at just that hour when a seat under unsus- 
 picious trees is most desirable ; and the front parlour 
 
38 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 at home is too public, too fraught with interruptions 
 and restriction, even if it were available. Often it 
 is not; for working-class parents, like Councils, have 
 "views" — very strict "views" — about boy-and-girl 
 love. In many homes the daughter dare not ac- 
 knowledge a sweetheart to the family until she be 
 turned eighteen. But love does not wait upon these 
 arbitrary distinctions : it awakens when it will. You 
 may forbid and forbid, and lecture and admonish, 
 but before Dolly is out of the school playground 
 she has her boy; and this way or that they will meet; 
 and the naughty girl will stay out late, even if she 
 does suffer the indignity of chastisement from father. 
 Really, there should be some sort of continuation 
 classes for parents to help them to remember what 
 they so quickly forget when they become parents — 
 their own youth. 
 
 For the young lover then, paradoxically, the street 
 is more private than the home. Even when the front 
 parlour is conceded, the sense of complete privacy is 
 lacking; the neighbourhood of the family is too im- 
 minent. But the stars, the dumb walls, the pave- 
 ments, and the rumour of near traffic and crowd, 
 enclose them in greater security than any parlour 
 can afford; and in the hesitant dusk of July, the keen 
 glitter of Winter or the rain-streaked Autumn nights, 
 through the procession of seasons and weathers, 
 they snatch their hour of solitude, posed in uncon- 
 scious beauty. During the evening they walk here 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 39 
 
 and there about the less hurried streets or sit in the 
 more sequestered seats at the picture-palace; but in 
 the hour of parting their feet are still; and in crepus- 
 cular corners, wherever the friendly shadows are as- 
 sembled, in the quiet spots of Westminster and the 
 Alleys of Shoreditch, they impede your passage, lost 
 in silent wonder of each other's magnificence, forget- 
 ful of the stress of the great chords of the day under 
 the grateful movements of the night. But they are 
 not abashed by your Intrusion. It is you who hurry by 
 with averted head, though your embarrassment is 
 idle; for between your world and theirs float the 
 clouds of their adolescent rapture. They have not 
 seen you or even heard your step. Nor would they 
 care if they had. In their exquisite moment, with 
 pulses thrilling each to each, what are you and your 
 pedestrian occasions to them? You cannot dismay 
 them or lend them any increase of bliss; but, if your 
 heart be not wholly wrapped In mundane things, they 
 can lend you at least an echo of their own de- 
 light. 
 
 To me, these lovers are one of the chief beauties 
 of London's night. To be abroad, between eleven 
 o'clock and midnight, in the great highways, and to 
 know that down every little side-street, stretching 
 right and left of you, boys and girls, at gates and 
 doorways, are making their long good-nights, is to 
 suffer as sweet a thrill as that which possesses them- 
 selves. 
 
40 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 This open-secret, byway love-making is, perhaps, 
 an affair peculiarly English. On the Continent, 
 where love-making is more free, more public, and 
 celebrated in groups, the close colloquies of the back- 
 streets are infrequent; but here, in the big cities, and 
 particularly In London, where young love is pryed 
 upon, and dogged and derided and hounded by 
 authority; in the country, too, by field-gates and 
 stiles, young England lingers and lounges in crystal- 
 lised solitude, setting its happiness like pearls against 
 the shell of forbiddance. For them, each night is a 
 separate and single casket, loaded with the unprofit- 
 able gold of romance. Life's confines are broken 
 down; the world widens; the stars thicken; witchery 
 is abroad. Then they live those rich moments that 
 come at times to all of us; moments when, by some 
 fortuitous agreement of place and time, some happy 
 harmony of sky, air, place, and time, the accustomed 
 things are translated to the plane of dream and be- 
 come as a stage set for fantastic adventure. They 
 are the moments when the wings of Ariel brush our 
 sorry lives, and the world wakens into vivid breath. 
 Magic hangs on every step and for that brief while, 
 anything may happen; all things are possible. We 
 have all known such moments and hours; they come 
 when they will, often in incongruous situations; but 
 to young love they come at every meeting. 
 
 For many lovers her gate or her doorway is a 
 spot of danger, and they must make their partings 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 41 
 
 in more distant nooks. Wherever there is a square 
 or alley or remote corner, they discover it, and make 
 it the scene of their last caresses; and most couples 
 have a special corner of their own. It may be where 
 they first met, or where they first kissed or had their 
 first long talk. That corner, for them, becomes 
 consecrated. It is no common street or square or 
 passage; no matter of brick and stone and paving, 
 to be trodden carelessly as they tread other parts of 
 the city; but a little street of love's own fashioning 
 dropped into London, touched with fantasy, coloured 
 with dream, and very dear. Even when young love 
 does not come to harvest; when one or other goes 
 gaily after fresh faces, never again is the forsaken 
 one able to pass that corner or that alley with level 
 pulse or unconsidering eye. 
 
 And every street in London is, for somebody, such 
 a consecrated spot. In every district which holds 
 sheltered inlets, pools of quiet untroubled by the tide 
 of traffic and the confusion of men, the youth of the 
 city has built a bower of memory. These spots you 
 may locate in the morning. Clues are left for the 
 observant, and the chief clue is — hairpins. On this 
 evidence I judge the Mall to be the favourite spot 
 for dalliance, for often, in a morning walk from the 
 Admiralty Arch to Buckingham Palace, I have count- 
 ed, under the trees, over a hundred hairpins, not 
 to mention some half-dozen scraps of ribbon; relics 
 of the abandon of the night. 
 
42 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 While this festival of good-nights moves through 
 the whole year, it is more observed in the Winter 
 months. This is not, as you might think, because 
 the light evenings withhold the wistful quiet and 
 dusk that love demands, but because, as I think, the 
 Winter is love's true season. That is not truly 
 said — tha*- in the Spring a young man's fancy lightly 
 turns to thoughts of love. So far as town life is con- 
 cerned, it is a fallacy. The Spring is the very season 
 when the thoughts of your urban youth are fixed 
 otherwhere. He is concerned with sterner matters. 
 He is called by cricket and tennis, by swimming, by 
 running, and other Olympian business. His mind is 
 ever occupied, by work during the day, and by games 
 during the evening. He can't be bothered with love. 
 But in the Winter. . . . 
 
 Then, time hangs heavily. He is at a loose end, 
 and his fancy, seeking employment, does then turn 
 for distraction to the empire of girls. In the glamour 
 of the street lights, or In the inviting flicker of fire- 
 light, he bursts into recognition of Daisy's nice eyes 
 or the jolly curls of Joan, or the wonderful smile of 
 the tea-shop waitress. Winter Inspires an appetite 
 for warmth and Intimacy. We feel a need for Im- 
 mediate social contract. In the Summer we are 
 separate and scattered; we wish to escape direct 
 neighbourhood, and loneliness has its charms. But 
 the Winter calls us In to the camp fires. It Is a season 
 of drawing together, of communion, a throw-back to 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 43 
 
 the cave days, when men gathered together for mu- 
 tual protection through the long darkness. 
 
 In this season, from October to March, the lads 
 and lassies seek each other; and in the squares of 
 Bloomsbury, the narrow streets of Soho, in tenement 
 doorways of Spltalfields, and Stepney, in the courts 
 and passages of Shadwell and Wapping, in the sunk- 
 en, broken streets about Bankslde, in the swimming 
 light of the Embankment or the luminous dark of 
 the Mall, the couples spend their midnight minutes 
 under the indifferent stars. Pass through any square 
 of Bloomsbury or any of the little squares 
 and alleys of the East at that hour, and in the hush 
 that enfolds these retreats, so that they might be 
 hamlets of a rural valley, you will be conscious of 
 company. And though you see nobody, your ears 
 receive fragile murmurs, and sweet-ringing laughter 
 troubles each shadowy corner. Somewhere beyond — 
 It may be miles — lies the city. Notes of its travail 
 come to you. Melancholy motor-horns hoot across 
 the slumbering houses. Wheels rumble. Your ears 
 gather the dessicated noises of the night — the lazy 
 hum of many active voices. But here, by the railings, 
 or in the quadrangle of the tenement, or down that 
 court, here is rich quiet, made richer by whisperings 
 or by that living silence of young lips communing 
 without speech. 
 
 It is a consecration of the night, which none but 
 devils would profane. Unhappily, there are many 
 
44. THE LONDON SPY 
 
 devils who delight in this blasphemy; female devils 
 in uniform, who make a quest of interrupting this 
 sacrament, and dropping damp paws upon the pleas- 
 ant heart of love, and whispering suggestions of 
 obscenity Into Innocent ears. The policewoman, as 
 well as the young lover, has discovered the shy 
 corner, and hovers about it on silent feet, seeking 
 dirt where none is, and finding it; warning decent 
 girls against their decent lovers, and poisoning early 
 affection with physical revelations. Surely so sweet 
 a thing as this, that Illumines the squalors of our 
 streets with beauty, should be regarded only with 
 grace and understanding; not through the red-flannel 
 murk of the policewoman's mind? But they 
 will not hear it. They greet the unseen with 
 a sneer. They are deaf to song and blind to the 
 Spring; and for love they have nothing but a formula 
 of the consulting-room. 
 
 But sometimes they go beyond themselves, and 
 do more than they mean to do. Take the case of the 
 officious policewoman, who, at midnight, descried 
 two figures on a public seat in a quiet side-road. 
 They sat together, with arms enlaced, lip to lip. 
 To them, heavily, the policewoman; "Look here, 
 don't you think It's time you two were in bed?" 
 
 Well, let the epicene policewoman pad and prowl, 
 and Indulge to the full her lust of Interferlngness; 
 glory and loveliness have not yet passed away, nor 
 will they at the bidding of such creatures. To-night 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 45 
 
 and every night, youth will love and laugh. Law and 
 order may control the fools ; they will never control 
 the fairies. 
 
 And now the coffee-stalls began to rumble from 
 obscure hospices, and the cheerful glow of that 
 which pitches beneath Shoreditch Church attracted us 
 and drew from all corners our fellows, wanderers and 
 borrowers from the night. Within the narrow arc 
 of its light gathered workers, idlers, vagrants, and 
 the down-and-out, elbow to elbow, saucer to saucer, 
 in a grand but transient democracy; all silent or 
 exchanging only mumbles^ I know not why the 
 coffee-stall crowd is always silent, why the movement 
 is so slow; the unacaistomed open-air and the Vast 
 night, I suppose, thwart any attempt at the trivial 
 and the chatty. The same crowd in a bar or a 
 coffee-shop would talk; but always at the stall I 
 have found the customers glum and reticent, mum- 
 bling only of necessity; crushed, as I say, by the 
 solemnity of the hour. 
 
 But there is one coffee-stall which Is a spectacle, 
 and about which are swift movement and clatter 
 and babble. This is the firemen's coffee-stall, which 
 is brought out on the occasion of a big fire, when 
 the men have to work hours at a stretch without 
 respite. On the arrival of the official stall they drop 
 out by ones or twos and grab a little nourishment, 
 and then back to the hose to relieve others. No 
 
46 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 lounging or mumbling here, but brisk business all the 
 time, with bobbing helmets, quick elbows, soiled uni- 
 forms, sweat, and wet smoky faces. 
 
 The coffee that the stalls provide is hot, but one 
 cannot say much more for it. It is scarcely a food 
 or a stimulant, and when we had finished our mug, 
 I bethought me of a snug interior, and I heard the 
 sizzle of eggs and bacon, and the clamour of com- 
 plaining voices; and I spoke my thought to Monk. 
 I had thought of an all-night buffet near King's 
 Cross, and we retired from the spot-light of the stall 
 and took 'bus to the most agreeable of all suppers — 
 supper in an outdoor buffet. 
 
 There is a zest to this meal that is absent from 
 others. It is as thrilling as those midnight feasts 
 on the floor of the dormitory in other times. There 
 you are, seated in a little shed In the middle of the 
 road, girdled by the immense night ; in It, yet enclosed 
 from its surge. Outside, the cars hoot and voices 
 wander. Inside, the bacon hisses in the pan. Out- 
 side, cold and dark. Inside, light and warmth and 
 teasing odours, growling voices, commlnations, and 
 tales of adventure. Never do eggs-and-bacon eat so 
 well as at this hour and In these surroundings. Foods, 
 like people, have their peculiar and proper setting 
 when they are at their best. Pomme frites at the 
 Carlton are not half so delicious as a paper-full of 
 "chips" eaten under the moonlight. (Note for Wal- 
 ter Catlett — do you remember the "chips" and ham 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 47 
 
 sandwiches which we ate at two-o'clock in the 
 morning, sitting on a railing In Stratford Broad- 
 way?) 
 
 While Fred "did" our bacon, we sat among the 
 chauffeurs, and their n-yah, n-yah, n-yahing at the 
 world and the times, and felt like Daniels. For we 
 had been guilty of those very offences upon which 
 they were now growling anathema. 
 
 "Urr-quarter to twelve and wonnid me to go to 
 Wimbledon. 'What's it worth?' I says." 
 
 "An'woddid'^say?" 
 
 "Said 'e'd see abaht it." 
 
 "See abaht it." 
 
 "Ur." 
 
 "And woddid you do?" 
 
 "Told 'Im where 'e could put 'is fare, and left 
 'im standing." 
 
 "Bloody well think so, too." And again: 
 
 " 'And there's tuppence for yesself,' she says. 
 Tuppence ! on a seven-shilling fare." 
 
 "Wod yeh say to that?" 
 
 "I didn't say much. But I just give 'er one look 
 what she won't fergit in a 'urry, an' told 'er to put 
 it in the kids' moneybox." 
 
 "You was too easy. They want 'andling, them 
 sort." 
 
 "Ah, but y'never know — with a woman. 'Special- 
 ly that kind, what knows regulations and all." 
 
 "Urr— the bitches!" 
 
48 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 The bacon is done, and Fred serves it. Fred is 
 a real dab at two and a rasher, but he mustn't be 
 tested beyond that. Still, what more do you want? 
 All artists have their limitations; versatility is only 
 for the mediocre. And in two and a rasher Fred 
 expresses himself. He has a view of life tempered 
 by his immediate environment of heavy odours and 
 hot air and rough language and bustle. 
 
 "What you want in this life, y'know, me boy, 
 is to keep yer 'ead. That's all. Just keep yer 'ead, 
 and you'll get on. Let the others do the grousing-— 
 that's the secret. Look at me — ain't I got enough 
 sometimes to send a fellow batty. But look at me. 
 / never worry." Plop goes an egg to the floor. 
 "That's the second to-day — but what's the good of 
 getting fussed up? Take life easy — that's my mot- 
 ter. 'Ere — ^your doings is ready — give us up yer 
 plates." Smack goes another rasher, pink and white 
 and crisp and curly. 
 
 "But wouldn't a little method make all the differ- 
 ence?" I asked him. 
 
 "Method? Coo, I ain't got no time for Method. 
 Arst the boys 'ere what this place'd be like if I 
 run it on Method. Keep yer 'ead and carry on — 
 that's the way to get the work done." 
 
 For austerity and precision, as for Method, Fred 
 has no time. For him life means fullness, amplitude, 
 ready companionship, and standing the racket, a 
 sort of fine bright formlessness; in short, two and 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 49 
 
 a rasher. To see him with a frying-pan In each 
 hand, and two separate and intricate conversations 
 engaging his spare attention Is to see a pretty piece 
 of work. I have never seen a woman-cook handle 
 a frying-pan with such facility. 
 
 And now the boys — though the term hardly 
 fits your taxi-man — began to crowd In and clamour; 
 so, warmed and fed, I telephoned for Parker, and 
 Parker arrived and took us at his best racing speed 
 to our beds. 
 
 There Is quite delight In motoring through Lon- 
 don at midnight. One seems to flow through the 
 untroubled streets, filled with pale phantom lines of 
 lamps, and only the humming of the engine to dis- 
 turb — no, soothe, the large tranquillity of the city. 
 The cool wind beats upon your face, and the stars 
 and the clouds. In the subdued light, discover them- 
 selves. The streets of toil stand shuttered and 
 dumb : the roads lie clear before you ; you may 
 speed or crawl as you will. The city sleeps. You 
 ride alone under the night, amid present enterprise 
 and monuments of the enterprise of years; alone, 
 but with a pleasant sense of the neighbourhood of 
 Parker. 
 
 Who Is Parker? Parker Is the World's Best 
 Chauffeur. 
 
 There are those who possess automobiles, and 
 those who are possessed by them; and there Is my- 
 self who have not so much as a flivver to my name. 
 
50 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 I cannot afford a car, but I command ten cars and 
 four chauffeurs. On the rare occasions when I re- 
 quire to travel comfortably, a call to the garage 
 round the corner gives me my choice of these cars 
 and — Parker. And should one car, on the road, 
 forget its office, a word across the telephone brings 
 up another. There I score over the car-owner; but 
 my highest score against him is with Parker. I do 
 not have to tinker with the thing; I do not have 
 to keep my eyes and nerves taut for the hazards of 
 the road and warning signs. I am free to observe 
 or to contemplate, to set my mind roaming where 
 It will, thanks to Parker, the wizard, whose magic 
 touch on his mechanical slave, carries me across 
 England. 
 
 When I am with him I throw aside all care, and 
 my motto for the day is: "Leave it to Parker." 
 He has not the haughtiness and severity of your 
 private chauffeur, nor the broody dolours of your 
 taxi-man. He is not a part of his machine. When 
 cars were but thought of, Parker was driving a pair- 
 horse brougham, and the flexibility and fluent tem- 
 per required by that job remained with him. He 
 has a strong air of past times about him. He is a 
 rehabilitation of one of the old artists of the whip. 
 He would look fit in a five-caped coat, and his round 
 red face was made for a low-crowned beaver. He 
 would be in his place, taking the Devonport "Quick- 
 silver" down the road; and "Nimrod" would have 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 51 
 
 delighted to sit by him and record In the pages of 
 "Eraser's" his talk and his mannerisms. 
 
 It Is a pity that we have no C. J. Apperley with 
 us to-day, to mark and celebrate the pretty styles 
 of our best chauffeurs. (Here's a hint for John 
 Prioleau). Parker deserves such notice. Driving 
 a car Is not, with him, a job. It Is his daily stimu- 
 lant. He misses a day from the wheel as other 
 men miss their morning drink or their dinner. He 
 Is only happy on his car, and not to be driving Is a 
 keen punishment. Each morning he goes to the 
 garage with a fresh delight, as if motors had just 
 been invented, and each night he puts the car away 
 regretfully. Away from it, he Is lost, unhappy. 
 Keep him out as long as you like, and he never com- 
 plains. His car Is his mistress, and she seems to 
 return his caresses. He starts her up with a throb 
 of joy. He leaps to her and he settles into his seat 
 with a Wrrhmph! of content. His touch is soft 
 and soothing. He does not, like your taxi-driver, 
 jam his brakes on; almost one might say he strokes 
 them on, so hght is the contact of his hand with the 
 lever. His manner at the steering-wheel has the 
 finish and precision of Cinquevalll or Chaplin; no- 
 where too light or too stern. And his back, to the 
 passenger Inside, Is not the sombre mass of spleen 
 that your taxi-man presents, but a big, generous, 
 equable back, able and willing to carry all the bur- 
 dens of the day; a round affable back, that looks 
 
62 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 as though it had often been smacked in loud good- 
 fellowship. I wonder what would happen to a fare 
 who gave a taxi-driver or a private chauffeur a 
 friendly smack on the back; summons for assault, 
 I expect. 
 
 Parker and I have covered many hundred miles 
 of English road, and have taken long tours together. 
 He is a perfect road-companion. Nothing disturbs 
 him. You cannot surprise him, and he will never 
 surprise you. He is ready for anything; never dis- 
 mayed by mischances or change of plan, but facing 
 all the hazards and petty emergencies of English 
 travel with equanimity, and their amenities with a 
 round noonday smile. If you're out of matches, 
 Parker has plenty. If you're short of cigarettes, 
 Parker's got some. If you want a postcard and a 
 stamp, Parker's got 'em. If you've got a headache, 
 Parker will produce menthol. At all hours of the 
 day or night — and he has often been out with me 
 all night — he is the same blithe soul : a good Cock- 
 ney, taking his banana, in the most tiresome situa- 
 tions, with relish. 
 
 Little he cares if it snows. Even his language, 
 when a tyre bursts, is not bitter and explosive, but 
 full and round and copious, flowing steadily like an 
 Arabic imprecation. We have heard how our Army 
 swore terribly in Flanders, and I think it must have 
 sworn with equal vigour in Serbia; for Parker spent 
 the five years of the war driving lorries over the 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 53 
 
 Serbian mountains, and making his own roads. After 
 that, the troublous occasions of English road-travel 
 have no power to dishevel his philosophy; and, 
 though he speaks to a burst tyre in unforgettable 
 accents, whatever gust of language comes from him, 
 comes with the large flavour of the open-air upon 
 it. It Is without malice. I have been with him in the 
 middle of the Yorkshire wold, in a pouring rain, 
 with a disordered magneto; and he was unmoved. 
 He did but look upon the thing, and say, in con- 
 versational tones, beautiful things that had in them 
 the warmth of the sun and red wine and the south 
 wind; and then got down to the job, remembering 
 that he was on a Yorkshire wold and not on the 
 Serbian hills. 
 
 Often I spend a loose half-hour in his garage. 
 The yard is open day and night, and wears an 
 atmosphere of illimitable travel. To the fanciful 
 the mere sight of the garage, with its adumbrations 
 of adventure, sets the heart tingling. Sitting in 
 Parker's yard I am in the midst of movement; of 
 stories of encounters, of inns and old towns and 
 long roads; of the going and returning of cars. They 
 could tell some stories of their clients, Parker and 
 his colleagues, but, unhappily, they don't. They are 
 discreet. They hear nothing and they see nothing 
 of their clients' affairs. But, in the lighted evening, 
 when they return from journeys large or little, the 
 yard is full of good gossip and anecdotal road-talk, 
 
54 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 more interesting, to me, than any other casual talk; 
 and, listening, one may compile one's own Cary or 
 Paterson. Some, maybe, are returned from the 
 North or the West Country, and some from station 
 or theatre trips to town. Then Parker, big and bluff 
 and imperturbable, comes in from South Wales, 
 redolent of the road; and sets out again, to take 
 an old lady on a half-mile stage. 
 
 There is a pleasant new-world flavour about it. 
 Until ten years ago, talk of the delights of the road 
 meant quotation from old coaching books. One 
 harked back to the 'twenties. Now, they are present 
 delights. The gusto which animated the road-chap- 
 ters of Dickens, "Nimrod," de Quincey, Disraeli 
 and Birch-Reynardson, plays again about our high- 
 ways and roadside villages and inns. We are all 
 in this. The sharrabang has re-opened the road 
 for the poorest of us, and we can all catch the tang 
 of open-air travel and the ecstasy of speed, which 
 the railway cannot lend you. Even the drivers of 
 the motor-coaches are assuming something of the 
 box-seat manner, acquiring something of Parker. 
 Once out of London, they give hints of a life apart 
 from levers. They have their moods of levity. They 
 exchange back-chat with the guard. The old road- 
 spirit seizes them, and if you have made a reading 
 of Outram Tristram, Charles G. Harper, and other 
 road-historians, and follow it with a sharrabang 
 trip, you will find that only the vehicle has changed. 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 55 
 
 All else remains. Passengers, driver and guard are 
 wearing different clothes, but the incidents of the 
 trip repeat themselves out of history. Still the 
 village worthies come to their doors to see us pass, 
 and the children to wave and shout. Still the driver 
 and guard have their favourite damsels, whom they 
 salute in passing with elaborate pantomime that per- 
 mits no misunderstanding. Still they execute com- 
 missions in town for the remote roadside folk, and 
 drop choice packages into front gardens, or carry 
 the evening paper from the nearest town and toss 
 it to Granfer at the cross-roads. 
 
 Perhaps the new-old spirit is not so lively in the 
 inns; but I am a little sceptical of some of those 
 glowing pictures of Mine Hosts and their impos- 
 sibly hospitable establishments. Different travellers 
 record different impressions. Dickens himself has 
 given us descriptions in much milder mood than 
 those of "Pickwick." Even in that book he speaks 
 out at times, as in the descriptions of the "White 
 Horse" at Ipswich, a true picture, I imagine, of the 
 average coaching inn of those times. Read the 
 essays in "The Uncommercial Traveller" on "Re- 
 freshments for Travellers," on "Jairing's" and "The 
 Old-Established Bull's Head, with its old-established 
 cookery, and its old-established frowziness, and its 
 old-established principles of plunder," and the 
 description of the "Temeraire Hotel" in "A Little 
 Dinner in an Hour." 
 
56 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 The strictures which he passes on the Inns of 
 his time are sadly true to-day. Seldom do you, 
 travelling life's dull round, find your welcome at 
 an Inn. In many parts, If you travel In a sharrabang, 
 you are met with the notice: "Char-a-banc Parties 
 Not Served." 
 
 Still, the delight of the road mostly tunes us to 
 delight In everything. We are In a state to be 
 easily pleased, serenely reconciled to discourtesy, and 
 finding an ill-cooked meal as agreeable and stimulat- 
 ing as a dinner at our favourite town restaurant. And 
 when I am out with Parker, he sees to It that I am 
 not put upon. It Is as dangerous to be funny or 
 brusque with Parker as to monkey with a safety- 
 razor. He Is a member of the A. A. and the M. U. 
 and he Is not standing any nonsense from Inn-keepers 
 who fall from the standards demanded by those 
 organisations for their members. Let there be any 
 over-charging or ill-service, and Parker will see to 
 it. Parker will report It. Temperate as he Is, he 
 can, for the occasion, be truculent; and he has a 
 robust figure and a heavy arm. The most severe 
 landlord would quail before his "here — what's this?" 
 Simple words, but they can carry much. With him 
 behind you, you need fear not the heat of the sun 
 or the Winter's furious rages; or any machinations 
 of the wicked. No highwayman would have held up 
 his coach; at the sudden turn of the head, the Im- 
 placable face, and the "HI — what d'ye think you're 
 
IN THE THICK OF IT 67 
 
 doing? Want me to set about you?" Mr. Turpin 
 would have been off and away. And had I been 
 a passenger, and a pistol had been thrust through 
 the window, I would have dismissed the matter with : 
 "Ask Parker about it !" 
 
 And Parker would see to it, as he sees to every- 
 thing. He drives you as you wish to be driven. 
 He attends to your comfort. He anticipates your 
 little whims and remembers your habits. He is a 
 happy companion, as I know from evenings we have 
 spent together when on a tour; and while you are 
 his passenger, he is your friend, counsellor, and 
 protector. 
 
 And so home and to bed. 
 
—II— 
 
 IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 
 
 THE film-world of London begins in Soho, over- 
 flows into Shaftesbury Avenue and Gerrard 
 Street, and stretches to the suburbs, where studios 
 are established at Walthamstow, Ealing, Shepherd's 
 Bush, Twickenham, Elstree, and Whetstone. It is a 
 queer world of queer people; a serious world, want- 
 ing the zest and camaraderie of the stage-world or 
 the quiet zeal of the business world. It is a bastard, 
 parents unknown. Your film-director has the ap- 
 pearance of something between a ring-master and 
 a Junior Whip, and the business and executive side 
 of the industry attracts attention by its facial fea- 
 tures and its Oriental nomenclature. But these are 
 found throughout the entertainment world and in 
 any industry whose profits turn on exploiting the idle 
 hours of the public. Your film-actor is. a creature 
 apart. 
 
 He has little in common with the stage-actor. 
 He is not gregarious. His speechless work has left 
 him with little facility for chit-chat and none for 
 happy talk. Mostly he is glum, like the taxi-driver, 
 the lift-man, and others who work with mechanical 
 things. He lives in an atmosphere, not of imagina- 
 
 58 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 59 
 
 tion (that quality would damn his chances of en- 
 gagements), but of reality. When he goes out to 
 rescue the damsel from the sinking boat, he does 
 rescue her from a real sinking boat in real water; 
 he is incapable of deluding his audience with simu- 
 lated heroisms. To convince an audience by illusion 
 demands higher qualities than he possesses. Rap- 
 tures, fine gestures, sweeping movements, splendid 
 outbursts are forbidden him; the machine has no 
 use for them. Repression, not expression, Is the note 
 of his work, and every movement must be slow and 
 deliberate. No audience Inspires his efforts or re- 
 wards his response to that inspiration. He plays 
 to the producer and the machine. His world's a 
 shadow-show played in a box under white lights, 
 and Inspiration may not enter that box. He has 
 nothing to do but obey the producer; his not to 
 reason why; his but to do what he's told, comforted 
 by knowing that every effort has been "thought out," 
 arrived at, without his help, by the system of the 
 cash-register. And as he is In his work, so he Is 
 in his private life, considering and calculating; a 
 creature of languid gesture with a dull light to the 
 eye. 
 
 Life, for him, is no hectic kaleidoscope of work, 
 crowds, the ascending hosannas of the multitude. 
 He is never, like your stage-actor, who works 
 through his Imagination, ablaze with personality. 
 He moves, in his own person, through greater actual 
 
60 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 trials and tribulations than any actor is called upon 
 to simulate ; yet always he is morose and low-spirited. 
 For his moving accidents are isolated occasions, 
 nicely calculated. His work is a slow-moving mat- 
 ter, involving much preparation and hanging about, 
 but, if done once, it is done. He does not have to 
 work himself up six nights a week, to do the same 
 old thing that he has been doing for three hundred 
 nights, and do it well. Even his breathless rescues 
 from cliff-faces are quieter occasions than the "big 
 scene" of a bedroom comedy. Truly, his profes- 
 sional life is as flat and monotonous as the life of 
 a bank clerk. There is no excitement in carrying the 
 girl from the burning house. No acting, no per- 
 sonal interest are required for these "stunt-mer- 
 chants." You have only to perform the deed, in 
 the right clothes, and then you're finished. The 
 cheery, chatty crowd at a theatrical rehearsal, ab- 
 rupt, generous, free, is the precise opposite of the 
 film-studio company, which has somewhat the at- 
 mosphere of a parish-hall meeting of church-work- 
 ers. They look worried. They drift from instead 
 of to their fellows. Your actor's Instinct is to get 
 together; your filmist's to go apart into a desert 
 place. Heartiness and impulse are alien virtues to 
 him. 
 
 No wonder they call it "the silent stage." 
 When Monk and I were invited recently by the 
 producer of a prominent London film company to 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 61 
 
 spend a day at his studio, we readily accepted, for 
 we wanted to see something of the marvellous "in- 
 side" processes that produced this queer form of 
 entertainment. We both love to see the wheels go 
 round. We arrived at Islington, and found that 
 the "studio" was a dismantled power-station — a 
 tremendous barn of a place, which, despite the warm 
 day, struck coldly. It was lofty and full of echoes, 
 and its floor was littered with thick lines of light- 
 ing cables. On all sides were little islands of "sets," 
 and we were led through halls, through a drawing- 
 room, through a dining-room, through the fore- 
 court of a country mansion, and stumbled over cables 
 and against the million-candle-power arc-lamp be- 
 fore we found our producer, with a shade over his 
 eyes, directing his people in a bed-room "set." 
 Around this set were adjusted a number of iron 
 frames, each holding a dozen glass cylinders of 
 blinding white-green light. Over it, in what might 
 be the flies, were the great arc-lamps. Each of these 
 contraptions was in charge of a youth, and these 
 youths were controlled by a chief, who gave them 
 their orders and adjusted the apparatus at the wish 
 of the camera-man. All were wearing eye-shades. 
 
 Outside the set sat those actors not immediately 
 concerned but ready for their call, dressed and made- 
 up. Immediately in front of the set was the slim 
 movie-camera and the camera-man, and near him the 
 bulky "still" camera, and its operator. Also in front 
 
62 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 sat a girl with a scenario before her, whose business 
 it was to watch the dress of each character. Often 
 two consecutive scenes of a film-play are filmed 
 months apart and in different places, and this girl 
 must note the dress of each actor, even to the most 
 minute details; so that a character shall not be seen 
 arriving at the door of a house wearing a bow-tie 
 and immediately entering the drawing-room in a knot- 
 tie. Still, with the keenest eye and the most volumin- 
 ous notes to assist, these things do happen, and the 
 producer is blamed, as he is blamed for everything. 
 Serves him right, too, for taking so much upon his 
 own shoulders. 
 
 We didn't discover what was the theme of the 
 picture they were making. I asked one of the actors, 
 and he said he hadn't been told yet what the plot 
 was: he only knew that he stole some valuable 
 papers. Monk, who had at once turned an eye to 
 the lovely leading woman, approached her, but she 
 wasn't quite sure about it. She thought it was taken 
 from some popular novel, and only knew that she 
 was the daughter of a new-rich man who was getting 
 into society. 
 
 I had expected tumult and shouting, hustle and 
 raucous voices. I found nothing of this. The busi- 
 ness was far, far less vocal and gestic than a Borough 
 Council meeting. The only persistent noise was the 
 hiss of the arc-lamps. Through that came, perfunc- 
 torily, the quiet voice of the producer: "We'll 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 63 
 
 just have that over again, Miss Gwyn. Like this, 
 you see." He entered the "set" and demonstrated, 
 and while this private dancing-lesson was in progress, 
 the rest of the company and workers gazed about 
 them or brooded. Curious terms were uttered — the 
 jargon of the studios: "Cross it;" "kill it," "Iris," 
 "Hold it." The faces of the actors outside the 
 arc-lamps were overlaid with powder and showed 
 ghastly yellow; those within the glare looked sea- 
 sick. Then a peremptory voice fell from above. 
 
 "Light 'em up !" 
 
 With a click of levers the long lights of the great 
 frames went up. Then, with megaphone, the pro- 
 ducer directed the shot, In a slow, conversational 
 tone. There was no excitement, no harassing. 
 
 "Camera ! Come on, Butler. Come on, detective. 
 Come on, lady's maid. Agitated coming on . . . 
 Now for his right arm. . . . Knee in his 
 back. . . . Down him. Struggle. . . . Fix him. 
 Fine !" 
 
 He clapped his hands. The camera stopped. The 
 actors scrambled up from the bedroom floor. The 
 lost voice snapped "lights out!" And again all was 
 silence. The producer called a few people together, 
 and conferred with carpenter and electricians and 
 the scenario-writer. A "still" was taken of a dra- 
 matic point in the picture, and there were more con- 
 ferences. Large notices on the walls prohibit smok- 
 ing, but everybody smoked. Nothing seemed to be 
 
64 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 happening. The machinists lounged in shirt-sleeves 
 against the lamps. Then the producer: 
 
 "Crowd for Bow Street, please!" 
 
 The crowd came forward readily and amiably; as 
 though long familiar with Bow Street and its pro- 
 cedure. The producer and his assistant arranged 
 them. What a crowd! Surely the highways and 
 hedges had been raked for these, for they were not 
 pretending to be idlers, loungers, wastrels; they were 
 what they looked. "Types," said the producer. 
 "Types. That's what we want in this game. Not 
 the suggested character, but the types. Externals 
 always. We don't want character-actors, however 
 perfect they may be. We want types of familiar 
 character. And you wouldn't believe how difficult 
 it is to get 'em. I put out a call last week for a 
 private detective. Did I get one? No. I had two 
 hundred applicants — and every one was a bloody 
 actor!" 
 
 The crowd got into place, and the producer moved 
 among them, posing and miming and explaining. 
 They followed his movements with intent eyes, pel- 
 manising each gesture, and practising it to them- 
 selves. The big frames of light were shifted from 
 position to position, and then for the next ten minutes 
 the crowd was drilled and drilled until it was pro- 
 ficient. They were not drilled by the method of 
 the old-style pantomime producer, with his oaths and 
 his personal affronts, who worked off his own temper 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 65 
 
 and exacerbated the tempers of his supers. They 
 were coached gently, slowly and with unfailing 
 courtesy and patience; and the helpless dud was not 
 summarily dismissed. He was politely put off. "I 
 think Mr. — er — Jones is it? I think I'll ask you 
 to stand aside for awhile. I can use you better in 
 the garden crowd." 
 
 A pleasant spirit prevailed; subdued, but pleasant; 
 and it was most prevalent at mid-day, when all the 
 workers, like freed school children, trooped upstairs 
 to the restaurant for lunch. All lunched together 
 — producer, principals (in their yellow make-up), 
 electricians, carpenters, commissionaires, porters, 
 clerks; and there was no line of demarcation. The 
 junior electrician sat next to the star, and the com- 
 missionaire next the producer. No one of them, 
 alone, could ensure the success of the film. Actor 
 or actress can sometimes "make" a play, but with 
 the film it is entirely a matter of joint effort, and 
 the "star" is no more important than any other. 
 The cinema is a democratic institution, and it was 
 pleasant to see the democratic spirit alive at head- 
 quarters. At afternoon tea, which was served down- 
 stairs in the studio, the same quiet amenities pre- 
 vailed. There was no bright chatter: it was not 
 the beanfeast that a touring company of actors would 
 have made it. Seriousness was the note, but it was a 
 seriousness which all shared. The subordinates — 
 the carpenters, machinists, and boys — had not that 
 
66 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 air of "When the hell are we going to finish and 
 get away?" One felt that they were intensely inter- 
 ested; intensely. 
 
 It seemed a pity to me, though, that all this effort 
 and intensity and money and thought should be given 
 to such poor material. The "artistes" were mere 
 lay figures, using neither wit nor understanding, but 
 moving to the order of the producer. And every- 
 thing in this studio was genuine. In the film-studio 
 they have no time for the creation of atmosphere 
 by illusion. The great drama may be performed on 
 a blank stage with a back-cloth, but the novelette of 
 the film cannot exist without wild changes of time 
 and place and the trapping of exclamatory externals. 
 Not the fine suggestion of reality, but the raw pic- 
 ture of reality is all it can achieve. (I am dreading 
 every day a "picture" of magic casements opening 
 on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn) . 
 The oak panelling in the dining-room set was not 
 carven cardboard; it was oak panelling, bought at 
 great expense. The brick fireplace was brick. The 
 books in the book-cases were real books. The jewels 
 were real jewels. The silk dresses and the furs, the 
 old tapestry, the Knellers and Lelys, were the real 
 thing, hired at great trouble. Long thought and 
 care had obviously gone to the making of this ob- 
 vious nonsense. The best that could be had was 
 gathered for the production of the utterly unworthy. 
 It was as though the Medici Society were to produce 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 67 
 
 in Riccardi type, on real vellum, each copy signed 
 by authors and artists, the current issues of "Comic 
 Cuts" and "Forget-me-Not." 
 
 Still, the film is with us and the cinema-palace is 
 with us, and they have become part of modern life. 
 The cinema palace has brightened dull suburbs, both 
 by its external bridecake appearance and its func- 
 tions, and the film has brought a flicker of outside 
 life into desolate villages. It has rejoiced us with 
 moving processions of radiant women and exquisite 
 children. Its pictures of living things in motion are 
 a wonder and a delight, and if only It wouldn't try 
 to tell stories, it would be wholly pleasant. But 
 with all its faults, it has filled an empty patch with 
 brightness. Think of the wet evenings, before the 
 cinema came, when we couldn't go out with Dolly, 
 or, if we did, had to stand in shelter under shop- 
 awnings; and of dreary Sunday nights of Winter, 
 when we went sadly up and down the monkeys' 
 parade. Now, a wet evening never disturbs the youth 
 of the town. In he goes to the cinema, for 
 nine-penn'orth of cheer-up and a little canood- 
 ling. . . . 
 
 But it's always the way. Directly things are made 
 a little easier for youth, along come the hard-faced 
 to say "You shan't." When one of the many repres- 
 sions and restrictions of youth is lifted, some busy- 
 body hears about It, and invents another. And now 
 there are actually horrid old people going about 
 
68 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the picture-palaces, trying to order managers to keep 
 the lights up, or. If that be Impracticable, to em- 
 ploy some one to keep an eye on the behaviour of 
 the audience in the cheaper seats. Damned impertin- 
 ence ! Happily, it is ineffectual. As the young man 
 of good family said to the magistrate, when fined 
 and seriously admonished for untowardly behaviour 
 on Hampstead Heath — "Your Worship, you can talk 
 and talk, and legislate and legislate, but you'll never 
 make loving unpopular." 
 
 The cinema is at once a refuge and a playground, 
 where the boys and the girls, despite the peepers, 
 "get off," more quickly and more comfortably than 
 in the High Street. During the intervals, when the 
 lights are up, they look round, and meet an eye, in- 
 viting or challenging; and when the lights are down 
 again, the boy changes seats and draws nearer, and 
 a question is hazarded. 
 
 "D'you like Wallace Reld?" 
 
 'T think I like William Hart best. I like men 
 who do brave things." 
 
 "Seen many of Lillian GIsh's pictures?" 
 
 "I see her in 'Broken Blossoms,' but I didn't like 
 that. Too miserable, I thought. I don't like sad 
 things. D'you come to the pictures much?" 
 
 And so on. Common ground is discovered in 
 "Charlie," and when his picture comes on, a hand 
 roams in the dark and finds another hand, and fingers 
 tighten; and there you are in the soft primrose mist, 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 69 
 
 with bits of the Fifth Symphony stealing through, 
 and magic cowboys and supernal villains and hill- 
 top heroines casting their magnificent shadows on 
 the white sheet and — ooh, let's get closer. That's 
 what the cinema is for; that's its true function — a 
 club for young lovers. The bright youth can always 
 find company in the cinema, afternoon and evenings, 
 though the afternoon girls are of a different class — 
 high-school and apt to prove expensive in the matter 
 of chocolates. 
 
 Then there are the lighting and the music of the 
 cinema. With lights down it has a wonderful colour 
 and appeal; a sort of luminous shade, through which, 
 from the front, the dusky faces of the audience seem 
 to glow palely. Features are lost; one sees only 
 something between shape and shadow, and curling 
 cigarette smoke. That light is the correct light for 
 the enjoyment of music. It rests the eye and refines 
 the ear, and I wish that our concert-artists and con- 
 ductors would adopt it for their recitals. 
 
 Seen at close quarters the faces are curiously pla- 
 cid and empty. I cannot define the state of mind of 
 the cinema audience ; I only know that It differs widely 
 from the state of mind of the theatre audience. The 
 theatre audience is homogeneous; it is gathered in 
 one common bond, inspired by one impulse — the de- 
 sire to see that play. The cinema audience may 
 have gathered from many mixed motives. It may 
 have come to see one of five or six pictures — ^to 
 
70 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 canoodle — to go to sleep — to take shelter — or to 
 have a rest between shopping. It Is vague, diffuse, 
 without common contact. It Is not Indeed an audi- 
 ence; It Is an assembly of units, each separate and 
 enclosed In his own darkness, and though each unit 
 is moved by the antics of Charlie, there Is no mass 
 spirit In the emotion or the laughter. It Is not the 
 laughter of a crowd, but some hundreds of single 
 laughs bursting out of dark corners and knowing 
 nothing of nor sharing the neighbouring laughs. At 
 a theatre strangers laugh towards and In accord with 
 each other; but the laughter of the cinema Is mor- 
 bid, secret; the damned laughter of the solitary. As 
 an assembly It is complacent and inert, never lit by 
 the receptive Interest of the theatre audience; and 
 the entertainment provided confirms it In Its compla- 
 cence. Nothing shocks; everything flows smoothly 
 towards the expected end, and the music flows with 
 It, and the young hold hands and the elders look 
 bovine. 
 
 It is a gathering of shadows looking upon 
 shadov/s, and it comes to life only when It steps from 
 the twilight drama Into the substantial streets. 
 
 And yet It was this mechanical process that pre- 
 sented to the world the mercurial personality of 
 Charles Chaplin, the only mime that it has yet dis- 
 covered; gave him, In fact, the only medium through 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 71 
 
 which he could express himself. I wonder if I can 
 sketch for you this rare, elusive character. . . . 
 
 A frail figure, slim footed, and with hands as 
 exquisite as the hands of Madame la Marquise. A 
 mass of brindled gray hair above a face of high 
 colour and nervous features. In conversation the 
 pale hands flash and flutter and the eyes twinkle; 
 the body sways and swings, and the head darts bird- 
 like back and forth, in time with the soft chanting 
 voice. His personality is as volatile as the lithe and 
 resilient figure. He has something of Hans Ander- 
 sen, of Ariel, freakish and elvish, and touched with 
 rumours of far-off fairyland tears. But something 
 more than pathos is here. Almost, I would say, he 
 is a tragic figure. Through the international agency 
 of the cinematograph he has achieved world-fame in 
 larger measure than any man of recent years, and he 
 knows the weariness and emptiness that accompany 
 excess. He is the playfellow of the world, and he 
 is the lonehest, saddest man I ever knew. 
 
 When I first heard that Charles Spencer Chaplin 
 wished to meet me, I was only mildly responsive. 
 But I was assured that Charles Chaplin was "dif- 
 ferent," and finally a rendezvous was made at a flat 
 in Bloomsbury. He is different. I was immediately 
 surprised and charmed. A certain transient glamour 
 hung about this young man to whose doings the front 
 pages of the big newspapers were given, and for a 
 
72 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 sight of whom people of all classes were doing vigil; 
 but discounting that, much remained; and the shy, 
 quiet figure that stepped back from the shadow of 
 the window was no mere film star, but a character 
 that made an instant appeal. I received an im- 
 pression of something very warm and bright and 
 vivid. There was radiance, but it was the radiance 
 of fluttering firelight rather than steady sunlight. 
 At first I think it was the pathos of his situation 
 that made him so endearing, for he was even then 
 being pursued by the crowd, and had taken this op- 
 portunity to get away for a quiet walk through nar- 
 row streets. But the charm remained, and remains 
 still. It is a part of himself that flows through every 
 movement and every gesture. He inspires imme- 
 diately, not admiration or respect, but affection; 
 and one gives it impulsively. 
 
 At eleven o'clock that night I took him alone for 
 a six-hour ramble through certain districts of East 
 London, whose dim streets made an apt setting for 
 his dark-flamed personality. I walked him through 
 byways of Hoxton, Spitalfields, Stepney, Ratcliff, 
 Shadwell, Wapping, Isle of Dogs; and as we walked 
 he opened his heart, and I understood. I, too, had 
 spent inhospitable hours of youth in these streets, 
 and knew his feeling about them, and could, in a 
 minor measure, appreciate what he felt in such high 
 degree at coming back to them with his treasure of 
 guerdons and fame. The disordered, gipsy-like 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 73 
 
 beauty of this part of London moved him to ecstasy 
 after so many years of the angular, gemlike cities of 
 Western America, and he talked freely and well 
 about it. 
 
 At two o'clock in the morning we rested on the 
 kerb of an alley-way in St. George's and he talked of 
 his bitter youth and his loneliness and his struggles, 
 and the ultimate bewildering triumph. Always, from 
 the day he left London, he had at the back of his 
 mind, the foolish dream of a triumphal Dick Whit- 
 tington return to the city whose stones were once so 
 cold to him; for the most philosophic temper, the 
 most aloof from the small human passion's, is not 
 wholly free from that attitude of "a time will come 
 when you shall hear me." Like all men who are 
 born in exile, outside the gracious Inclosures of life, 
 he does not forget those early years; and even now 
 that he has made that return it does not quite satisfy. 
 How should it? It is worth having — that hot mo- 
 ment when the scoffers are dumb and recognition is 
 accorded; the moment of attainment; but a tinge of 
 bitterness must always accompany it. Chaplin knew, 
 as all who have risen know, that the very people 
 who were clamouring and beseeching him to their 
 tables and receptions would not before have given 
 him a considered glance, much less a friendly hand 
 or a level greeting. They wanted to see, not him, 
 but the symbol of success — le dernier cri — and he 
 knew it. 
 
74 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 He owes little enough to England. To him it was 
 only a stony-hearted step-mother — not even the land 
 of his birth. Here, as he told me, he was up against 
 that social barrier that so impedes advancement 
 and achievement — a barrier that only the very great 
 or the very cunning can cross. America freely gave 
 him what he could never have wrested from Eng- 
 land — recognition and decent society. He spoke in. 
 chilly tones of his life in England as a touring vaude- 
 ville artist. Such a life is a succession of squalor 
 and mean things. A round of intolerable struggles 
 against the unendurable. The company was his so- 
 cial circle, and he lived and moved only in that sterile 
 circle. Although he had not then any achievements 
 to his credit, he had the potentialities. Although 
 he was then a youth with little learning, an unde- 
 veloped personality, and few graces, he had an In- 
 stinctive feeling for fine things. Although he had 
 no key by which he might escape, no title to a place 
 among the fresh, easy, cultivated minds where he de- 
 sired to be, he knew that he did not belong in the 
 rude station of life In which he was placed. Had 
 he remained in this country, he would have remained 
 In that station. He would never have got out. But 
 in America the questions are "What do you know?" 
 and "What can you do?" not, "Where do you come 
 from?" and "Who are your people?" "Are you 
 public school?" 
 
 To-day England Is ready to give all that it for- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 75 
 
 merly denied him. All doors are open to him, and 
 he is beckoned here and there by social leaders. 
 But he does not want them. Well might he and 
 others who have succeeded after lean years employ 
 to these lion-hunters the terms of a famous letter: 
 "The notice which you have been pleased to take of 
 my labours, had it been early had been kind; but it 
 has been delayed till I am indifferent and cannot 
 enjoy it . . . till I am known and do not want it." 
 But twice during our ramble — once in Mile End 
 Road and once in Hoxton — he was recognised, and 
 the midnight crowd gathered and surrounded him. 
 There, it was the real thing — not the vulgar desire 
 of the hostess to feed the latest lion, but a burst of 
 hearty affection, a welcome to an old friend. He 
 has played himself into the hearts of the simple 
 people, and they love him. The film "Charlie" is a 
 figure that they understand, for it Is a type of 
 thwarted ambitions, of futile strivings and forlorn 
 makeshifts for better things. As I watched the frail 
 figure struggling against this burst of enthusiasm, 
 in which voices hot with emotion, voices of men and 
 women, cried boisterous messages of good will to 
 "our Charhe," I was foolishly moved. No Prime 
 Minister could have so fired a crowd. No Prince 
 of the House of Windsor could have commanded 
 that wave of sheer delight. He might have had the 
 crowd and the noise, but not the rich surge of af- 
 fection. A prince is only a spectacle, a symbol of 
 
76 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 nationhood, but this was a known friend, one of 
 themselves, and they treated him so. It was no mere 
 instinct of the mob. They did not gather to stare 
 at him. Each member of that crowd wanted pri- 
 vately to touch him, to enfold him, to thank him for 
 cheering them up. And they could do so without 
 reservation or compunction, for they could not have 
 helped him in his early years — they were without 
 the power. I do not attempt to explain why this 
 one man, of all other "comics" of stage and film has 
 so touched the hearts of adulation. It is beyond me. 
 I could only stand and envy the man who had done 
 it. 
 
 Yet he found little delight in it. Rather, he was 
 bewildered. I think his success staggers or frightens 
 him. Where another might be spoiled he is dazed. 
 The "Charlie," the figure of fun that he created in a 
 casual moment, has grown upon him like a Franken- 
 stein monster. It and its world-wide popularity have 
 become a burden to him. That it has not wholly 
 crushed him, ejected his true self and taken posses- 
 sion of him, is proof of a strong character. Your 
 ordinary actor is always an actor "on" and "off." 
 But as I walked and talked with Chaplin I found my- 
 self trying vainly to connect him, by some gesture 
 or attitude, with the world-famous "Charlie." 
 There was no trace of it. When, a little later, I saw 
 one of his films, I again tried to see through the 
 makeup the Chaplin I had met, and again I failed. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 77 
 
 The clown of the films is purely a studio creature, 
 having little in common with its creator; for Chaplin 
 is not a funny man. He is a great actor of comic 
 parts. Every second of his pictures is acted, and 
 when he is not acting, he casts off "Charlie," drops 
 the mask of the world's fool, and his queer, glamor- 
 ous personality is released again. 
 
 He described to me the first conception of his 
 figure of fun — the poor fool, of forlorn attitudes, 
 who would be a gentleman, and never can; who 
 would do fine and beautiful things, and always does 
 them in the wrong way and earns kicks in place of 
 acceptance and approval. At every turn the world 
 beats him, and because he cannot fight it he puts his 
 thumb to his nose. He rescues fair damsels, and 
 finds that they are not fair. He departs on great 
 enterprises that crumble to rubbish at his first touch. 
 He builds castles in the air, and they fall and crush 
 him. He picks up diamonds, and they turn to broken 
 glass and cut his fingers; and at the world's disdain 
 he shrugs his shoulders and answers its scorn with 
 rude jests and extravagant antics. He is sometimes 
 an ignoble Don Quixote, sometimes a gallant Pistol, 
 and in other aspects a sort of battered Pierrot, with 
 a mordant dash of the satyr. All other figures of 
 fun in literature and drama have associates or foils. 
 "Charlie," in all his escapades, is alone. He is the 
 outcast, the exile, sometimes getting a foot within the 
 gates, but ultimately being driven out, hopping 
 
78 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 lamely, with ill-timed nonchalance, on the damaged 
 foot. He throws a custard pie in the world's face 
 as a gesture of protest. He kicks policemen lest 
 himself be kicked. There is no exuberance in the 
 kick; it is no outburst of vitality. It is deliberate 
 and considered. Behind every farcical gesture is a 
 deadly intent. Never do the eyes, in his most strenu- 
 ous battles with authority, lose their deep-sunken 
 haunting grief. Always he is the unsatisfied, venting 
 his chagrin in a heart-broken levity of quips and 
 capers. Chaplin realised that there is nothing more 
 generally funny than the solemn clown, and in 
 "Charlie" he accidentally made a world- fool; 
 though, I think, certain memories of early youth 
 went to its making. 
 
 But I am more interested in the man than his 
 work. When, at four o'clock in the morning, he 
 came home with me to Highgate and sat round the 
 fire, I felt still more warmly his charm and still more 
 sharply his essential discontent. I do not mean that 
 he is miserable — he is indeed one of the merriest of 
 companions; but he is burdened with a deep-rooted 
 disquiet. He is the shadow-friend of millions 
 throughout the world, and he is lonely. He is tired, 
 too, and worn, this young man whose name and 
 face are known in every habitable part of the world. 
 It is not a temporary fatigue, as of a man who is 
 overworking or running at too high a pitch. His 
 weariness, I think, lies deeper. It is of the spirit. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 79 
 
 To the quick melancholy of the Latins — for he is 
 Anglo-French, and was born at Fontainebleau — is 
 added that unrest which men miscall the artistic tem- 
 perament. But even without these he could not, I 
 think, command happiness. He Is still an exile, seek- 
 ing for something that the world cannot give him. It 
 has given him much — great abilities, fame, fortune, 
 applause; yet it has given him, for his needs, little. 
 The irony that pursues genius has not let him escape. 
 He is hungry for affection and friendship, and he 
 cannot hold them. With the very charm that draws 
 would-be friends towards him goes a perverse trick 
 of repulsing them. He desires friendship, yet has 
 not the capacity for it. "I am egocentric," he con- 
 fessed. To children everywhere his name brings 
 gurgles of delight; and children embarrass him. He 
 has added one more to the great gallery of comic 
 figures — Falstaff, Pickwick, Don Quixote, Uncle 
 Toby, Micawber, Touchstone, Tartarin, Punchinello 
 — and he hates "Charlie." 
 
 He sat by the fire, curled up in a corner of a deep 
 armchair like a tired child, eating shortbread and 
 drinking wine and talking, talking, flashing from 
 theme to theme with the disconcerting leaps of the 
 cinematograph. He talked of the state of Europe, 
 of relativity, of Benedetto Croce, of the possibility 
 of a British Labour Government, of the fluidity of 
 American social life, and he returned again and again 
 to the subject of England. "It stifles me," he said. 
 
80 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 "I'm afraid of it — it's all so set and solid and ar- 
 ranged. Groups and classes. If I stayed here, I 
 know I should go back to what I was. They told 
 me that the war had changed England — had washed 
 out boundaries and dividing lines. It hasn't. It's 
 left you even more class-conscious than before. The 
 country's still a mass of little regiments, each moving 
 to its own rules. You've still the County People, 
 the 'Varsity sets, the military caste — the Governing 
 Classes, and the Working Classes. Even your sports 
 are still divided. For one set, there are hunting, 
 racing, yachting, polo, shooting, golf, tennis; and for 
 the other cricket, football and betting. In America 
 life is freer. There you can make your own life and 
 find your own place among the people who interest 
 you." 
 
 And Chaplin has surrounded himself with quiet, 
 pleasant people. Not his those monstrous antics of 
 the young men and women whose empty heads have 
 been shaken by wealth and mob worship. He is not 
 one of the cafe-hotel-evening-party crowd. When 
 the "shop" is shut, he gets well away from It and 
 from the gum-chewing crowd to whom life Is a piece 
 of film and its prizes Great Possessions. You must 
 see him as an unpretentious man, spending his eve- 
 nings at home with a few friends and books and 
 music. He Is deeply read In philosophy, social his- 
 tory, and economics. His wants are simple, and, 
 although he has a vast Income, he lives on but a 
 
IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 81 
 
 portion of it and shares everything with his brother 
 Syd Chaplin. During the day he works, and works 
 furiously, as a man works when seeking distraction, 
 or respite from his troubled Inner self. What he 
 will do next I do not know. He seems to be a man 
 without aim or hope. What it is he wants, what he 
 is seeking, to ensure a little heart's ease I do not 
 know. I don't think he knows himself. This young 
 man worked for an end, and in a few years he 
 achieved it, and the world now stretches emptily be- 
 fore him. 
 
 I have here tried to present some picture of this 
 strange, self-contradictory character; but It Is a 
 mere random sketch In outline, and gives nothing of 
 the glittering, clustering light and shade of the origi- 
 nal. You cannot pin him to paper. Even were he 
 obscure, a mere nobody, without the Imposed colour- 
 ing of "Charlie" and world- popularity, he would 
 be a notable subject, for he has that wonderful, Im- 
 palpable gift of attraction which is the greater part 
 of Mr. Lloyd George's power. You feel his pres- 
 ence in a room, and are conscious of something want- 
 ing when he departs. He has the rich-hued quality 
 of Alvan In "The Tragic Comedians." You feel 
 that he Is capable of anything. And when you con- 
 nect him with "Charhe" the puzzle grows and you 
 give It up. The ambition that served and guided 
 him for ten years Is satisfied; but he is still unsatis- 
 
82 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 fied. The world has discovered him, but he has not 
 yet found himself. But he has discovered the weari- 
 ness of repeated emotion, and he is a man who lives 
 on and by his emotions. 
 
— Ill— 
 
 IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 
 
 **13 LIMEY!" said the Duchess, "this asparagus 
 
 JLJ is all right." 
 
 Years ago, when I first heard of this opening of 
 a realistic society serial, I followed the custom of 
 royalty and "laughed heartily." But now it isn't so 
 funny; the incongruity isn't so marked. Since then 
 I have heard a Duchess swear, and have met a Duke 
 whose table manners were really odious. Yes, I 
 have moved a little in the streets of rich men, among 
 the demirepingtons; but I was always glad to get 
 out again, back to nature. 
 
 Mayfair and St. James are a little depressing to 
 the sanguine. They have nothing to say, and they 
 don't say it. They don't have to say it. There they 
 are, aloof and self-sufficient; there is nothing to be 
 said; and their most emphatic gesture is a languid 
 glance backward at history and tradition. Pall Mall, 
 I think, Is the saddest street in London. It has noth- 
 ing to break its grievous monotony. It is the street 
 of old men — distant In every sense from the street 
 of beautiful children. It is worn and grey. It is 
 sober and severe. Its face is set in heavy lines, and 
 
 its mood is set. It is the England that makes laws 
 
 83 
 
84 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 and makes wars; the England that fears Bolshevism; 
 the England that writes to the Times; recreant, for- 
 bidding England, glowering at youth and the new 
 spirit and the new system. There is nothing meaner 
 than the charity of these people; nothing poorer than 
 their riches; nothing sadder than their rejoicings. 
 
 Why the rich Englishman, the most unclubbable 
 of men, joins a club, I don't know. But his clubs 
 reflect his spirit very clearly. They partake of the 
 atmosphere of the church vestry and the public li- 
 brary and the railway waiting-room. Men sit about, 
 not comfortably, but as men sit when waiting for 
 some occasion — the arrival of a train or the entry of 
 the Chairman. They look as though they would be 
 glad if something happened — anything — so long as 
 It eased the tension. They H'm and they G'nrr, and 
 they nod to one another; and they move with serious 
 mien and obviously first-class carriage. I have not 
 often seen an Englishman bored in his own home; 
 but every Englishman in a club has an air of bore- 
 dom at breaklngpolnt. 
 
 Yet, even in this street of the sedate mood, I have 
 had adventures. Even the clubs of rich men some- 
 times throw up the quaint occasion. . . . 
 
 The only man I know who belongs to a West End 
 Club asked me the other night If I would dine with 
 him at the Athenaeum upon a certain evening. I 
 said I would, and to the Athenaeum I went, a little 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 85 
 
 abashed and a little fluttered at the prospect of sit- 
 ting as a guest in that august institution. 
 
 Its cloistral calm is one of the beauties of London. 
 As I stood in its great hall, after giving my name to 
 a retainer of the nobility, I felt a little depressed 
 and conscious of my shapeless clothes. I noticed 
 other shabby and down-at-heel fellows moving about 
 the hall — members of the staff, I supposed. Through 
 a glass door I perceived many gleaming heads bowed 
 over newspapers and reviews. Very noble they 
 looked, very grave, very rich in the spirit of Debrett 
 and of mellow English landscapes. And then the 
 old retainer stopped one of the unkempt figures in 
 the hall and addressed him as Sir Charles; and then 
 I was shown into the smoking room; and I saw with 
 something of relief that all its occupants were as 
 shabby as myself. I don't know why this relaxed 
 my feelings, but It did. I felt I could talk to any of 
 them. Some of them I recognised from published 
 portraits — a playwright, a critic, a scientist, a 
 philosopher — just ordinary people. And when I 
 had been among them some few minutes I recognised 
 how well their shabblness suited both themselves and 
 the spirit of the club. Its atmosphere Is a sort of 
 animated hush, and that seemed to be the note of 
 the company. Although the architectural scheme of 
 the hall is a little ornate, the place itself Is governed 
 by a stately simplicity. Its dining-room is simple, 
 and Its kitchen makes no attempt at attracting re- 
 
86 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 mark to itself. Fearful as I was at my first visit to 
 the Athenseum, I feel now, after several visits, that 
 it is the most serene and easy club in London, where 
 the most diffident creature may be at home. 
 
 But how different the club to which my friend now 
 conducted me ! Melbourne Inman, he said, was giv- 
 ing a display at his "other" club, and we would go 
 there. His other club was the Marlborough, and in 
 ten minutes, I found myself among a group of ex- 
 quisites in full evening toilet, all alert, calm and 
 clean, standing or pacing in graceful but ready at- 
 tendance upon the dinner-gong. The Marlborough 
 is a small club, founded by Edward VIL Its 
 apartments are such as its members would have in 
 their own homes. There is nothing obtrusive and 
 nothing wanting. But the "note" is richer and deeper 
 than the note of the Athenaeum; more set; more of 
 the solid rich earth of the English shires than of the 
 fluency of speculative thought. Its atmosphere is 
 suave and steady, and never wind blows loudly. In 
 this domain it is always afternoon. Earls and 
 Barons paced around me. They lounged or pot- 
 tered. Oh, beautifully they lounged! Decidedly I 
 was among the People and the Accent. How ele- 
 gantly they carried their clothes! How beautifully 
 their beautiful manner wasn't apparent. How per- 
 fectly their shirt-fronts rested upon their noble 
 chests, and their coats upon their shoulders : none 
 of those little gaps or sticking-out bits that you and 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 87 
 
 I experience. How courtier-like were these mem- 
 bers of the Court's Own Club — so that you could 
 never have placed them as courtiers or as anything 
 but idle gentlemen. I had expected to find them 
 "talking passionately about the laws in a low under- 
 tone," but the talk I heard was the talk you may 
 hear in any suburban railway carriage. They bar- 
 tered with one another inane quotations from the 
 newspapers. They — 
 
 Then I knew something had happened. There 
 was a stir, a breath, as it were, sweeping slowly 
 through the untroubled air of that room; a freshen- 
 ing of the atmosphere as though a window had been 
 opened in a parlour. 
 
 Melbourne Inman had arrived. ... 
 
 A personality had entered, and had blotted out 
 the exquisite negligibles; and its vibrations went 
 through and through the Marlborough Club. From 
 Earls and Barons and Viscounts, and the fine flower 
 of our English fields, he stood out; a piece of be- 
 haviour of which no courtier would be guilty. But 
 he didn't mean to do it, I'm sure. He looked flushed 
 and flurried. He walked with ungainly steps. He 
 didn't seem quite comfortable in this galley. He 
 looked as uncomfortable as I felt I looked, and I 
 sent him a thought-wave of sympathy at finding an- 
 other soul not at ease in this temple of Zion. But 
 perhaps he wasn't uncomfortable; he must be used 
 to such doings ; perhaps he was only bored. 
 
88 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 But certainly he looked shy, spoke very quietly, 
 and, at dinner, did little but smile and agree with the 
 gracious company that attended and deferred to him. 
 But how he effaced them all! At the guest's table 
 were five others; but there was only one that drew 
 the eye, and that the smallest, least impressive of 
 them. That table in a quiet corner was the centre 
 of the room, and a stranger entering would instinc- 
 tively have looked first at that party. Meanwhile 
 Inman ate and beamed and murmured Yes and No, 
 looking up only at intervals. 
 
 But in the billiards room, what a change. His 
 diffident manner he threw away with his coat. He 
 beamed no more. His face set In quiet lines. And 
 when he drew his cue from his case, it was as though 
 he drew a sword and assumed a pose that made these 
 others but sorry creatures. The moment it was In 
 his hands the air of championship rayed out from 
 him. Here was the craftsman among his materials, 
 forgetful of the occasion, forgetful of courtiers and 
 kings. He seemed to banish his hosts from his 
 radius; they were not there. The crowd poured 
 down and stood with intent eyes watching his pre- 
 parations, and he had not even a glance for them. 
 He was bursting with Inmanity. The room was 
 clogged with Inman and billiards table. 
 
 With magnificent gesture he stretched his cue and 
 chalked it. With the manner of a master he exam- 
 ined the balls. If only those inept folk who are 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 89 
 
 called upon to perform the solemn rite of laying a 
 foundation stone or launching a ship, or unveiling a 
 statue — which is usually fumbled, with a miserable 
 compromise between the reverent and the casual, the 
 aloof and the Intimate — If only these people had a 
 touch of the true greatness of Inman or Irving or 
 W. G. Grace or General Booth ! With half-closed 
 eyelids he stood waiting for his opponent — the crack 
 player of the Club. Then he went to the table with 
 something of the brilliant aplomb of the fire engine. 
 
 The match began. Five hundred up. Fuller and 
 fuller did Inman grow. Under the brilliant light 
 one saw a ruddy, strained face, taut mouth, the eyes 
 heavy. Whatever expression It held lay about the 
 prominent eyebrows. For the rest one saw only a 
 pair of arms and stout but sensitive hands. He 
 moved round the table with quick short steps, un- 
 gracefully; but clearly deportment didn't Interest 
 him. Otherwise, his feet would have been as lithe as 
 his hands. 
 
 It was an exhibition match, and he exhibited. He 
 was showing-off, but It was gorgeous showing-off. 
 He accomplished things that, I think, he would never 
 have attempted In a match; Impossible things, It 
 seemed to me, against all the laws of angles. He 
 seemed to be above those laws. He seemed to be 
 master of the balls, and to send them about his busi- 
 ness as he would. It was devilment — a white ball 
 streaming across green cloth to go here, there, back, 
 
90 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 across, at the lightest touch of the wizard's wand. 
 It thrilled me as, I fancy, folk were thrilled by Paga- 
 nini's devilish mastery of the fiddle. 
 
 When, at some great burst of applause, he turned 
 in acknowledgment, with what nice sense he did it. 
 With what exquisite poise he assumed and twitched 
 the native mantle of those courtiers. And how de- 
 liciously he missed and flummoxed, so that his op- 
 ponent should have a chance at the table; and then 
 retired to the shadow and sat motionless, eyes on 
 the table, seeming to freeze the balls where they 
 lay. 
 
 Oh, pretty fellow! 
 
 But that wasn't my only adventure in the streets 
 of rich men. I have done other wonderful things. 
 I have even lunched in Berkeley Square. Yes, I 
 have. That in itself is an adventure, but at the lunch 
 I made the acquaintance of Solomon, the pianist, and 
 a secret fealty was sworn between us over a mutual 
 delight in fried potatoes. 
 
 Solomon is an arresting personality, and his taste 
 for fried potatoes is not out of character, for he 
 was born in London, well within the sound of Bow 
 Bells, and belongs to several generations of London- 
 ers. He is our only Cockney pianist. My first meet- 
 ing with him in Berkeley Square left me with an 
 impression of moonlight, and a desire to see him 
 outside Berkeley Square in daylight. Since then we 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 91 
 
 have had many talks and meetings, but the first im- 
 pression remains. His dark head, the dark eyes 
 flashing with sombre tints, like water at midnight, 
 the dark colour, and the deep voice that seldom.rises 
 above a murmur, all suggested night; but it is night 
 lit by the clear high spirit of youth that hovers about 
 him and is seen In the twinkling lips and in his atti- 
 tudes and gestures. 
 
 You have not been five minutes in his company 
 before you discover that he has heights and depths. 
 He Is a wonder, and everybody wonders at him. I 
 think he wonders at himself. He gives no sign of it, 
 but his very seriousness Implies a consciousness of 
 gifts which must be carefully guarded and used only 
 to the highest purpose. Many, no doubt, will re- 
 member him as a little boy of ten, In the usual velvet 
 suit of the prodigy — a tiny figure that could hardly 
 be distinguished from the great piano on the great 
 platform of that great Coliseum — the Albert Hall. 
 He was eight years old when he first appeared as a 
 soloist and people wondered then at the prodigious 
 technique and temperament of this solemn elf. But 
 at the age of twelve he disappeared, and It was as- 
 sumed that he had gone the way of all prodigies, 
 and would be heard of no more. 
 
 They were wrong, and I think his appearances as 
 an adult pianist have shown that he was no mere 
 season's sensation. What happened was that a group 
 of people recognised the boy's ability, and Interested 
 
92 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 themselves in his career; for Solomon was born with 
 genius only, and the silver spoon was missing. They 
 knew that if he were kept at work throughout adol- 
 escence he would become stale, and his growing 
 genius would be thwarted and perhaps killed. In 
 19 1 6, therefore, Percy Colson, the composer, formed 
 a small committee of music-lovers, who made it their 
 business to take him off the public platform and to 
 control his musical education. The committee sent 
 him to the Continent, and there he remained for six 
 years studying under Duprey and Cortot; and he was 
 not permitted to make a public appearance until his 
 tutors and guardians were fully satisfied with him. 
 Cortot, himself a master, has hailed him as the com- 
 ing master, and is watching his first flight with in- 
 terest. 
 
 With all his temperament, which he reserves ex- 
 clusively for his work, and with all his devotion to 
 his work, he is a happy human boy. He is still 
 "Solomon." He was born with another name, but he 
 wishes to be known only by his first name. He is still 
 in his 'teens, and loves all the things that most ap- 
 peal to that age. Next to his piano he loves his 
 push-bike; and two great delights are the Palladium 
 music-hall and fried potatoes. If he is not in the 
 mood, you cannot get him to talk of music, or of his 
 new feelings about a hackneyed passage of Schumann 
 or Brahms; but he will talk for half an hour of 
 Harry Weldon, Billy Merson, and Charles Austin; 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 93 
 
 and when you would have him at the piano, he will 
 offer you a dish of fried potatoes. 
 
 Restful and serene In manner, he arrests attention 
 at first glance. Although quiet and reticent, he has 
 not a trace of the morbidity that sometimes goes 
 with youthful genius. "He has eyes of youth; he 
 speaks April and May." 
 
 It Is my fervent hope that he will not fall, as so 
 many musicians do fall. Into those places that are as 
 the plague to the artist, and quickly destroy him. I 
 mean society drawing-rooms and the streets of rich 
 men. But I think he has too deep and Helnesque a 
 sense of humour to permit himself to be lionised. 
 I think that where another might be found at Lady 
 DInkum's reception, Solomon will be found In the 
 grand circle at the Palladium, or buying bananas In 
 Little Newport Street, or eating fried potatoes at a 
 street corner. 
 
 There is in the West End little character of the 
 sort one finds in the humbler streets; no downright, 
 deeply-lined, twisted, bitten-In character. The people 
 who live in these parts are trained to keep in check 
 any little Idiosyncrasies that mark them from their 
 fellows, and the side-streets of Piccadilly offer noth- 
 ing of fantasy or flamboyance. But here and there, 
 among the workers of these side-streets, you do hap- 
 pen upon whimsical water-colour character, laid, as 
 it were, upon superfine deckle-edged paper; and In 
 
94 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the old mews of May fair many hard-up people have 
 found lodging. These mews, which once sheltered 
 the horses, carriages, and grooms of the rich, are 
 useless as garages, and some of them have lately 
 been converted into dwellings and studios. In Apple 
 Tree Yard lives William Nicholson, and W. H. 
 Davles, the poet, has renounced the broad highways 
 of the country for an elegant postal address. You 
 will find him in a true poet's garret off Brook Street, 
 and you will meet him most mornings in Bond Street, 
 and will wonder what he is doing there, among ele- 
 gant men and their groomed trollops. The cuckoo 
 has been heard in Hyde Park; people have written 
 to the papers about it; but the thrush in Bond Street 
 is a matter, more marvellous and serious. Had 
 Davies settled in Runcorn or Oldham or Ashton-in- 
 Makerfield, the news would have saddened us but 
 not perplexed us. But Davies in Bond Street is 
 Wrong, as Wrong as a Bond Street lady in the cow- 
 shed. Yet it is pleasant to meet him there; to find 
 one touch of true grace in this vapid street. He 
 plods along with stick and pipe, a short figure, with 
 face upturned, always upturned, the large brown 
 eyes settled serenely upon things more durable than 
 gold-tipped cigarettes and handbags. He brings to 
 this street of Ignoble dignities a breath of old 
 brotherhood with the simplicities. He sends a note 
 of Mozartian song across this musical-comedy stage. 
 More in the key of the West End is friend Bot- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 95 
 
 torn (old B.) of Duke Street. He was once a news- 
 agent, but is now a tobacconist in town and a farmer 
 in Essex. He is a Midsummer Night's Dream Child. 
 He is a sort of brother to Davy Stephens of Dublin. 
 He respects nobody and his attitude is fully licensed. 
 When he was a newsagent he wrote his own news- 
 bills, facetiously, in chalk, on two large slates hung 
 outside his shops. Each bill dug into the private life 
 of some local friend or celebrity. Thus : 
 
 SCENE IN PICCADILLY 
 DR. DUSTIN BACKS A WINNER 
 
 CRISIS IN THE VV^EST 
 MR. ELLIS GOES HOME EARLY 
 
 THE SECOND ADVENT 
 MR. CHAPLIN ARRIVES AT THE RITZ 
 
 On any morning walk about Piccadilly, you are 
 sure to meet Bottom, and his airy salutation will 
 brighten the worst of days — and wet days are more 
 disheartening In Piccadilly than In any other street. 
 But for a lesson In heartiness and uplift, you should 
 make the acquaintance of Mr. Proops. He is most 
 useful on those days when you have no money and 
 no hope. He won't lend you any money, but he will 
 send you away with the sense that the year's at the 
 Spring and all's right with the world. You are stroll- 
 
96 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 ing aimlessly along that section of Piccadilly where 
 are Hatchard's, Fortnum and Mason's, Hatchett's, 
 Sotheran's, Bond Street, and the Ritz. Suddenly, 
 somebody stops, head thrown back in surprise and 
 gratification. A hand shoots towards you. 
 
 "Ha ! Well, well, well. Let me shake you by 
 the hand, my good and honest friend. The first true 
 man I have seen this week. Does the world wag its 
 tail at you? In other words, good brother, did you 
 back All Over yesterday, or not? No? Well, well, 
 well!" 
 
 Proops is a sort of Bardolph, strutting always, 
 whether he is in funds or without a bean. He wears 
 his panache for the world's amusement, and he can 
 approach you with the air of lending you money, and 
 leave you his creditor. Only the West End produces 
 that kind of men. 
 
 The figure I most like to meet in the West is a 
 figure that is only to be seen during the London sea- 
 son; the figure of Frank Crowninshield, editor of 
 New York's debonair monthly "Vanity Fair." The 
 post fits him. The casual reader of the magazine, 
 visualising idly its editor, would visualise just such a 
 personality as Frank Crowninshield. One would 
 say that he was created by Mr. Beerbohm. His rich, 
 yet delicate character belongs to the deckle-edged 
 pages of Max. Gay, disarmingly cynical, yet impul- 
 sive and warm as the South, and as piquant as the 
 South-east, he bafiles the Interpreter. And I have a 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 97 
 
 fancy that he means to baffle you. That is the way 
 of the decorative character; he decorates so that the 
 common people shall not invade and disturb the true 
 self. Crowninshield is wholly modern, but he im- 
 poses upon his modernity the dash and charm of the 
 cavalier which glitter in his very name. He loves 
 the arts and the graces, but I think he loves life 
 more. Wherever the movement is, there is Crown- 
 inshield. He lights up his circle and sets it flaming 
 and flickering, while he himself remains serene and 
 steady. He rides on the whirlwind and directs the 
 storm. That is the secret of the good Prime Minis- 
 ter and the good editor. Crowninshield has it in large 
 measure. It is difficult to decorate a rococo street 
 like Piccadilly, but Crowninshield does decorate it 
 — and stimulate it. His tall swaying figure, his 
 manner, his smile, and his delight at seeing you out 
 of all London's millions, at once hearten and soothe 
 your nerves. He is champagne and cigar in one. 
 One of my adventures into the streets of rich men 
 stands out very clearly. This was a visit to Clar- 
 idge's. Claridge's is the hotel of the Complete Rich. 
 It is a sort of semi-public Athenaeum — serene, aloof, 
 exclusive. There is little movement in its main hall; 
 none of the diligent or subdued bustle of other 
 hotels. Everything goes on wheels, and the wheels 
 are cased in velvet. I imagine it is something like 
 the reception rooms of Buckingham Palace. Cer- 
 tainly it is full of traps for the inexperienced. The 
 
98 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 worst trap of all lies in this — there are no uniforms 
 at Claridge's; and if you don't know that (I didn't) 
 you may easily blister your self-respect for your 
 whole week. For fifteen minutes I hung about that 
 hall in the company of agreeable and apparently idle 
 young gentlemen in elegant morning dress, before 
 one of them rescued me and showed me to the lift. 
 Even if you know that these young gentlemen are 
 attendants, there's always the risk of addressing the 
 one who isn't (these foreign princes who stay at 
 Claridge's are not always dressed by Savlle Row) . 
 You have to take your chance, as, at Madame Tus- 
 saud's, you offer your sixpence to the programme 
 girl, and take your chance whether she's a dummy. 
 Happily I got through without any bloomers, and 
 was shown to the guest I had gone to see — Mr. 
 Isidore de Lara. Here is another deckle-edged 
 figure. His figure is short, but it carries a head of 
 the kind called leonine, with an ample iron-grey mane. 
 His suave and genial manner suits the head. He 
 has the English repose, but one is sensible now and 
 then of a dash of the Latin. It leaps from his eyes 
 and from the quick inflections of the voice. Why 
 the composer of "Messaline" should have chosen to 
 set a rag-tag London song of mine, I don't know. 
 But he had so chosen, and I went to Claridge's to 
 hear his setting tried over. I have suggested the at- 
 mosphere of Claridge's. I now give you the first 
 verse of that song: 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 99 
 
 He was a bad glad sailor-man. 
 
 Tan-tan-ta-ran-tan-tare-o ! 
 You never could find a haler man. 
 
 Tan-tan-ta-ran-tan-tare ! 
 All human wickedness he knew 
 From Milwall Docks to Pi-chi-lu. 
 He loved all things that make us gay — 
 He'd spit his juice ten yards away, 
 
 And roundly he'd declare — o! 
 "It isn't so much that I want yer beer 
 As yer bloody good company ! 
 
 Whrow-ow-Whrow ! 
 Bloody good companeel 
 Wow ! 
 
 And now, please, Imagine a pink-and-white bed- 
 room at Claridge's; Isidore de Lara, grey and bland, 
 at the piano, myself standing over him; and the two 
 of us shouting that song, with gusto on the "Wows" 
 and the epithet. . . . Four times that song rang 
 through the green velvet corridors. Four times did 
 sacrilege persist. Princes, diplomats, runaway prin- 
 cesses, exiled monarchs, 'financiers, courtiers, 
 and other truly great folk have sought refuge at 
 Claridge's, appreciating its chaste solitude and re- 
 pose. I like to think that I was In part responsible 
 for what I may call the Rape of Claridge's. 
 Whether Mr. de Lara heard about it afterwards, I 
 don't know. Probably not. Claridge's, I thinks 
 would have difficulty In framing a complaint against 
 such disorder. There are some things, you 
 
100 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 know . . . Well, what could Buckingham Palace do 
 if somebody got Sam Mayo to give one of his songs 
 at a Drawing Room? 
 
 A year ago come Valentine's Day I was taken, for 
 the first time, to see one of the sights of London. 
 I was taken to the House of Commons. The House 
 is one of those places to which the Cockney never 
 goes. Others are the Tower, St. Paul's, the British 
 Museum, Mme. Tussaud's, the National Gallery, 
 the Abbey, and the Crystal Palace. I wouldn't have 
 gone then, but for a wet night. But in the middle 
 of a fair afternoon rain came down a little too 
 heavily for comfort, and as neither Monk nor I 
 had money for theatres, cinemas, restaurants or 
 other public shelters, Monk said "Let's go to the 
 House. I can always get in there." 
 
 So we went to the House, I with a sense of high 
 adventure. Everything Once is my motto. I was 
 going to note the very heart-throbs of this England 
 of ours. I was going to see for the first time the 
 Mother of all Parliaments. I was going to see 
 mighty minds in labour, and to assist in the bringing- 
 forth of world-ideas. I was going to see the essence 
 of my country, to gaze upon those few, chosen from 
 the millions of our populace, who mould a mighty 
 state's decrees and shape the whisper of a throne. 
 I was going to . . . 
 
 Then Monk said, "sh!" and J subdued myself to 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 101 
 
 the tone proper to such an occasion. Might, ma- 
 jesty, dominion and power were to be manifested. I 
 entered the halls with the suitable mien and gait, 
 something between the style of a bishop at the altar 
 and a Cabinet Minister kissing hands. I stepped 
 reverently yet sturdily. I doffed my hat. I saluted 
 the soul of England with head erect. I entered the 
 House of Commons. 
 
 And all my soul-preparation was wasted. I need 
 not have gone through these motions at all. I had 
 thought I was attending a Council of the Elders of 
 the Greatest Nation of the Earth. Nothing, like it. 
 I was actually attending the Greatest Show on Earth. 
 Many theatrical and circus-managers have made that 
 extravagant claim for their shows, but there's only 
 one proof of it, and that is the queue at the box- 
 office. And the House of Commons has them all 
 beaten. Weather and circumstances, hard times, 
 good times, serious times, trivial times, good turns, 
 bad turns, — these make no difference to the ticket- 
 office of the House. Theatres and cinemas may com- 
 plain of the slump, and assign varying causes to it, — 
 the times, the fine weather, the increasing critical 
 faculty of the public — but the House is untouched 
 by these things. Matinee or evening, always there's 
 a queue lined up In the lobby; and If you get there 
 a few minutes after time, the House Is full, and you 
 have to wait your turn. When the theatres and 
 
102 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 cinemas can't fill one-tenth of their seats, the House 
 is turning people away nightly. 
 
 And the crowd is justified. The House puts up a 
 good show. It is the best variety house in the coun- 
 try, and, like the police court, it is free. Even its 
 dud turns don't empty the seats. They may empty 
 the Members' benches, but the public eat up every 
 bit of the show, and find it all good; and when the 
 Hon. Member for Mutton-in-the-Marsh rises to 
 promote a bill for the provision of tramways at Mut- 
 ton, the gallery crowd leans a bit further over the 
 rail and settles down. "Sh! This is going to be 
 good !" Talk about "Chu Chin Chow" and its record 
 run. Here's a show that has been playing for cen- 
 turies and still draws a full house. 
 
 We were received in the outer hall by a policeman. 
 He passed us on to another policeman, who showed 
 us to another policeman, who told us to sit down. 
 I had never seen so many policemen in any East End 
 highway as here. After a wait of some minutes in 
 the picture-gallery we were beckoned forward and 
 taken through the Lobby and upstairs. Here at the 
 top of the stairs sat a personage in evening dress, 
 decorated with a medal, whether for regular at- 
 tendance or general proficiency, I could not tell. 
 Before him was a mighty book, in which he bade us 
 write our names. Then still more policemen ushered 
 us to the gallery, and there before me I saw the 
 Great Assembly in full business. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 103 
 
 I found myself in a chamber of ecclesiastical type, 
 without windows or lighting fixtures, lighted artifi- 
 cially from the top. The air was musty, like church 
 or theatre air, and the atmosphere of hush that held 
 the gallery made me tread lightly as one entering 
 during the psalms or after the curtain is up. The 
 seats in the gallery are of that hard wood which 
 serves for church pews. The House was full, and 
 I looked down upon a hundred bald heads, which 
 bobbed up and down like little balloons. Fat men 
 wandered in. Fat men wandered out. Fat men went 
 to sleep. And over all was bzz-bzz, burble-burble, 
 broken now and then by a broad murmur. "Yoah- 
 hoah-hoah!" At once my mind went back to my 
 first play — "The Sign of the Cross." It was just the 
 noise of the roaring of the lions "off" by hungry- 
 supers; but here, I was told, it signified approval, 
 not hunger or challenge. Then I looked about me. 
 
 Centre of all sat, on a sort of throne, an imposing 
 Personage in wig and gown. Before him, at a table, 
 sat three gentlemen in less elaborate wigs, and at 
 either side of him, assisting the theatre-illusion, 
 stood two elegant figures in evening dress, as Corn- 
 mere and Compere stand at either side of the stage 
 In revue. I had expected the Mother of all Parlia- 
 ments to show an example of the highest in all things, 
 but, except in the fun, I was disappointed. The 
 crowd was a crowd of ordinary people, ill-dressed 
 but well-fed; just the kind of people one goes home 
 
104 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 with in the tram or the bus ; only fatter. The clothes, 
 style, and speech were all provincial, and the atmo- 
 sphere was provincial, full of the tun-bellied John 
 Bullishness of the cartoons. I had imagined it to be 
 charged nightly with dignity, passion, rivalry, scorn, 
 rancour and indignation. I found that its tone was 
 more casual than the tone of the Wandsworth Bor- 
 ough Council, and the whole proceedings were taken 
 with a note of levity that is too seldom found In our 
 theatres. It was an assembly of bland heads, bland 
 voices and bland philosophy; of inept creatures hon- 
 estly doing their best to serve their fellows. And 
 above them, in the Press Gallery, the gods laughed. 
 
 The bewigged gentleman in the high chair seemed 
 at first to have some air of solemnity, of inflexible 
 purpose and austerity; but when he raised his head, 
 one saw the face of an ordinary man thoroughly en- 
 joying himself. His eyes twinkled at the pert re- 
 plies of ministers or the impertinent interjections of 
 refractory Members; and he joined with shaking 
 shoulders In the laughter that greeted the funny bits 
 of the star turns. Clearly he enjoyed it as much as 
 I did; yet he saw it every night. Anyway, his Is an 
 amusing job; for it is his nod and beck that sets 
 those little balloons dancing up and down. It was 
 question time when we entered, and the fun was kept 
 up by both sides. 
 
 The gentleman in the wig called upon "Hon'ble 
 Member for Mutton." 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 105 
 
 Bald head rises: "Number eighty-four to Minister 
 for health." 
 
 Gentleman with bald head and hook nose gets up. 
 "Nyah, nyah." 
 
 Another bald head. "Mis'r Sp'kr, sir, arising out 
 of that answer — " 
 
 "Order, order!" 
 
 Again like a show, all the points of this question- 
 and-answer business are pre-arranged. I had thought, 
 like the child at the variety show, that the varieties 
 just happened. But it isn't so. Questions are writ- 
 ten down and printed on the Order paper, and 
 sent to Cabinet Ministers, who send them to their 
 departments. The departments write replies and 
 give them to the Cabinet Minister. Question and 
 answer are printed and circulated in the daily issue 
 of Hansard. Yet every day hon. Members make 
 these questions verbally in the House, and Cabinet 
 Ministers answer them verbally. There is nothing 
 haphazard here. All is rehearsed and calculated. 
 There are no spontaneous speeches, no unrehearsed 
 "scenes." . . . All speeches are really lectures, read- 
 ings of "papers," and all the movements of debate 
 are like the movements of a ballet — only less pas- 
 sionate. 
 
 After question-time there came an interval, and 
 half the Members trooped out. The gentleman in 
 the wig rose and announced the next item, and called 
 upon the hon. Member for Trumpington. I had 
 
106 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 heard about him. He was always speaking some- 
 where and getting into the papers with little aphor- 
 isms in those columns headed Wise Words of the 
 Week. Decidedly a son of Anak. Then he stood 
 up — a little fellow, with baggy trousers, mottled 
 face, wandering eye, and butcher's stomach. I had 
 read some of his speeches, and they read well. Now 
 I was granted the spectacle of fretting pomp in its 
 natural state. It was difficult to believe that the man 
 was serious. It was difficult to believe that this 
 was not some cunning revue actor giving an impres- 
 sion of a solemn ass. I had thought in my innocence, 
 though I ought to have known better, that the 
 speeches I read were delivered as they were printed 
 — :hot from the heart, clear-cut, sentence following 
 sentence, smooth and straight. One reads something 
 like this : 
 
 "When people ask us to see signs of failure in the present 
 association of parties, I absolutely challenge the statement 
 that has been made of failure. The man is mad who would 
 say that any Minister of the Government would not lay aside 
 his burden with a sigh of relief. Is there any man who 
 would say that any member of the Government, for his own 
 enjoyment, ambition, or emolument, is desirous of clinging 
 to office and dealing with such problems as Ireland, Egypt, 
 India, the financial situation and the spectre of 2,000,000 
 men idle in our streets?" 
 
 This is how it is done. "Mis'r Sp'kr, sir — (jerk 
 at coat) . When people ask us (glance round House) 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 107 
 
 ask us to see signs of failure (prrhm!) in the pres- 
 ent association of parties (snuffle) I absolutely — er 
 — absolutely challenge the statement that has been 
 made (prrhm!) of failure. (Pause.) I say that 
 that man is mad — er — mad, who would say (busi- 
 ness with waistcoat button) that any Member of the 
 Government would not (fumble among papers) 
 would not lay aside his burden with a sigh of relief. 
 Of relief. Is there any man — any man — who would 
 say (fumble)" and so on. 
 
 When he had finished, another bald head got up, 
 and talked copy-book maxims to twenty other men 
 who were not listening. Weary platitudes splashed 
 and pattered into the thick khaki light. It is a light 
 that withers all inspiration. Men could not talk like 
 that under spring sunshine. Even my friend Mr. 
 Gore and his collateral branches who make up the 
 majority of the House are sane in the sun. 
 
 Mr. Gore, if you don't know him, is the fount of 
 all wisdom, the maker of all proverbs, the progeni- 
 tor of all platitudes. Out of his mouth proceeds 
 dessicated truth. It was he, I am sure, who wrote 
 those gemmy aphorisms that disfigured Vere Foster's 
 Copy-books in my young days. He is as didactic as 
 Euclid; and as right — damn him. It is his observant 
 and ruminant mind that notes that a bird in the hand 
 is worth two in the bush; and tells you so. He dis- 
 covers each morning some new truth; as that money 
 doesn't bring happiness; that his dog is wonderfully 
 
108 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 intelligent; that you can have too much of a good 
 thing; that it's a funny world; that the Pacific Ocean 
 is very wide; that wonders never cease; that South 
 Sea Islands are lonely places, that the evenings are 
 drawing in, and that we shall soon have Christmas 
 here. But where Euclid, when he said a thing, said 
 it once and left it, Mr. Gore reiterates incessantly. 
 What he discovered on Monday he discovers anew 
 on Thursday. He does not, like most of us who 
 repeat platitudes, employ the disclaiming "Well, 
 they say that . . ." as a prelude to his pronounce- 
 ments. He claims them as his own with "I 
 was thinking this morning . . ." or "I always 
 think . . ." 
 
 He lies in bed at night and early morning think- 
 ing, thinking, happening at times upon the golden 
 thought for the day, v/hlch he forthwith proclaims 
 wherever he goes. And he goes everywhere. You 
 will meet him In the Strand, In the suburbs, in the 
 East End, In the Tube, at Mayfair dinner tables, in 
 the pleasure-resorts, in Egypt, Algiers, Morocco, 
 Italy, the Norwegian Fiords, on all the cross-Atlan- 
 tic and P. & O. liners, among the rich, among the 
 poor, in first and third-class railway carriages, at 
 Monte Carlo, at Vestry Meetings, and certainly in 
 the House of Commons. And wherever you find 
 him, he will be disseminating the results of his mid- 
 night cogitations. Wherever you hear his voice 
 saying "it always seems to me . . ." fly from him, 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 109 
 
 even if you are his guest at dinner; for that means 
 that he is about to read Vere Foster's copy-books 
 aloud. But fly where you will, he is certain to find 
 you at last. When I made my first trip abroad to 
 France, to a small town in the department of Eure, 
 sure enough he was there. I alighted at a wayside 
 station in that department, and he was on the plat- 
 form, with a woman — probably Mrs. Gore. He 
 was nursing a dog, and the first words I heard in 
 my first foreign town were not French dialect but 
 Vere Foster's English. 
 
 "Ah," stroking the dog and sighing; "ah, I don't 
 suppose we shall ever have another Landseer." 
 
 Mr. Gore takes his tastes and his hobbies seri- 
 ously. He is no mere enthusiast; he is a zealot. He 
 does not, like the rest of us, follow a recreation for 
 fun; he "believes in it." He believes in starting the 
 day with a good breakfast. He believes in fresh 
 air. He believes in outdoor exercise. He does not 
 take cold baths because he enjoys them but because 
 he believes in them. His faith in material manifes- 
 tations is large and complete. He may be spiritually 
 a sceptic but he has a simple faith in the efficacy of 
 flannel next the skin, of hot rum for colds, of read- 
 ing as a means of self-improvement, of attending 
 dinners as a means of social advancement. Joy is 
 absent from him. All those grand foolish moments 
 which are to others life itself he suffers in the cause 
 of the faith. Where others accept and rejoice, he 
 
110 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 believes. He believes in India and Ireland and 
 Christmas. A festive season is to him a service to 
 be attended, an office of his much too common 
 prayer-book. 
 
 The House of Commons is his heart's true home; 
 but while in small intimate doses he is an Irritation, 
 In the mass he Is a stimulant, an insane entertain- 
 ment. His turn alone makes the House a rival to 
 other houses. 
 
 "Now, sir, we have been passing through serious 
 times; but though the road uphill Is hard, when we 
 reach the top we see the first faint streaks of the 
 dawn." (Hear-hear, Hear-hear.) 
 
 "And now, sir, I have nothing to add but this: 
 if we face our opponents singly, we shall be defeated. 
 Let us show them a united front; for — union is 
 Strength." (Hear-hear, Hear-hear, Hear-hear!) 
 
 "And I venture to say, sir, that nobody but a 
 Socialist would advocate the control of capital." 
 (Hear-hear, Hear-hear.) 
 
 And so the flummery went on; and I was reminded 
 more and more of the business that I had seen In 
 "African Villages" at Earl's Court and other exhibi- 
 tions; native pow-pows and war-councils. I once 
 thought that Gilbert's "Mikado" poked fun at 
 Japanese court ceremonial, but I see now that he 
 was more subtle; his satire was really directed at 
 English parliamentary ceremonial. All the hirelings 
 of the House have their own resounding titles of bar- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 111 
 
 baric tone — Black Rod, Serjeant-at-Arms, and so on. 
 We send colonists and missionaries to Africa, and 
 do our best to stamp out the rites and ceremonies of 
 the natives, their beads and coloured glass and 
 enemies' teeth and skulls, while all the time the 
 war-paint, the foolish head-dress, the incantation 
 and voodoo business continue in our own councils. 
 And I am all for their survival both in the South 
 Seas and in Westminster. For we all love flummery 
 and mumbo-jumbo. That is why we go to the theatre 
 and the Lord Mayor's Show and Royal Weddings. 
 That is why the House is such a draw. I regret my 
 shiUings spent on those "African Villages," and I 
 think Mr. Kiralfy might have told me that I could 
 see the same thing for nothing. 
 
 Then things began to move a bit. Everybody 
 went out — in a slow-moving bunch: a parade of 
 wooden soldiers. For some minutes the House was 
 empty. Then they all came back, and there were 
 smiles and murmurs and growls. Then the man In 
 the wig rose and said something, and immediately a 
 little man with bobbed hair got up, and there were 
 gentle roars of "Yoah-yoah-yoah I" Clearly Big- 
 Man-of-Wigwam was about to speak. He spoke. 
 Quietly and slowly at first. Then it seemed he Got 
 Nasty; and while some murmured "Yoah-yoah!" 
 others, a large number, growled. That roused him. 
 He turned about and snapped at them. His bobbed 
 hair bobbed up and down. He yoicked. He hwiled. 
 
112 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 He waved his little arms about. He brought a hand 
 down with a smack on the table. He pointed a 
 finger at a man opposite, a knife-faced man with 
 simian eye-brows, and told him, with an air of blast- 
 ing him where he sat, that his conduct was un-Eng- 
 lish. The other didn't seem at all dismayed. Big 
 Man went on, getting more and more angry. At 
 any moment, I felt, he would vault that table and 
 cross-buttock the sneerer. He dropped his Big- 
 Man manner, and gave a perfect imitation of school- 
 boy temper; no grand remonstrance, but a petty 
 snarling and yapping. This set the others at It. 
 They called each other names. They turned round 
 to each other like boys when the master's out of the 
 room. They jeered, derided, gestured and "Or- 
 der !"-ed each other. They gave a display that would 
 not be tolerated for a moment at the Muswell Hill 
 Debating Society. But they gave us our money's 
 worth. It was the British mob-spirit made manifest. 
 
 Then, as it began, it stopped. Big-Man simmered 
 down, flourished a few more phrases, and subsided 
 amid Yoah-yoahs from the faithful. 
 
 Other little men bobbed up, but only one was al- 
 lowed to remain standing. The others sat down, 
 while he addressed the House. When he sat down, 
 the disappointed ones bobbed up again. No luck. 
 Down they sat again. Fat men wandered in. Fat 
 men wandered out. Fat men went to sleep. 
 
 And over all was bzz-bzz — burble-burble. 
 
—IV— 
 IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 
 
 MY tenement days belong to Spitalfields, and I 
 have a deep affection for Spitalfields. It is 
 a queer corner. It has not one note, but many. Its 
 main street is Commercial Street, a lane of angry 
 architecture. It mixes industry with vagrancy. It 
 is a land of warehouses and doss-houses and Dwell- 
 ings. It has a vegetable market and a gravely beau- 
 tiful church, and it is over-shadowed by a great 
 Goods Station and its many arches; these things en- 
 due It with a baffling quality of charm. Its nights 
 are dim and Its days strenuous, but It wants passion. 
 Just as the reclaimed criminal Is usually a vapid, 
 aimless creature, so Spitalfields, once hot and bright 
 with wickedness, Is now pallid and lethargic. It has 
 the dim melancholy of Russian cigarettes. Its only 
 noise and movement come from the Jews lounging at 
 the corners, for this ardent race even lounges vi- 
 vaciously. 
 
 But If it Is not what It was, It still holds In Its 
 streets much of wistful Interest; and Coverley Fields, 
 Fashion Street, Flower and Dean Street, the Tenters, 
 Weaver Street, and the faint-smelling Slavonic shops 
 up the alleys still send us whiffs of sad enchantment. 
 
 113 
 
114 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 For here are gathered colonies of the strangely as- 
 sorted races of the Balkans — Poles, Lithuanians, 
 Czecho-Slovakians, Albanians, Georgians, Serbs, 
 Roumanians, Esthonians; many of them refugees of 
 1 9 14 who have settled here, and are quite comforta- 
 ble; yet fill the air with exiles' yearn. For them the 
 shops are filled with strange merchandise, and for 
 them the horseflesh butchers trade, and the bakers 
 make the queer-shaped bread. 
 
 But my tenement stands above and outside this 
 exotic influence, and is wholly English; and in penur- 
 ious days I had good times there with other tenants. 
 It is a hideous afi^air to look upon. It is of the Pea- 
 body school of architecture — 3. school that has many 
 followers. Its chief lesson is the elimination of 
 beauty. These buildings are for the poor; there- 
 fore, they need only be serviceable; and their build- 
 ers spend a thousand pounds upon rough utility and 
 begrudge tuppence for beauty. Look upon our 
 Elementary Schools, our Public Baths, our work- 
 houses, our orphanages, our infirmaries, our "dwell- 
 ings," and compare them with the dignity of our 
 stores and banks and business ofiices. They are 
 sores on the face of London. The lives of the poor 
 are ugly enough by circumstance; their benefactors 
 seem determined to keep them bound in ugliness. 
 
 But the tenement folk manage, somehow, to tri- 
 umph over the ugliness of Peabody, and to soften 
 its crude angles by kindliness and self-help. I don't 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 115 
 
 know how it is, but tenement families are much more 
 agreeable than next-door neighbours of houses or 
 flat. The tenement, indeed, is one big house, except 
 — there is an "except" in every tenement — except 
 for "that stuck-up thing," Miss Simpkins on the 
 third floor, who makes a passion of reserve, and 
 won't joint in any of the occasions. 
 
 You may live twelve months in a mansion flat, and 
 know nothing of your fellow-tenants, or they of you; 
 but in a tenement the social atmosphere is more cor- 
 dial; you are expected to be "neighbourly." On your 
 arrival you are the new boy or the new girl at school, 
 or the new member, and you are to be looked over, 
 and to give an account of yourself and to be reported 
 upon; so that, if you are passed, you may be made 
 free of the tenement society. Ours was one happy 
 family. We were as self-contained and as self-sup- 
 porting as Queen Anne's Mansions. We had not a 
 restaurant, but we had a tailor, a cobbler, a medical 
 student, a char-lady who "did" for the students and 
 did odd jobs for a few pence for harassed mothers; 
 a good cook who for equally few pence would cook 
 a family dinner, a newsboy, a Salvation Army lass 
 for spiritual consolation and a caretaker who made 
 a book on all the important races. There were by- 
 laws, of course, — no music or singing after ten 
 o'clock, no disorder (a most elastic term) and no 
 nuisances. But we didn't need those rules; give-and 
 take was part of our nature. 
 
116 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 You live as much in others' rooms as in your own ; 
 and if it should become known that any tenant is 
 hard-hit and short of a Sunday dinner, there's always 
 a place for him at the tables of those who are, for the 
 moment, flush. And there are delightful Christmas 
 parties and Bank Holiday parties; and much chagrin 
 if you go to Mrs. Jones' party and don't drop in at 
 Mrs. Smith's party. To each floor of the tenement 
 is given a balcony space where washing is hung dur- 
 ing the day, where the old ladies sit on warm after- 
 noons, and where youth lounges in the evening. 
 
 Very pleasant are these loungings and the evening 
 meetings of the young people. You stand on the 
 fourth-floor balcony at twilight, between the dust 
 and the stars, looking over the aching, muttering face 
 of East London, and to you comes young Dolly, 
 from No. 14b, to admire the "view." You lean to- 
 gether across the iron balustrade, gazing at some- 
 thing afar, and, somehow, it's the most natural thing 
 in the world that your hand should find hers on the 
 railing, and that she should return your squeeze, and 
 say "Don't be silly — you are a one !" That you 
 should pull her hair for her sauciness, and that she 
 should give you a tender push, and that you should 
 somehow fall against each other, and remain so, si- 
 lent and still under the lucid night. And in the 
 morning, if Dolly is on the balcony brushing her hair, 
 as you go off to work, isn't it natural, in that brisk 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 117 
 
 light, that you should throw up a bunch of violets, 
 and that she should throw you . . . 
 
 There was the affair of Cissie and Dick Went- 
 worth. 
 
 Cissie lived on the fourth floor, sharing her rooms 
 with a work-mate, Ivy. Cissie was a heart-smiter, 
 proud and petulant. Cissie was neat and slim, with 
 large roguish eyes, and held much grace in her slen- 
 der limbs. Her coloured frocks were always pretty 
 and her little hats provocative. There was joy in 
 her movements, in the swing of her light green dress, 
 in the set of her soft cotton blouse, and in the won- 
 derful rhythmic fall of yellow hair from head to 
 shoulders. Cissie and Dick met, casually, late one 
 August night on the balcony seeking cool air. An 
 August midnight meeting on a fourth-floor balcony, 
 far above the hushed streets. Is sure to work a potent 
 spell upon young hearts. You seem lifted above and 
 withdrawn from the world of stale fact. You are 
 gloriously alone In the city, prince and princess look- 
 ing across your dominion; and although only the 
 night Is listening, you whisper your talk. 
 
 Well, Cissie and Dick stayed on the balcony that 
 night till two o'clock, as you knew they would; and 
 the next night they met again and Cissie spoke her 
 surprise. 
 
 "Oh — you ? You seem to like this view." 
 
 Next night he brought two chairs, and they stayed 
 longer, and went to bed late and got up tired, and 
 
118 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 had to run to work without breakfast. But they 
 didn't grumble. Then, after a week of such nights, 
 when London lay silent and prone with the heat, 
 jewelled even in sleep, Dick took both her hands in 
 his, and gently drew her from the railings back to 
 the staircase. She hung back and tried to withdraw 
 her hands. He held them tight, and pulled her close, 
 and murmured, "Cissie! Cissie !" She dragged back 
 with all her weight. He pulled her to the corridor 
 leading to his room. 
 
 "No ! No !" short and sharp. "Dick— no !" 
 
 "Oh— Cissie!" 
 
 "No — we mustn't!" And yet she spoke not too 
 sharply, because the pain in his voice hurt her. 
 
 "Dearest!" 
 
 "No ! No. Let me go now. It's late. We 
 mustn't — not to-night." 
 
 But she smiled then, and he felt her smile through 
 the darkness. 
 
 "Not ever, dear?" 
 
 "I don't know, Dick. Perhaps. . . ." 
 
 "Don't you care for me at all, then?" 
 
 "Oh, I do, my dear. But . . . not now. . . . 
 Perhaps . . ." 
 
 "Ah! When?" 
 
 "Let me go first." 
 
 He dropped her hands, and she turned towards 
 her door. "I'll come to you, Dick, when — " 
 
 "Yes, when?" 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 119 
 
 "When the caretaker gets a new coat! Ta-ta ! 
 Happy dreams!" 
 
 And away she flitted, and Dick returned to the 
 balcony to lean over London and to swear and stamp 
 and sob. Minx! Hussy! Faggot! Little devil! 
 
 And he went no more to the balcony those hot 
 nights, but mooned about the streets and drank too 
 much beer, and went savagely to bed. Each morn- 
 ing, as he went to work, he gave a keen but pessimis- 
 tic glance at the caretaker's apparel. No hope there, 
 he felt, for many months ; the caretaker always wore 
 his raiment to rags. Cissle, he knew, meant what 
 she said, and would abide by It; and he was too 
 proud to plead for extenuation. Much as the little 
 golden head and April eyes of CIssIe had entangled 
 him, he had no patience with whims, and he wanted 
 to tell her so, curtly, and dismiss her. But he 
 couldn't. That smile of hers, the curious little up- 
 ward twist of the left side of the mouth, had bemused 
 him, and wouldn't let him. He could only go on 
 wanting her. 
 
 Once or twice he passed her on the landing, and 
 she shot her best pert grimace at him, but he would 
 not stop. He went straight on, and even when she 
 cried lightly — "The old coat's nearly worn out now !" 
 he wouldn't turn his head. If he had, he might have 
 seen that her face was crimson and very serious. 
 But next day they passed on the stairs, so closely 
 that he had to brush against her; and when he had 
 
120 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 gone up she stood on the ground floor, counting his 
 footsteps and clenching her hands. There were 
 tears in her eyes, and she remained still some min- 
 utes; then her brow cleared, and she pattered up- 
 stairs like a golden mouse. 
 
 That evening Dick mooned about the streets, more 
 at odds with himself than ever. He couldn't even 
 drink beer. The close contact with Cissie on the 
 stairs, just the whisper of her frock against his 
 fingers, had thrilled him anew and awakened all the 
 passion that he thought he had damped down. Sick 
 of the streets, disgusted with himself, and disgusted 
 with home, he yet turned towards home, and came 
 slouching into the yard of the tenement. And, damn 
 it, there was Cissie standing right where he must 
 pass, at the caretaker's door, and — aha ! — with 
 many old-age nods and smiles the old man was lavish- 
 ing thanks upon Cissie for the present of a new coat. 
 
 A splendid misanthrope, our caretaker. He glories 
 in It, as fanatics glory in mortification of the flesh. 
 He has a round heavy face, scarred with deep lines 
 at each side of the nose, a drooping mouth, and a 
 beard of nondescript colour, which is never trimmed 
 or combed. His gait is elephantine. He walks to 
 any point as though he did not want to walk to that 
 point. Each foot is set down slowly and hesitantly, 
 and its fellow follows it after consideration. He 
 has a habit of looking over one shoulder, which is. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 121 
 
 as It were, the scowl of contempt that the defeated 
 give to the world they cannot challenge. He stands 
 at his ground-floor door most of the day, leaning 
 against the side-post, hands tucked In the top of his 
 trousers, glooming upon his boots, or Grr-Ing at the 
 children as they come shouting down the stairs. 
 
 Tell him It's a fine day — "Ah, but It'll be cold in 
 the evening." Tell him old Jackson has got work 
 at last after six weeks out — • "Ah, that won't last 
 long, though. No business about. They're putting 
 'em off everywhere." Tell him you're glad to see 
 he's looking better — "Ah, but I shall get It again 
 when the damp weather comes." Tell, him that the 
 pubs are to close- at ten — "Grrr ! Taking away our 
 liberties." Tell him that they're to keep open as- 
 long as they like — "Wod's the good when we ain't 
 got no money?" 
 
 For life at large he has one brief blunt litany — 
 "I dunno wod thingser comin' to." 
 
 But withal a happy man, if serenity of mind and 
 settled estate be happiness. 
 
 But even he expands to one of our weddings. 
 Our weddings are affairs. Everybody Is invited, 
 except that old thing on the third floor who won't 
 join in anything. We all wear our Sunday clothes, 
 and all the children dress In their best and crowd 
 about the courtyard and the staircases, waiting for 
 the great moment. Some are at the gate spying for 
 the first approach of the cabs; others, within, bring 
 
122 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 now and then reports of progress. "She's dressed! 
 I seen 'er. Oo, she do look lovely. And 'er muv- 
 ver's crying, they say," Ordinary affairs are sus- 
 pended; there is an atmosphere of expectancy. 
 Work is neglected, and even the most hardened — 
 like the caretaker — hang about to pick up bits of gos- 
 sip. "They ought to be 'ere now — I 'ope nothing's 
 'appened. Mrs. Minty'U never be ready. She ain't 
 done 'er 'air yet. Don't seem to know where she is, 
 like — all up in the air." Everybody sends a present, 
 if only something towards the feast, or the "lend" 
 of table appointments or extra chairs. 
 
 And when they come back from the church — ^oo 
 my! Then the yard glitters with confetti and the 
 kids scream and the old 'uns yell, and the principals 
 have to fight their way upstairs : and we get an organ 
 into the yard to make music under the windows dur- 
 ing the feast and for the dancing in the yard that al- 
 ways follows. The bride, warm-cheeked and prop- 
 erly shy, wears lavender and white ; the bridegroom, 
 with new lounge suit and white buttonhole, grins 
 upon all. 
 
 The sitting-room and kitchen have been "turned 
 out" the week before. The table is covered with 
 the best cloth, and the best spoons and forks, care- 
 fully preserved these two years, in an old bit of 
 wash-leather, are brought out from their nest, and 
 the children are let in by twos and threes to view 
 the table. Then, after orders and disputes as to 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 123 
 
 where the guests shall sit, and a sort of impromptu 
 game of musical chairs, they sit; and thereafter is 
 rattle of knives and forks, clink of glasses and striv- 
 ing voices. The front door is left open, and on 
 the staircase stand groups of well-wishers looking 
 on and crying salutations. Everybody talks at once, 
 and looks after everybody else, pushing dishes about 
 or passing them over the heads of intervening guests. 
 "Sardines coming up, Uncle — I know you like 
 em. 
 "Ah, me boy, you know me — eh?" 
 "Let me give you a bit o' fat. Auntie." 
 "Get those clean plates, Emmie. Come on, stir 
 yesself." 
 
 Then follows the kids' feast, and the crumbs from 
 the table are fairly distributed among them. Then 
 we adjourn to the yard, and dance, and tell stories, 
 and the bottles are opened; and when they are spent 
 the male guests retire down the street to the place 
 at the corner, and come back and bring so much 
 zest to the occasion, that the police interfere, gently 
 suggesting that we've had quite enough of that, and 
 it's time to ease up. Well, well, perhaps it is, but, 
 after all we don't get married everyday, do we? 
 And you were young yourself once. So we ease up, 
 and then discover that the bride and bridegroom 
 have disappeared; and the rest of the evening, until 
 past midnight, is spent in looking-in at each other's 
 rooms and discussing the affair. 
 
124 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Yes, altogether it went off very well. No hitches 
 — nobody got "nasty" as they do sometimes on these 
 occasions — even Uncle Fred found nothing to 
 grumble at — and there was plenty of everything for 
 everybody. Just a nice quiet affair. Everybody 
 happy and no fuss. Oh, damn these rackety wed- 
 dings. I can't stand 'em. And I must say that 
 Mrs. Minty worked jolly hard to make everybody 
 feel at home — wodder you say? 
 
 And for the next few months, affairs are dated 
 from "the wedding" — "jus' afore Minty's gel got 
 married" — ^"You know — about a week after the 
 Minty's 'do.' " 
 
 Annie, our Salvation lady, was the character of the 
 building. She had had a hard tinxe as a girl, but 
 she carried no scars. The Salvation Army caught 
 her young and effaced her troubles. At seventeen 
 she worked in a cork factory in Hoxton, and her 
 work was tedious toil. The mean round of her 
 life afforded nothing of change, adventure, or warm 
 amenity. It was a round of factory, home, bed; 
 factory, home, bed. Beyond the crest of the hill of 
 the day stretched the long desert of evening. Her 
 work she could face — if not with active interest, at 
 least with complacence. It was the evenings that 
 so chilled and depressed her. 
 
 Home meant a back-kitchen, a ponderous, alco- 
 holic father and a querulous, complaining mother. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 125 
 
 Her father, when he was at home, didn't talk; he 
 would come home heavily, go awkwardly to his 
 chair, and sit there, drowsing and " 'mp"-ing to 
 himself. Her mother's conversational repertory 
 was too familiar. Annie's earliest memories of her 
 mother were linked with phrases. She could tell 
 the day and the occasion from the phrase. Mon- 
 day's phrase, repeated from morn till eve, was "I 
 shall never get through with this washing 'fore yer 
 father comes 'ome." Wednesday: "There now, it's 
 early closing, and we ain't got no tea." Every 
 Wednesday, for years past, her mother had run out 
 of tea. Saturday: "I 'ope yer father's 'ome soon 
 or that stew'll be done to rags." Sunday: "I know 
 that meat's tough." And every day, about noon: 
 "I don't seem able to get on at all to-day." 
 
 Annie knew always what her mother would say 
 upon any given topic, and knew that it was not 
 worth saying. But she had to sit and listen to it. 
 For reading she cared nothing, and to sitting glumly 
 at home, listening to the solo of nothingness, there 
 was no alternative but a saunter along the Monkeys' 
 Parade. This was even less agreeable, for she 
 had never been able to get a boy — her face and 
 figure were not of the bold, immediate appeal that 
 attracts youth — and the sight of other girls with 
 boys was an exasperation. Never did her ears burn 
 to the mutter of the strollers — "Nice bit, ain't she? 
 Wouldn't mind 'aving 'er f'r a week-end — eh?" 
 
126 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 She belonged to her environment, yet was filled with 
 discontent. Her language was something more than 
 coarse. Her habits were offensive. Her ways were 
 graceless and unbeguiling. But she was hungry for 
 change and adventure. Had a boy on Jamaica-road 
 seized her, she would have given whatever he asked. 
 
 But one Sunday evening she stopped at a street 
 corner to snatch some solitary amusement from a 
 Salvation Army meeting. A young woman, of in- 
 determinate age, was speaking, and suddenly Annie 
 was caught. She hardly followed the message, 
 which was crude and obvious, delivered in a pierc- 
 ing street-corner falsetto. What held her was tne 
 colour and the glory and the fervour of the woman's 
 face; and when the eyes rested on her, and flung 
 her a share of their ardour, she too suffered a thrill 
 of exaltation. 
 
 As she stood, transfixed, a boy pulled her hair. 
 She turned. 'What a face !" The boy passed on, 
 and Annie turned again to the half-circle of tense 
 eyes. Abandoned joy was here, expressed as fluently 
 as Bank Holiday emotions in the parks. She had 
 never been able to join the Bank Holiday crowds — 
 they did not want outsiders; but this woman seemed 
 to be inviting her to kick her heels with them and 
 have a good time, singing, "Glory! Glory! Glory!" 
 with a bang of the drum and a frivolous clangour 
 of the tambourines. With magnificent abasement 
 these people called themselves sinners, and sang^ 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 127 
 
 and shouted about their sinfulness, and laughed 
 happily in speaking of the Great Friend who had 
 redeemed them. They praised God in a dozen dif- 
 ferent ways. They bawled. They bellowed. They 
 brayed. They piped. They chuckled. They yelped. 
 They intoned. They roared. Happy, happy chil- 
 dren of sin ! Oh, glory, glory ! 
 
 When the meeting broke up she slid shyly to the 
 speaker. The woman listened to her halting sen- 
 tences, and seemed to understand. They took her to 
 the Citadel. She was questioned closely by the 
 captain, and was told to call again during the week. 
 She called, and went with them to an open-air meet- 
 ing. She sang "Glory, Glory!" and thrilled to her 
 own voice. But this was not enough. She pressed 
 them to accept her, and finally, after pointing out the 
 hardships that she might have to face, and trying, 
 by searching questions, to discover whether she really 
 desired to serve Jesus and was ready to suffer in 
 the cause, they accepted her. 
 
 On the religious point she dissembled, and told 
 more than the truth. Of religion she knew only 
 what she had been taught at school; and she knew 
 the Gospels only as she knew the rivers of England 
 and the points of the Pennine Chain. Faith and 
 doubt and soul-searching had little appeal for her. 
 The harassing scramble for the day's bread, the 
 bruising workaday round, left little energy for the 
 spiritual life. She wanted to join them; their ob- 
 
128 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 ject hardly interested her. Indeed, she could not 
 have told you what the Salvation Army was for; she 
 only saw it as a happy band of brothers and sisters, 
 working joyfully for the Lord as others worked, less 
 joyfully, for the Borough Council. 
 
 But with all her heart she did what she was told 
 to do. Here at last was adventure. Working for 
 the Lord was more exciting than making corks. 
 Here was something upon which she could direct 
 her store of energy and service to interesting pur- 
 pose; something to live for; a career. So she be- 
 came a probationer, and was put to laborious tasks 
 — scrubbing, washing, selling the "War Cry" In pub- 
 lic-houses, going out at night, with others, to lead 
 broken women to the Shelter. This, to test the 
 depth of her enthusiasm. 
 
 She came through it. Her factory mates called 
 "Sally!" to her in the street; but she was done with 
 them. And slowly, imperceptibly, the romance and 
 adventure changed into a quiet, filling rapture. She 
 awakened to the faith that was In her companions, 
 and it grew within her. Without thought or self- 
 searching, she came to share their complete trust 
 in goodness, and to find a daily beauty in the world 
 and a delight in her work. She rose slowly but 
 steadily from the ranks. 
 
 She is now a leader in her section. She might 
 have been married to a young man of her factory and 
 lived a fretful housekeeping life, desiring more than 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 129 
 
 her means afforded. She might have gone with the 
 boys, and be now on the streets. She might be toil- 
 ing still in the factory. Instead, though she is still 
 called "Sally!" she has everything that she wants; 
 she has achieved complete happiness. Go to Great 
 Eastern Street one Sunday night, and you will see 
 in her face something that few of us possess. . . . 
 
 But we were not always happy. We had our oc- 
 casional "cases" and "bad lots." Not so very bad, 
 though. I had much sympathy with Mrs. Green's 
 Edie. I'm sure she wasn't a bad girl at the start; 
 but Edie once abstracted a blouse from a stall in 
 Brick Lane, and was prosecuted. The magistrate 
 didn't call it kleptomania or "megrims." Edie had 
 no medical expert to bring testimony that she was 
 a nervous subject. She had no influential friends, 
 no knights and bishops, to appear in court on her 
 behalf and show that she was well-connected and 
 subject to aberrations, and had lately suffered from 
 headaches. So she spent five years in Borstals except 
 for a few days, when she escaped, and was found in 
 the protection of a man. She told me what was said 
 to her on her recapture. She was called a dirty, 
 dirty thing, not fit to mix with the other reforma- 
 tory girls; and she told me what she said to them. 
 Something like this : 
 
 "I ain't, then. It's you that's dirty. 'E's bin all 
 right to me; treated me like a 'uman being. But 
 
130 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 you — you treat me like a — like — a bit of — " here 
 followed a rough and ready but vivid simile. 
 
 She did not come home when she was released. 
 A post in "service" was found for her; and when 
 she did come home she had left "service." She 
 came home in good clothes, and looked the world in 
 the face — with a wink. She and the housemaid 
 had got together, and the cook had noted a certain 
 secret alliance between them. They could not be 
 allowed to stay there to corrupt the girls of the fam- 
 ily; their behaviour was reported to the reforma- 
 tory authorities. But Edie and her friend were too 
 quick for them. They bolted. 
 
 The housemaid knew a "place," and as they were 
 both bright pleasant girls they were received in that 
 "place" — certainly no worse a "place" than the grim 
 cold building that had held her for five years. It 
 was a "place" where only "gentlemen" of good fam- 
 ily were received; and the lady-in-charge impressed 
 upon Edie the urgent necessity, under pain of im- 
 mediate expulsion, of complete secrecy and tact. 
 Some of the visitors were famous men, but if Edie 
 recognised them from their portraits in the paper 
 she was not to know them. See? And some of 
 them were — peculiar — see? But if Edie wanted to 
 get on, she would make herself agreeable and will- 
 ing; the more she pleased, the more money she would 
 get; but no "nonsense" would be tolerated by the 
 "gentlemen." No intoxicated men were admitted to 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 131 
 
 that house. Its reputation for respectability was 
 unassailable, and Edie and her friend must live up to 
 that. 
 
 They did. And though Edie's mother wept and 
 implored, and moaned at the life of her daughter, 
 Edie was unmoved. She had had her five years of 
 hell, and looked no farther than respite from its 
 memories. I saw her the other day. She has left 
 the house, and is now living in the semi-married state 
 with a "gentleman" who "treats me like a Duchess, 
 and says he never had anybody who suited him as 
 I do. I don't know how long it'll last." 
 
 But Edie's no fool; she has looked after herself 
 well, and has money in the bank. And she has 
 polished herself, and toned her accent and speech 
 to the requirements of politeness. But it's her eyes 
 that bother you, if you look at them after looking 
 at Annie's. 
 
 A more humane type is Mrs. Dobson, the occas- 
 ional charlady. Life, for her, is a joke, and her 
 philosophic attitude is expressed in profound husky 
 bursts of laughter. If a man slips down in the street 
 — Haw-haw! — out comes that laugh. If the dinner 
 goes wrong or her rheumatism grips her — haw-haw! 
 — short and explosive. Goodness and naughtiness, 
 the rent-collector and the shooter-of-moons, the 
 drunkard and the teetotaller — all make her laugh. 
 She even laughed at the air raids. And her Sunday, 
 instead of being a day of rest, is a day of laughter 
 
132 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 — at her own troubles and at other people's. She 
 has a hoarse voice and a clear spirit attuned to the 
 old verities. Her laugh gives you at once her char- 
 acter, for laughs are as expressive as faces or talk. 
 There is the ha-ha-ha ! of the brainless, healthy man. 
 There is the shop-girl's falsetto her-her-her! There 
 is the deep ugh-ugh-ugh! of the flesh-loving man. 
 There is the cackling Heh-heh-heh! of the cheerless 
 man. There is the toneless Teh-he-he! of the man 
 without a soul; and there is the gusty haw-^haw-haw I 
 of great spirits like Mrs. Dobson. 
 
 When I first arrived at the tenement, I was asked 
 how I was "going on" about cleaning, " 'F you 
 want anything done, Mrs. Dobson'll do for yeh." 
 I said: "I guess I can't afford that." "Oh, yes you 
 can. She won't want much. Anything yeh like to 
 give 'er — that's 'er style." "Well, whoi is Mrs. 
 Dobson?" "Oh, 'er on the forf floor. You know 
 — stout little party, rather bad on 'er feet, and fond 
 of 'er little drop." "Oh, / know." And so I became 
 one more charge of Mrs. Dobson's. 
 
 The Duchess she was called, and I liked her much 
 better than the only Duchess I have met. The name 
 came to her from early days when she kept a fruit 
 and vegetable stall, which shamed Its neighbouring 
 stalls by its polish, neatness, and arrangement, and 
 by the personal spick-and-spanness of its proprietor. 
 She was an excellent cook — ^but for her language 
 many a select household would have thought her a 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 133 
 
 prize; a good laundress, a doughty scrubber, a con- 
 fident nurse, and a regular "one" with babies. And 
 what a worker! How she would cut about up and 
 down the steep stone stairs of the tenement, rheu- 
 matism and all. "If work's gotta be done, get on 
 with it. Standing looking at It won't do It. Walk 
 Into It. That's what I do and alwls 'ave 'ad to do. 
 I dunno, though . . . some people seem to get away 
 with It. Look at that dam fool downstairs I do for 
 — young 'Artley, the medical. 'E won't work If 'e 
 can get out of It. 'Spose we was all like that? Nice 
 sorta world it'd be — eh ? And yet 'e seems to git on. 
 Haw-haw." 
 
 I don't know what there Is of inspiration in the 
 business of daily house-helpers, but I have never yet 
 met a disagreeable charlady. All seem to possess, as 
 a blessed recompense, some store of serenity, some 
 faculty for easy outlook upon the saddest prospect. 
 Mrs. Dobson has had two children, both wrong 'uns. 
 They took after farver, who disappeared some years 
 ago. The elder boy, after doing well in an office, 
 earning £3 a week — of which he gave his mother 
 eight shillings a week — "I don't eat more'n eight 
 shillings' worth" — was caught with his hand In the 
 safe, and Is now in Reading. The younger got no 
 job at all, nor tried for one. He lounged about the 
 streets, and lived on his mother, demanding four 
 meals a day, and when these were not to be had, 
 assaulted her with evil words and nubbly fists. 
 
134 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Often she appeared in public with a black eye or dis- 
 coloured cheek, and as it was known that she was 
 not living with her husband, she was at great trouble 
 in inventing convincing stories about them. But 
 at last the wastrel got his in a street-corner fight. 
 
 But she speaks of them proudly, as wonders of 
 wickedness. "That George of mine — 'e was a bit 
 of no-good, if yeh like. I dunno when I come across 
 such a rotter as 'e was. 'E never cared fer nobody. 
 The mess 'e useter make of 'is farver when they 'ad 
 a row. . . ." 
 
 When there is no work to be had she sits and 
 chuckles at the damnableness of things; and when 
 she is summoned to a job she receives it with Falstaf- 
 fian laughter. 
 
 "Please, Missis Dobson, mumma's in bed wiv 'er 
 bad leg, and can you come up and do our dinner?" 
 
 "Haw-haw ! Never a minute's peace. / dunna 
 'ow you'd all go on wivout me. All right, ducky — > 
 I'll be up in a minute. . . . And wipe yer nose — ■ 
 snotty-face ! If I was yer mother. . . ." 
 
 She is the willing slave of the tenement. If a 
 difficult or disagreeable task is to be done, people 
 think at once of her, and slide it to her shoulders. 
 She is a soft-mark, easily imposed upon; and her ac- 
 quaintances know it. "Missis Dobson'll see to that." 
 "I wonder if yeh'd mind, Missis Dobson. You 
 understand these things, and I'm such a fool." So 
 always she is on her feet, doing other people's shop- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 135 
 
 ping, taking other people's children to the doctor, 
 minding other people's babies, and buying other 
 people's insurance stamps; and in return they give her 
 a few coppers or a drink or a meal, and lend her 
 their novelettes. "I like a bit o' love — I don't want 
 to read the noospaper 'orrors." 
 
 Often she has a shilling on the big races with 
 the caretaker, and roars with laughter and gets 
 mildly drunk when she backs a winner, and laughs 
 out rich round curses when she loses. "My blasted 
 'orses seem to be like me — always left, down the 
 course and sworn at. Haw-haw !" Her chief joy 
 in life is her cup of tea, "me old cup of glory!" 
 It is a blessed comforter to the poor, the cup of 
 tea; that and a good fire change the whole complex- 
 ion of things from drab to rosy. In the morning, 
 if you are out of sorts, it bucks you up. In the mid- 
 dle of washing-day it at once soothes and recreates 
 energy. At the end of washing-day it takes the 
 edge off exhaustion and warms the heart through. 
 In the afternoon it provides a blessed space of rest 
 and refreshment; and at all hours it lightens the 
 oppressive air, disperses worry, packs clouds away, 
 and brings nev/ hope or at least calm acceptance. In 
 sorrow or rejoicing, war or peace — "let's make a 
 cup o' tea, dearie!" 
 
 So that she has her tea, Mrs. Dobson can carry 
 on. Not until that is out of reach, will she give in. 
 Through many foodless days and fireless winter 
 
136 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 weeks, people would urge her to seek relief — to go 
 on the parish or apply to the church for coal and 
 groceries tickets. "What — me 'old out for Charity? 
 No fear, my gel. Not me. I ain't come as low as 
 that yet. I got some self-respect left. As long as 
 I can get me cup o' tea, I can 'old out till things 
 improve. I got me 'ealth and strength, thank God, 
 and while I got that I won't be in nobody's debt. 
 I ain't going truckling to nobody." 
 
 Granny Simpson was just such another, but in a 
 softer key. She never stood up to life. She ac- 
 cepted, without complaint and without appreciation; 
 and she is now in "the house." But her afternoon 
 out is a Great Adventure, and sometimes she may 
 be seen down our street. Her whole life has been 
 bounded by narrow streets, lowering roofs and 
 cramped rooms. Her horizon physically, was the 
 other side of the street; mentally, to-morrow. She 
 dared not look farther. From childhood her life has 
 been without distance or "views." She was born in 
 Hoxton, and lived and slaved in Hoxton, fighting 
 always for the present. Even her rent was collected 
 daily, for her landlord knew how hazardous was 
 to-morrow. Her life was flat, without much sorrow 
 or much joy; just a dreary struggle. No man had 
 chosen her; no romance, which she called "nonsense,'* 
 had come to her. Single she had lived and tolled. 
 She had little to give In the way of friendship, and 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 137 
 
 therefore received none, for she wanted that vital 
 something that inspires Interest and feeling. When 
 she could no longer hold a needle, she knew that It 
 was The House. Neighbours commiserated her de- 
 scent and her miserable sentence, but she saw it 
 otherwise. She was beaten, but though she lost her 
 spirit, she did not lose her trust in the essential 
 goodness of things. 
 
 " 'Taint so bad, when you look at it prop'ly. We 
 all got to sink our pride sometimes. 'Tany rate, 
 It'll be me first real rest. I shan't 'ave no more 
 worry about anything." 
 
 She is a bit of a character in the district, and 
 on her afternoon out receives many greetings. Old 
 age and open misfortune have given her a more defi- 
 nite character and loosened her early reserve. 
 People smile upon her now, though before she could 
 not command a nod. 
 
 One outing is much like another. It proceeds 
 something like this. She potters from the gates of 
 the House, in its evil grey uniform, and peers up 
 and down the street. The sun shows a pallid face 
 through the smoke, and falls on littered streets, 
 ragged roofs, unkempt doorways, and greasy shops. 
 Its rays beat up the accumulated odours of cellar 
 and alley-way, and, to most noses, the air is bitter. 
 But Granny sniffs it, and approves. "Lovely day 
 again. I always 'ave the luck. I always 'ave King's 
 weather!" 
 
138 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 A dock-man, passing, stops. " 'Ullo, Gran. Your 
 day orf again? I wish I was you. 'Ere — that'll get 
 you a drop o' something." A few coins pass. 
 
 "Well, I never. Now if that ain't kind. Real 
 kind. Well, well. . . . There's a lot o' good in the 
 world, if you only knew it. Fourpence. Now with 
 that I could 'ave a nice tram-ride. And yet a little 
 drop o' something'd be nice, too. It'd 'ave to be 
 beer, though." 
 
 She pads away, debating the matter — tram-ride 
 or a little drop o' something. Then a young girl, 
 dressed in the flashy cast-offs of the second-hand, 
 observes her. 
 
 "Cheero, Ma! Orf on the loose again? 'Ere — 
 I done a good bit o' business last night. 'Ere's some- 
 thing to spend at the Church Bazaar — that'll get 
 you a glass or two." 
 
 "Well, now, dearie, if that ain't kind. You've 
 got a 'eart, you 'ave." 
 
 Granny marches on, with firmer step now. "A 
 nice ride and a drop o' something. Well, well. . . . 
 God is good, bless 'Is 'eart, if we only knew." 
 
 Then, except on the occasions when the casual 
 benefits of good hearts have failed her, Granny 
 follows her regular programme. She boards an 
 East-bound tram-car, with much flighty back-chat to 
 the conductor, and takes a ticket for Wanstead 
 Flats; and on the journey looks keenly about her, 
 seeing everything and enjoying everything. There 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 139 
 
 isn't much doing that escapes her. At the Flats 
 she leaves the car, and stands for some moments, 
 looking upon the "view." She looks upon an open 
 space of withered grass and hard, bald turf. 
 The turf is usually littered with oddments of paper. 
 Behind the broken bushes the tram-cars clatter, and 
 the horizon offers ash-heaps and factories sending 
 smoke across the brown grass. The stunted trees 
 give it an air of desolation. Granny stands and 
 sniffs and sniffs. 
 
 "Different air out here altogether. Country air, 
 like. And what a fine view. Well, God is good, 
 bless 'Is 'eart, letting me get out 'ere. And if I 
 was a lady, I'd come and sit out 'ere every day I" 
 
— V— 
 
 IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 
 
 JOHNSON'S remarks upon the felicities afforded 
 by a good inn might aptly be applied to good 
 shops. SRops are the first amenity of civilisation. 
 They are a promise of sociability. They give news 
 of the civil bustle of men. They are an unwaning de- 
 light for all, young and old, rich and poor; for you 
 may have all the joy of their windows without spend- 
 ing a penny. Their lights are more alluring and more 
 satisfying than the lights of all your houses of en- 
 tertainment, and you are more candidly welcomed at 
 their doors than at the doors of most inns. Note 
 how even a short line of shops stirs the languid 
 prospect of a suburban street, and how they lighten 
 the tone of things within their immediate neighbour- 
 hood. Within the orbit of shops people move more 
 brisldy, if slowly, than in the long streets of houses. 
 The sight of a High Street of bright shops after 
 much turning in side streets is as pleasing and in- 
 vigorating as the sight of a good inn after a lonely 
 country walk. You feel once again in touch with 
 the humanities and with the genial swell of affairs. 
 London has shops for all tastes; gigantic shops, 
 every-day shops, dainty shops, eccentric shops, whim- 
 
 110 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 141 
 
 sical shops, small shops, bazaars, booths, arcades, 
 and stalls. Every commodity that the world pro- 
 duces has Its proper shop in London. There are 
 shops for pearls and platinums and ivory; shops for 
 Eastern silks and spices; shops for Arctic furs; shops 
 for American candy; shops for East Indian coral; 
 shops for Cingalese fruits ; shops for South Sea bric- 
 a-brac; shops (once again) for German delicatessen, 
 for Lapland oils, for Serbian embroidery, for Chinese 
 musical instruments and for Japanese underwear; 
 and shops for all the world's foods and all the 
 world's postage-stamps. 
 
 The great Stores are imposing pieces and lend 
 pomp to the streets they occupy, but my fancy pre- 
 fers the grace and dignity of the smaller shops. 
 These do not profess the large manner. They are 
 nice in their architecture and individual in their 
 methods. They retain the old style, when, if a shop 
 bore the name of Smith or Jones over the door, you 
 could go in and ask for Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith, 
 and be sure of finding him. Few of them to-day have 
 j)ersonal association with the names over their doors, 
 but style and atmosphere remain. I think of the 
 beautiful shops of Fribourg & Treyer, in Haymar- 
 ket, of Hatchard and Fortnum & Mason, in Picca- 
 dilly, of Dunhill's, in Duke Street, of the bell foun- 
 dry in Whitechapel Road, of Buzzard's in Oxford 
 Street*, of Quaritch's in Grafton Street, of Ellis', in 
 Bond Street, of the old chemist's shop in Drury 
 
142 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Lane, of Francis Downman's wine-shop in Dean 
 Street, of Birch's in Cornhill, of the shops under the 
 old houses at Holborn Bars, and of various shops in 
 Burlington Arcade and round about Savile row. 
 All of them are shops of age and character — vintage 
 shops. 
 
 They know no rough business of buying and sell- 
 ing. You choose or order what you want, and the 
 assistants are delighted to give you their time and 
 to talk with you about your purchases and about 
 their vocation. It is no mere trade; it is more than 
 a profession; and the assistants are of the priest- 
 hood. At DunhlU's, pipes are sold by ceremony, 
 and the assistants are elegantly robed and handle 
 the pipes with gloved hands. There is a story told 
 in Duke street of the hasty young man from the 
 provinces blundering Into DunhlU's. 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "I want a pipe." 
 
 The priest looked perplexed and took counsel of 
 himself. "A Pipe? Pipe?" 
 
 "Yes, a pipe. You know — briar." 
 
 "Pipe, sir?" still more embarrassed. "Pipe?" 
 
 "Yes, hang it all, man. A pipe. Quick — I've 
 got to catch a train. PIPE !" 
 
 "Pipe? 'M." The high priest was called. "Gen- 
 tleman wants a pipe." 
 
 "A pipe?" Senior and junior stared upon the 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 143 
 
 young man with vexed brows. "Afraid I don't 
 quite — " 
 
 "Dash it all, don't you sell pipes here? Well, I 
 want a pipe. What you smoke. One of your pipes. 
 A Dunhill. . . ." 
 
 "O-o-o-oh!" with a swift clearing of face. "O-o- 
 oh, a Dunhill? Now I understand, sir. But you 
 said a pipe!" 
 
 In Burlington Arcade there is similar ceremony. 
 You do not buy things in the Arcade. You select 
 and order — half a dozen pairs of boots, two dozen 
 ties, six dozen collars; and, if you are a born fool, 
 a dressing-gown at fifty pounds and a dozen lounge 
 shirts at two guineas each. And when you buy cig- 
 arettes at Fribourg & Treyer's or wine at Mr. Down- 
 man's, the business rises to ritual. 
 
 It is the shops of London, I think, that give the 
 Cockney child his first thrill of rapture in his city. 
 Their number, their brave display, and their multi- 
 tudinous appeal are sure breath-takers. Rank upon 
 rank they stand for review, each with its personal 
 note, each of][ering something new and splendid, 
 necessary or deeply desirable. Indeed, a walk 
 through the shop-streets is as good a tonic as I know; 
 better than any country solitude. Amid the happy 
 parade and warm tumults of the streets one may 
 escape in an hour from all gloom and introspection; 
 the long green desert of the country only intensifies 
 these disorders. Many folk, when harassed, or 
 
144 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 run down, express a desire to "get away from every- 
 thing;" and they try to do this by going to the 
 country. But the effectual escape is not from 
 "things," but from yourself; and I find that in the 
 fields and woods the most looming object of the 
 landscape is oneself. It o'ertops everything, and 
 colours everything. 
 
 It is a mistake, I think, that town life rubs down 
 the bright angles of character. Truly only in town 
 are people their whimsical selves, living, freely and 
 fully, their own lives. Life in the country is of 
 necessity communal; one must fit in or get out; and 
 for social intercourse one is limited to one's imme- 
 diate circle, which may be unsympathetic. Choice of 
 society or solitude is not to be had. You are either 
 bothered by dull visitors or eyed sideways with sul- 
 len curiosity. But London never intrudes. There 
 one may find whatever sort of society one wishes, 
 or complete solitude, at the moment's whim; and to 
 all who are suffering from dumps, nerves, megrims, 
 vapours, or boredom, I would say — Go out and look 
 at the shops. Before you know it, your alien hu- 
 mours will be dissipated. 
 
 I was brought up in the heart of shop-land, and 
 my earliest memories are of the West End highways, 
 and of darting, keen-eyed, from one shop-window to 
 another; and never have they ceased to fascinate me. 
 I can still stroll for miles down their lines, or waste 
 hours within their doors, without a moment of fa- 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 145 
 
 tigue. At every pace the mind is caught and occu- 
 pied; kept alert but not unsettled. Let me get into 
 Fortnum & Mason's, and I ask no better entertain- 
 ment. That is, for me, the most alluring of all 
 shops; and although I'm a plain man, of leg-of- 
 mutton tastes, the sight of their windows and their 
 garnished delicacies is irresistible. I cannot pass 
 them. I must go in and survey the glazed chickens 
 and the noble briskets, the glossy boars' heads, the 
 brown Bath chaps, the bewildering assortment of 
 exotic hors d'aeuvres — cocks' combs in jelly, truf- 
 fles from Perigord, caviare from Astrachan, an- 
 chovies from Scandinavia, olives from the South — 
 in jars and bottles, their vessels fashioned in fan- 
 tastic shape for their delightful purposes. Each 
 corner of the shop makes its picture. In one, the 
 hams, tongues, fowls, galantines, sausages and sala- 
 mis; in another the Yorkshire pies, Melton Mow- 
 brays, game pies, Oxford brawns, jellies, biscuits and 
 Oriental flim-flams — curry powders, potted char, 
 Bombay ducks, poppadums, ginger, chutnees, man- 
 goes balachoung; and, in another, the thousand little 
 tins, jars, packets and bottles of table trifles, each 
 with its native style and decoration; and, if you 
 are lucky, through it all will march the thrilling 
 figure of a white-robed chef bringing from below- 
 some lordly dish for the "cold" table. 
 
 I say it is one of the spectacles of London, and 
 it always draws me when I am in Piccadilly; but 
 
146 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 there were days when it would have driven me to 
 fury. Any ham-and-beef shop had that effect on 
 me, then. You may have noticed, if you have had 
 hungry days, that it's the ham-and-beef shops that 
 always exasperate. Your stomach may be empty, 
 and your limbs faint, but you can pass the butcher, 
 the grocer, the baker, the fishmonger, the confec- 
 tioner, even restaurants and tea-shops without any 
 spasms. It's the ham-and-beef shop, with Its genteel 
 and titillating display ready to the eye, that makes 
 you look round for that 'alf-brick. It's the sight 
 of the decked and garnished dishes — ^the ham in 
 cut and its pink and cream slices and Its pink odour — 
 that makes a Communist of a hungry Tory. 
 
 There were two kinds of shops then that inflicted 
 sweet torment upon me — ham-and-beef shops and 
 bookshops. Sometimes I was able to enter one of 
 them, but never both in the same week. Mostly I 
 could only look and satisfy my longings with a sniff 
 at the one and a sort of second-hand taste of the 
 other. How I would gaze upon the hams and the 
 jellied tongues! And how I would pore over the 
 tantalising pages of the Bookman Christmas Num- 
 ber, which told me, curtly, of delicious treasures 
 that I could never possess. How I would languish 
 outside the windows of that bookshop in Queen 
 Street, feeding my eyes and my envy with sight of 
 precious volumes to be had for a certain number 
 of shillings that I never could get together. I never 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 147 
 
 dared to go in, save when I went on the business 
 of a sixpenny edition; I feared that they would 
 know that I had nothing in my pocket, and had 
 merely come to handle, to sample, to snatch a few 
 minutes' delight without fee; and that they would 
 kick me out. I don't think now that they would 
 have done that; booksellers are humane creatures; 
 but youth sees itself too sharply. 
 
 For the Stores I care little. Though admirable 
 as conveniences, they have none of the appeal of 
 the shops, nor are their assistants so human and 
 agreeable as the small-shop assistant. How can 
 they be — working in palaces? Of necessity they 
 acquire something of the marble-and-gilt tone of 
 their surroundings; and the marmoreal manner 
 though proper to church sidesmen, butlers, and toast- 
 masters, ill becomes the coquetry of shopping. 
 Then I always have the feeling, in these places, that 
 I'm under observation. It may be conscience, but 
 every pillar seems to shield a detective, and every 
 other shopper has the detective air. It is very pleas- 
 ant to stroll through courtyards with fountains and 
 mosaic pavements, to walk upstairs on velvet pile, to 
 play bo-peep around pillars of Carrara marble, to 
 find, on wet days, lunch and telephone and ticket- 
 office and cloakroom under one roof; but that isn't 
 shopping. One goes to the Stores deliberately, giv- 
 ing a day or half-day to it; but shopping only yields 
 its full flavour when it is done in the first rush of a 
 
148 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 whim or a mood. It should begin, without intent, on 
 a sudden glance at a shop-window and the fierce 
 desire to spend money, and should cease with satiety 
 or empty pockets. The journey from shop to shop 
 whets the appetite, but the sight of the Stores, where 
 everything lies within reach, dissuades rather than 
 excites. There is no fun in making conquest of the 
 willing. 
 
 Another thing — whether by accident or personal 
 eccentricity, I never can get what I want in these 
 universal provision stores, and I feel that the assist- 
 ant doesn't really care whether I do or not. The 
 first question he asks you, when you have stated 
 that you want a certain article is: "What sort?" 
 Why should he ask me that? The doctor might 
 just as well ask you what sort of medicine you would 
 like, or a lawyer what sort of action you'd like to 
 bring. These people are in their job year in and year 
 out, and their business is to advise the customer, 
 not to let the poor fool fuddle himself with choos- 
 ing. Your ordinary tailor always asks you what 
 material you'd like for your new suit, and how you'd 
 like it cut. Yet he is supposed to be a specialist in 
 clothes, giving his time and attention to the study of 
 styles and fashions and clothes generally. It is for 
 him to prescribe for me ; to tell me how I ought to 
 dress; not to let me go out in a broad-stripe, high- 
 coloured cloth that can only fitly be worn by your 
 six-foot, broad-shouldered man. But he doesn't 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 149 
 
 care. If I went to the Stores and said I wanted a 
 hat, and picked out a tall silk hat, with curly brim, 
 I know the assistant would let me go away with it. 
 
 Now your bookseller is more jealous of his repu- 
 tation. I never knew a London bookseller who 
 would let his customer make a fool of himself with 
 his books. He wouldn't let the tired business man, 
 who, he knew, wanted Mr. Phillips Oppenheim or 
 Mr. David Whitelaw, go away with Einstein or 
 the Life and Letters of the Bishop of Duddington. 
 Nor would he let the man of serious bent, who al- 
 ways wanted something solid, go out with a summer- 
 holiday story about love under the apple trees. 
 Not he. He would hate himself for a week if that 
 happened. 
 
 "Pardon me, sir. No. Not that one. A slight 
 mistake, I think. It might suit the lighter build of 
 mind, but hardly yours, I think. Allow me — let me 
 take it. Thank you. . . . Now this, I think — this 
 is perhaps a little more in the key. An excellent little 
 work by Professor Thomas Burke — published last 
 week — r'The Inter-relation of Prunes and Prisms.' " 
 
 But better even than shops or stores are the stalls 
 of the street-markets. They lack the gloss and dig- 
 nity and brilliance of the shops but they have an 
 open-air boldness that is equally alluring; and if 
 you want to spy upon the Londoner in his most un- 
 self-conscious phases, the best observation-posts are 
 
150 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the street markets. The streets themselves, and the 
 theatres and the parks and the bars, all throw back 
 the high lights of humanity, but it is humanity seek- 
 ing recreation and a little conscious of itself. In 
 the markets we have people on business, oblivious 
 of everything but the occasion of the moment; and 
 we see them as they are, in the habit and speech of 
 every day, fighting the battle of life and seeking the 
 elusive something-for-nothing, peering here and 
 there for the cheapest meat or fish, or a piece of oil- 
 cloth for the kitchen, or a parlour table or trim- 
 mings for a hat. 
 
 "Going to market," Is a phrase that is seldom 
 heard among the respectable, who suppose it to be 
 a phrase descriptive of a village function. For their 
 household purchases they "go shopping," but those 
 in less comfortable circumstances do literally "go 
 to market," The shops are not for them. They 
 find their value in those narrow streets of stalls which 
 evoke memories of the hot, sounding Bazaars and 
 Bonanzas of the East. 
 
 There were stalls when London and Westminster 
 first began to trade, and though much has changed 
 and disappeared in the passing of the centuries, the 
 stalls remain, and their cries remain. Once it was 
 "What d'ye lack, my masters, what d'ye lack?" 
 "Hot codlings!" "Buy any gingerbread! Gilt gin- 
 gerbread!" "What Is't you buy — rattles, drums, 
 halberts, horses, fiddles of the finest?" "New Bal- 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 151 
 
 lads!" "Cherry Ripe!" "Ribs of beef!" "Hot 
 sheep's feet!" "Hot peascod!" "Pepper and saf- 
 fron!" "Mack-er-el!" "Fine felt hats or spec- 
 tacles to read!" "Silks, lawns, and Paris thread!" 
 "Rushes green!" To-day it is "Buy! Buy! Buy!" 
 " 'Ere's yer fine orange — all sahnd an' juicy!" 
 "Pick 'em out where yeh like !" "Comerlong, ladies, 
 this way fer yer fine ripe strawb'ry!" Long may 
 they continue to flourish and to cry! For how 
 much more joyous it is to shop casually and exchange 
 rough banter in the open air (though the ajr be none 
 too sweet) than in the elaborately appointed Em- 
 porium or Stores. 
 
 The war brought a great increase in the number 
 of street markets, and we have lately heard much out- 
 cry from the ill-used shops against their pert com- 
 petitors. Similar outcry was made in Elizabeth's 
 time by the shop-keepers against stall-holders as 
 "unrtily people." But! questions of prestige and 
 economics apart, I am all for the stalls. Selfridge's 
 and Harrods are delightful places in which to spend 
 a dull hour, but, as I have said, that is about all I 
 do spend there. For my lighter purchases I go to the 
 stalls. Their tradition goes farther than that of 
 the shops; too, they have more warmth, colour and 
 vitality. The stores-assistant, even at his best, serves 
 you casually, wearily, as though his business were 
 indeed a business and a sorry one. I were rather 
 served by the most scrapegrace pedlar or hawker or 
 
152 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 stall-holder than the most polished shop-assistant; 
 for with your stall-holder every sale is an occasion 
 for an outburst, a hoop-la ! of delight. He rejoices 
 at his business, and tells the street about it, where 
 your shop-keeper goes about his trading darkly, 
 with hushed voice, as though fearful lest his rival 
 should get to hear about it. He labours in secret 
 while the stall-holder shouts to the sunshine or cries 
 your custom under flagrant naphthas. 
 
 Monk and I lately filled a morning with a tour of 
 these bazaars beginning at Soho and finishing at 
 Roman Road, E. Most people, when they think 
 of street markets, think only of two — Caledonian 
 Market and the Sunday morning Market of Middle- 
 sex Street. But neither of these markets has now 
 any shred of character left. Too much press pub- 
 licity has ruined them. Petticoat Lane years ago 
 became a show place, and laid itself out to attract the 
 unsophisticated sightseer, as the New York Bowery 
 did; and when, during the war, Mayfair began to 
 visit Caledonian Market in its Rolls-Royces, one 
 knew that it was discovered and finished. 
 
 But there are others, equally picturesque, and 
 full of rich character and exclusive customs. All 
 working-class quarters, and most suburbs have, of 
 course, their Saturday night stall markets, but I am 
 speaking here of those markets that persist through 
 the week — in Soho, Seven Dials, Netting Dale, Far- 
 ringdon Road, Brick Lane, and in Whitecross Street 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 153 
 
 under the eccentric spire of St. Luke's. Each has 
 its distinguishing "tone," each its own type of shop- 
 per and hawker, and each its physical atmosphere 
 (very strong, this). 
 
 The Berwick Street Market is chiefly kept by 
 Jews, but Its patrons are cosmopolitan — French, 
 Swiss, Italian, Greek, and Suburban. At every step 
 one breathes garlic and wool, and receives fragments 
 of talk in many richly-coloured dialects of Europe. 
 Berwick Street serves not only the table but the 
 Bottom Drawer as well. Here are "silk" stockings 
 at a shilling or so, "pearl" necklaces, "Brussels" lace, 
 blouses, jumpers, dress lengths, shirts, vests, pants, 
 misfit trousers, collars, ties, jostling the frolic produce 
 of the South, pimentos, olives, Roquefort, ravioli, 
 •green peppers, truffles of Perlgord, ChiantI, salsify, 
 polenta, Bologna sausage, capsicum, salami. Here 
 in the morning you will find the women of France, 
 hatless, doing their marche as at home, and with 
 them the knowing ones from the suburbs, who have 
 learnt the hygienic and aesthetic value of a varied 
 table. People move here with that alert languour 
 that belongs to the quarter. Even strangers, mov- 
 ing with the business-like tread of the Londoner, 
 catch something of Its quality, and come from Ber- 
 wick Street with a llther toe and a more soufflant 
 eye. 
 
 Here they do not cry their wares; they wheedle 
 you. You are making a difficult passage through 
 
154 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Little Pulteney Street, when an Oriental whisper 
 tickles your ear — "Lovely thilk tieth, thir — on'y a 
 shilling each !" "Jutht look at theth thockth, thir — 
 all thIlk!" But you are not pestered — the remark 
 is dropped only as a hint. There is none of the 
 buy-buy-buy clamour here. Like the stores, this 
 market has its regular customers and it only makes 
 a bid for your attention in the manner of the shop- 
 walker. Even the great corner shop for fish and 
 poultry, In Rupert Street, festooned with fowls and 
 draped with flat fish; does its vast business with little 
 noise. The assistants do not, as in East End Mar- 
 kets, step out and buttonhole the wayfarer with chal- 
 lenges — '^ 'Ere — mister — you never see a finer bird 
 than that, / know. Just 'ave a feel of it — go on. I 
 can do you that at one-and-ten a pound." Or "Sort 
 'em out where yeh like — ^^all sahnd and juicy!" The 
 scene Is as quietly vivacious as the marche of a 
 French country town. 
 
 I wish that something of this nonchalance might 
 be conveyed to the somewhat pedestrian affairs of 
 Hoxton Street. The physical air here is heavy, and 
 few breezes come to lighten It. It is fed with the 
 odours of whelks, sheeps' hearts, trotters, offal, fish- 
 and-chips, vegetables and that devitalising smell that 
 belongs to very second-hand furniture. But food 
 prevails, for Hoxton Street's main business Is to 
 keep body and soul together, and the rare occasions 
 of silken dalliance are sufficiently served by the "Old 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 155 
 
 Britt," now, alas, a movie palace, and a few pubs, 
 of which I like most "The Bacchus." Here is much 
 study for the philosopher. Marketing here moves 
 slowly, anxiously. It is not a matter of seeking 
 the best at the lowest price, but of looking for what 
 can be got for a few pence. The faces are knitted 
 into shapes of care, and the eyes are tense, and the 
 fingers close tightly upon the purses, as the women 
 hover around each stall, fearful of paying too dearly 
 for even a makeshift meal. Nerves are on edge, 
 and buyers and sellers alike are petulant. Each 
 walks on a narrow ledge above disaster. It is as 
 quiet as the Soho market, but with a different tone. 
 Certainly they make a noise, but their noise is less 
 cheerful than Soho's quiet. It has a bitter note, al- 
 most a wailing in it. 
 
 Farther eastward, in Chrisp Street, Poplar, the 
 tones of life are a little louder and fuller, and the 
 wares are well assorted. They do well here. Many 
 stalls have abandoned the old rowdy naphtha flares 
 and are fitted with electric light. Old iron and old 
 magazines break the line of to-day's rabbits and yes- 
 terday's fish. The old sweetstuff stall survives here, 
 with its home-made "humbugs" and clove rock and 
 bull's-eyes; and these light the street with the spirit 
 of childhood. I often pity the children of Kensing- 
 ton Gardens with their silken clothes and "latest 
 children's fashions" and well-upholstered carriages 
 and sedate nursemaids. They miss so much. I am 
 
156 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 sure they would rather know the joy of the toffee 
 apple or the rapture of the weekly penny, and the 
 nervous delight of placing it to the highest advan- 
 tage, than move among the emblems of prosperity. 
 But their sheltered lives will never give it. They 
 may, in later life, visit these markets, but they will 
 never catch their true temper. They may find some 
 pleasure in them, but it will be counterfeit pleasure. 
 The doll at three-halfpence (yes, you can get dolls 
 for three-halfpence), the parlour game at twopence, 
 the box of coloured crayons at three-halfpence, the 
 singing bird in a cage at twopence — they will never 
 suffer the ecstasy of first possession of these wonders. 
 One must be a child, and a child of the streets, to 
 taste the true enjoyment of that moment. 
 
 Every child of Mayfair and Kensington who saw 
 the Chaplin picture, "The Kid," must have wished 
 he were that Kid, as every poor child who wanders 
 down Oxford Street wishes that he had a rich father. 
 But If the wish of the poor child were satisfied he 
 would be quickly disappointed, for his rich fath-er 
 could not give him the glamorous moments that his 
 present makeshift life affords. For, If his whims 
 were met, he would lose the serious, splendid thrill 
 of laying out his weekly coin. The rich child buys 
 his toys at a store from a sleek assistant, who Is 
 polite to him, but the child of Poplar can make 
 friends with his toy-merchant, who is never polite 
 and frequently profane. 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 157 
 
 There is a warmth among the stall-holders of 
 Chrisp Street. Sometimes, as when Mrs. Gubblns, 
 who has been studying the "proper retail prices" In 
 certain dally papers, expresses her views on the qual- 
 ity of the potatoes, It becomes heat. But it Is all 
 In the day's work. No-Offence-GIven, None-Taken, 
 is the motto. Many of the stalls anticipate argu- 
 ment by displaying gaily-devised catchwords — "Live 
 and Let Live" — "Quality and Clvihty" — "If not 
 Pleased Tell Us; If Pleased Tell Others"— "We 
 Serve Others as We Would Like to Be Served." 
 And with the written mottoes goes a vociferous com- 
 ment on the goods and the state of business; man 
 against man, stall against stall. Their cries are per- 
 emptory rather than seducing. The voices are husky 
 or strident, but they are the voice of Autolycus cry- 
 ing his wares In the poetry of the streets. 
 
 The warmth of Chrisp Street Is not perhaps a 
 very seemly warmth. It Is not, so to speak, the full, 
 glittering warmth of the fireside, but rather the 
 rough warmth of blankets; and If your skin Is of the 
 roseleaf, it will exacerbate rather than soothe. But 
 these markets are not for the fair-skinned; they 
 are for those who lie roughly, and mix the business 
 of marketing with the entertainment of rich and 
 ready banter, of clamorous dispute and vehement 
 accord. 
 
 Here, on Saturday nights, and In most of the East 
 End markets, you will find still, among the substan- 
 
158 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 tial joints and rabbits and silks and furs, the stall 
 of the colporteur, laden with spiritual uplift. Its 
 sides are hung with illuminated Bible texts, and it 
 is stocked with testaments, concordances, Spurgeon's 
 Talks, miscellaneous tracts, the publications of the 
 S. P. C. K., missionary magazines, the Friendly 
 Gleaner, Life and Work, and back numbers of those 
 too-too pious organs. The Cottager and Artisan 
 and the British Workman. The colporteur is a 
 grave, shy character, who spends most of his time in 
 re-arranging his stall, or, if he catches a wandering 
 eye, pointing silently but eloquently to one of his 
 texts — "Consider the lilies of the field they toil not.'' 
 For ceremonial marketing you may try the lower 
 end of Brick Lane on the verge of the Russian and 
 Polish quarter. There is a touch of irony in the 
 situation of this market. It lies under the shadow 
 of that gigantic folly, Columbia Market, which was 
 the gift of Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who, with that 
 lack of understanding that distinguishes her type, 
 was always giving the poor what they didn't want. 
 That market is now let out in tenements, and Brick 
 Lane is the real People's Market. It is a mixed 
 market, and serves all household wants, but it makes 
 no song about itself. Something of the settled mel- 
 ancholy of the tribes of Eastern Europe hangs over 
 it, and the faces of the shoppers are not London 
 faces. Strange foods appear on the stalls. Smoked 
 meats are in demand, and curious achievements in 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 159 
 
 sausage form decorate the shop-windows. Costume, 
 too, does not follow London or Paris models, but 
 moves wayivardly about alien standards. The stall- 
 holders use little voice. They do not cry. They do 
 not sing. They do not even wheedle. They are 
 passive. They stand at their stalls, like beggars at 
 the temple gates, awaiting your charity. They in- 
 veigle with the eye rather than summon, and invite 
 by their pathos rather than by their goods. 
 
 Purchasing here is not the blithe brisk business of 
 Lavender Hill or Salmon Lane, whose "Take it or 
 leave it," means what it says; it partakes of the leis- 
 urely chicanery of the Orient. If you pay the price 
 asked you are set down for a discourteous fool and 
 despised accordingly. In this market the attitude 
 of "Take it or leave it" is an invitation to the waltz 
 — an opening for the intricate interplay of bargain- 
 ing; and when, after long minutes, a deadlock is 
 reached, the prospective purchaser will go away and 
 return later and re-open the matter; and depart 
 again, and again return, until he or the vendor is 
 exhausted. How a man prospers who conducts his 
 business with this large contempt of :ime I do not 
 know; I can only suppose that the ultimate profit 
 amply covers him. Certainly he seems to do better 
 than the abrupt Cockney, whose slogan is "Small 
 Profits, Quick Returns." 
 
 A happy hunting-ground for those who find amuse- 
 ment in the foibles of their fellows is afforded by the 
 
160 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 mid-day bazaar of Leather Lane. There the hungry 
 office-boy may feed, and the odd minutes of the 
 clerk's luncheon-hour may be most pleasantly, 
 though unprofitably, spent. Nothing is here of solid 
 value, but much to tempt the eye. In this narrow 
 lane with its lasting odour of vegetable refuse, el- 
 derly professors will sell you the Elixir of Life at a 
 shilling a box; shabby young men will sell you the 
 Secret of Success in Business; venerable and eloquent 
 seniors whose equally venerable linen is eloquent 
 of a mis-spent youth, will give you (yes, give you) 
 the winner for the Big 'Un to-morrow. They are 
 not asking for money. They are sportsmen, and 
 when they've got a good thing, they like to share it 
 with other sportsmen. One might think that they 
 could save themselves a lot of trouble by shouting 
 their Good Things to the crowd at large; but that 
 is not their way. Apparently they like the formality 
 and ritual of the intimate chat with the True Sports- 
 man. They like to deliver their good news in sealed 
 envelopes, lest it get into profane hands that would 
 show it no respect; and to receive from their bene- 
 ficiaries some token of his True Sporthood. 
 
 Elsewhere, you will find brisk young gentlemen 
 who have apparently taken a course of lessons in 
 "How to Become a Convincing Talker," and now, 
 in tones that ring with sincerity, offer you one guinea 
 fountain-pens at two-and-six, or gold watches, sleeve 
 links, solid leather wallets, at the price of a lunch. 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 161 
 
 They do good business ; but the book-stalls, the hab- 
 erdashery stalls, and the broken-iron stalls, having 
 little excitement to offer for the splendid shilling 
 suffer by this insidious competition. People would al- 
 ways rather waste their money on an empty thrill 
 or a humorous swindle than spend it wisely on solid 
 value. No right-minded hawker displays ginger- 
 bread without gilt. 
 
 Here indeed are noise and talk In excess. "Now 
 gentermen, I can see that you're all sportsmen 'ere, 
 and they're the men I like to talk to. Now don't 
 run away — I ain't gointer talk about meself- — I don't 
 'ave to. Everybody round 'ere knows me. I'm Og- 
 trot, the jockey, and you gentermen that remember 
 the Lincolnshire of '89 don't need no more'n that. 
 I retired a long time ago, but I still keep in touch. 
 Now listen — the Leger comes on in a week. Very 
 well. Now I'm not arstin' fer any money: all I arst 
 is that when you draw your money you deal fair 
 by me. Now is that straight or ain't it? . . . If you 
 boys don't keep back I'll clip yer ear-'oles. . . . 
 Now listen — . . . 
 
 "These boxes of choc'lits what I 'ave 'ere are sold 
 In the shops at ten shillings a box. Ten shillings, 
 ladies. But owing to my investing several thousand 
 pounds in the purchase of a bankrup' stock I'm offer- 
 ing 'em at — what? — at two shillings the box, ladies. 
 Ten shilling boxes of — 's choc'lits, at two shillings. 
 Every box I sell means a dead lorss to me, but I 
 
162 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 ain't worrying about that. It pays me by making me 
 name known. You'll find me 'ere every day, and I 
 know that when you've dealt with old George once 
 you'll come back. . . . Pass 'em up, Fred. 'Nother 
 one over there — lady in the blue 'at. . . .1 don't sell 
 duds, ladies. No 'alf-fiUed boxes 'ere. Examine 
 every one of 'em. No dummies. No throwout 
 samples. No dud stuff in faked boxes, but the Real 
 Thing. Ten Shillings fer two shillings." 
 
 And between whiles you will certainly have your 
 sleeve plucked by the gentleman with the green baize 
 apron, in the furniture-moving line, who has found 
 a gold and diamond scarf-pin in the van. He doesn't 
 know to which job it belonged, and if he takes it to 
 the police they may think he's pinched it, him being 
 a rough-looking sort. But perhaps you, sir, might 
 find it worth a shilling or two. He doesn't under- 
 stand these things, but it looks valuable, and he'd 
 be quite ready to accept a trifle, to save himself 
 trouble. 
 
 Then the gracious cultivated voice of the white- 
 haired professor. Between finger and thumb he 
 holds a small bottle. 
 
 "... and I may say that for fifteen years, from 
 boyhood, I scarcely ate one meal without discomfort. 
 Dyspepsia was slowly undermining my constitution. 
 I will only ask you to use the evidence of your eyes 
 and look at me now. And how was I cured ? Not by 
 doctors, gentlemen. And not by patent medicines. 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 163 
 
 But by Nature's remedy. Yes, gentlemen, I am not 
 offering you here any product of the chemist's labor- 
 atory. This is no quack nostrum, sirs. No ! — What 
 I hold in my hand is the essence of what the poet has 
 called the kindly fruits of the earth. Here are herbs, 
 gentlemen, the roots of Mother Nature. I have 
 sold these remedies in this district for fifteen years, 
 gentlemen; and wherever I go once I can go again 
 without challenge or question. One shilling, sir — 
 thank you — thank you, sir — thank you!" 
 
 But In the domestic markets — as at Kentish Town 
 and East Ham — there is no opportunity for gilding; 
 the goods must stand forth naked and abashed. The 
 most convincing of Convincing Talkers cannot lend 
 glamour to a horsehair sofa with a six-inch rent in 
 the seat or give grace to a chest of drawers lacking 
 one drawer and all the handles. Pots and pans and 
 brooms and garden tools must go or stay on their 
 patent utility. These markets are therefore quieter 
 than any — not from the temperament of the shop- 
 pers and stall-holders, or from the spirit of the place, 
 but because vocal efforts of publicity and challenge 
 and ornamentation are waste of time and breath. 
 Window-dressing Is vain. A bath with a hole in it Is 
 just that and nothing more. It has no "talking 
 points." It sells for what it is, and there Is no 
 deep-debated bargaining in the sale. Things here 
 are what they seem. "Persian" rugs, "Axminster" 
 carpets, "Benares" ware, deny their labels on their 
 
164 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 face; and for the rest there is no opportunity for 
 camouflage. Popular songs of ten years ago and 
 bric-a-brac from Birmingham have nothing to say for 
 themselves; and they do not say it. 
 
 Among the Sunday markets, of which Middlesex 
 Street is the chief, Club Row (Bethnal Green) is 
 unique. This is the cage-bird and feathered animal 
 market, and much talk and knowing glance accom- 
 panies the business deals. Your bird fancier is 
 much "wiser" than your housewife. He does not 
 buy a bird in a cage or a pig in a poke, without close 
 scrutiny and chaffering. Parrots, parakeets, canar- 
 ies, finches — all species of birds are offered here, and 
 the singing competition of rival aviaries are occas- 
 ions for much invective and much book-making. The 
 man who "fancies" his bird materiaUses his fancy 
 Into terms of cash. 
 
 But the best days of Club Row are gone. It is 
 falling off, like Middlesex Street and Caledonia Mar- 
 ket. Soon it will belong to that group of derelict 
 markets which are now Markets in name only — -Co- 
 lumbia Market (Bethnal Green), Cumberland Mar- 
 ket (Kentish Town), Mortimer Market (Blooms- 
 bury), Shepherd's Market (Mayfair), Clare Mar- 
 ket, Cloth Fair. But although vested Interests are 
 moving against them, I hope it will be long before 
 the street markets are abolished. 
 
 The pavement hawkers have already received no- 
 tice that while old licenses will be renewed, no new 
 
IN THE SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 165 
 
 licenses will be issued, and this is no doubt the first 
 flourish of the campaign. 
 
 Don't we all remember Ludgate Hill on Christ- 
 mas Eve, when the penny-toy peddlers stood shoul- 
 der to shoulder on the South Side of the hill, and 
 grown-ups and children packed the pavement with 
 delight; and the squeaking toys squeaked, and the 
 trumpets trumped, and the rattles rattled, and the 
 hawkers hawked? Well, they were soon moved on 
 at the wish of selfish and grasping shopkeepers, who 
 have no time for the "live and let live" spirit, Lud- 
 gate Hill then was the home of Santa Claus, and a 
 very child's heaven. It was filled with the warmth 
 of a nursery party — all jolly and free and slapdash 
 and childish. How different the crowded, fusty 
 toy bazaars of the Stores, and their solemn atmos- 
 phere, and the stolid assistant who demonstrates, 
 with perceptible lack of interest, the mechanical 
 toys. I would like to get up a Children's Crusade 
 for the return of the pedlar and the perpetual sur- 
 vival of the street-market. 
 
 They make an appeal which shops can never 
 make. When "all goods are marked in plain fig- 
 ures," the element of surprise is eliminated; and it is 
 just this possible surprise that draws the crowds to 
 the stalls. That, and their colour. 
 
 For at twilight, when the naphtha flares are lit, the 
 lane of stalls becomes a fair, and the sedate step that 
 is fitting to the shop seems foolishly out of place. 
 
166 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 One wants to hop, skip or jump through these ar- 
 cades of exultant Hght. And one does. The rou- 
 tine of shopping is not only made a pleasure; it be- 
 comes a carnival; and the wanderer, like myself, 
 who is seldom concerned with shopping, may here 
 revel like Haroun Alraschid, in Baghdad, or like 
 de Quincey in Little Earl Street, Seven Dials, and 
 see wonders, and rub shoulders with romance, and 
 come very close to the common heart of humanity. 
 
—VI— 
 
 IN THE STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON- 
 THAMES 
 
 ATRIP to Cyprus sounds beguiling. At the 
 suggestion one visualises green seas, white 
 coasts, and blue moon-swept hours of Cyprian de- 
 light. But this Cyprus holds little of enchantment. 
 You may reach it by omnibus from Piccadilly-Circus 
 or the Strand; and when you have reached it you 
 will take the next omnibus back. 
 
 It is an island site — all that it has to link it with 
 the other Cyprus — in a district where the slatternly 
 fields of Essex meet the draggled tail of the town. 
 It faces the edge of Albert dock, and is fretted with 
 cold side-streets, which lead nowhere. The names 
 of these streets carry dull echoes of the noise of past 
 battles and stress — Cameron-street, Plevna-street, 
 Beaconsfield-street, Livingstone-street. Each of 
 these side-streets drops into a waste of ash-heap and 
 half-made road. The houses back on to a wide but 
 dismal prospect. It is spacious and airy, but the 
 space is the space of desolation, and the air is 
 laden with odours. Dust drivels in the air, or dances 
 in corybantic circles; black dust from the coal-sidings 
 and grey grit from the stones. The prospect fades 
 
 167 
 
168 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 into bald corner-lots, broken fences, gasometers, and 
 the embankments of a main sewer. The houses are 
 low and cramped; rabbit-hutches in brick; and the 
 people seem to be of their surroundings, of scrap 
 iron and abandoned workings; they have got so far 
 with a struggle, and no farther. About the streets 
 and from the houses shuffle and peer pale women, 
 faded by long toil, with little appetite for laughter; 
 and pale beautiful children run from school, and 
 their keen-edged laughter is like the ripple of Japa- 
 nese wind-bells in a railway station. 
 
 The front of Cyprus is Cyprus-place, by the edge 
 of the Albert dock, which bristles with scores of 
 cranes, travelling and stationary, dilapidated sheds, 
 and sheaves of chimneys tipped with flowers of 
 smoke. Beyond the dock you may see from your 
 upper window the scarred slopes of Woolwich and 
 the heights of Shooter's Hill. Alongside the dock 
 runs that narrow railway-track, whose station-names 
 are so evocative — Gallions, Manor-way, Central, 
 Tidal Basin, Custom House. These names add bit- 
 terness to the general atmosphere. "Cyprus" it- 
 self is an ironical gibe. Only one spot here is aptly 
 named — a little street near some allotments, named 
 Savage-gardens. 
 
 Cyprus-place is the supply depot of this curious 
 colony, peopled by workers from the docks and the 
 great gas-works. Here are fly-blown eating-houses, 
 fly-blown "general" stores, a newspaper shop, a 
 
IN STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 169 
 
 sweetstuff shop, a few second-hand dealers, and the 
 Ferndale Hotel, the only "pub" In Cyprus. 
 
 It Is many years since I took my first drink at the 
 "Ferndale." It has changed little. It Is still the one 
 bright spot in Cyprus, but bright only by Its glum 
 background. It Is kept to-day by Joe Lyons (noth- 
 ing to do with tea-shops) and Is a quiet, well-con- 
 ducted house. There you may sit, under warm light, 
 and listen to the night wall of Industry — the squall- 
 ing syren, the melancholy hooter, and the gruff lull- 
 aby of the shunting engine; and with them comes the 
 smell of smoke and steam and dust. Here gather, 
 from the bleak corners of Cyprus, heavy dejected 
 men, some In the garments of work, some spruced 
 up by a wash and a change. But all are heavy. 
 Talk is slow. The easy Interchange of gossip be- 
 comes here only grunts and nods. They are tired 
 with the day's work, and they must be up early to- 
 morrow. "The Early Breakfast House" in Beacons- 
 field-street opens its doors when most of London is 
 abed. 
 
 The rhythm of life goes brokenly in Cyprus, for 
 it is isolated socially as well as geographically. It is 
 as segregated as a gipsy encampment. Its Sunday 
 afternoon is one long wail of discontent that knows 
 no solace. The cool tones of the piano are seldom 
 heard. More fitting, economically and aesthetically, 
 are the acid notes of the gramophone and the glum 
 
170 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 tones of the harmonium, which nightly embitter the 
 troubled air of Cyprus, the Island of Delight! 
 
 Yet Cyprus is to me a place of strange colour, for 
 it was in this district that I took my first pipe (really 
 four pipes) of chandoo. It was the result of a cas- 
 ual encounter with a brown Oriental on the bridge 
 crossing the dock. He was an old man, and his 
 parchment face looked honest and engagingly 
 whimsical. We stood for some minutes, exchang- 
 ing broken chit-chat, when he asked abruptly if I 
 had tasted the Great Tobacco. I hadn't. He prom- 
 ised me plenty amusement. I was young then, and 
 ardent for curious and cunning experience. Every- 
 thing once. I believed him, and went with him to a 
 foul cottage in a side street about Gallions. 
 
 I remember that evening very clearly. 
 
 It was a clear, cold night of March. We started 
 from Cyprus at chucking-out time, when the Fern- 
 dale was urging the last of its lingering customers 
 to the dark pavement, where they stood in clamant 
 bunches. Squalls of argument and hot profanity 
 broke from the corner. A street organ drew up 
 and made dim tintinnabulation through the stress 
 of the crowd and the hooting and shrieking of the 
 docks. Young girls scampered from byways, and 
 an ungainly dance began. Their hair flew grotes- 
 quely about them. Their gaping boots kicked up 
 the March mud. On the fringe of the circle hovered 
 
IN STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 171 
 
 evil shapes. Through their towzled hair the girls 
 leered back at the faces with knowledgeable eyes. 
 
 Across the wastes I saw the lights of Beckton, and 
 down side streets the windows of the little homes. 
 Past long lines of these smiling windows I walked 
 with my brown man; through streets of solitudes, 
 broken by little clusters of noctambulists dispersing 
 with reluctant feet into the night; past the oozing 
 windows of fried-fish bars; into pools of light and 
 out into unlamped darkness. 
 
 At last we halted, and he took my hand and led 
 me through the open door of a cottage, up a short 
 flight of squeaky stairs, and into a dark room. I 
 stood still while he fiddled about and found matches 
 and candle. The room reeked with acrid fumes; 
 yet because of what I had heard, it seemed to me 
 that this sombre odour held invitation to delight. 
 From another room, or next door, came sounds of 
 querulous nagging in a woman's voice, with a ran- 
 dom rumble of protest from a man. When the 
 light came I looked about me. I cannot tell you 
 what the room was like; I can only picture it as I 
 saw it. I was worked up by the little adventure 
 itself, and still more by the wonder of the Great 
 Tobacco. It seemed a chilly shrine. It v/as the 
 ordinary tiny bedroom of the workman's cottage, 
 and my immediate impression was of a prevailing 
 greyness. The floor was grey, the window-curtain 
 was grey, the ceiling grey, the dirt was grey. Even 
 
172 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the attenuated candle-light held a quality of cold 
 grey. I seemed to breathe greyness. On the floor 
 lay a mattress. A couple of chairs, a table, and some 
 odd utensils completed the furniture. 
 
 My brown friend went to a small cupboard and 
 brought the lay-out, which I had not seen before — 
 the pipe, the lamp, the tin of opium, and the instru- 
 ment called the yen-hok. He lit the lamp, took a 
 small portion of stuff from the tin, and held it 
 against the flame. Smoke came from it, pungent and 
 bitter-sweet. Then he kneaded it and deposited it 
 in the pipe. I watched him closely. The business 
 was fascinating to me, and he made of it a gracious 
 ceremony. Each gesture of each stage seemed to be 
 the deft and right gesture. He bent to it and gave 
 it significance, for in the opium pipe lies the radiant 
 serenity of the plains of the heart of Asia and the 
 melancholy glory of its hills. It is in this business 
 of approach that your opium-smoker rises above the 
 vicious tricks of your cocaine slave. He stands to 
 the sniffer as the connoisseur of claret to the dram- 
 drinker. The cocaine-taker wants only a jag and 
 gets it in the easiest and quickest way. He scamps 
 the slow rites and ceremonies of the pipe, the cook- 
 ing and kneading, and the trimming of the lamp. 
 One vulgar sniff and his business Is done. His is 
 a vice of the uncivilised, and has no following In 
 the land of courtesy and grace and delicate pomp. 
 It Is like dining off concentrated meat-tablets; like 
 
IN STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 173 
 
 coming down to breakfast unshaven; like taking exer- 
 cise in the bath-room; like studying English literature 
 in Bits of the Best Books. To approach these things 
 casually is profanity. They deserve preparation and 
 care. One should come gently and properly habited 
 to them; not rush against the gates with a school- 
 boy's sniff. 
 
 Three more "pills" my gentleman worked in the 
 same way. Then he handed me the pipe, pointed to 
 the bed, and left me. The apparatus of the busi- 
 ness was as interesting as the preparation. I dallied 
 with the pipe and inspected it well before using it. 
 It was a cunning piece of work. The stem was of 
 bamboo overlaid with ivory. The mouthpiece and 
 bowl were of porcelain. Below the mouthpiece was 
 wreathed a cluster of blue silk tassels. The flat 
 rim of the bowl was chased with Chinese ideographs. 
 Up the stem from bowl to mouthpiece marched a 
 procession of Chinese water-carriers, each figure 
 distinctive in pose and dress. They stood out from 
 the wood, sharply cut and sharply realised. It was 
 like a flash of China, a captured moment of late 
 afternoon outside the gates of a city imposed in little 
 upon this pipe in this back-street room near a roar- 
 ing London railway. I could see the swinging jars 
 and the rice-fields and the floating dust. 
 
 Then I lay down, and took my first draw. The 
 shock of it set me coughing and spluttering. I 
 hadn't expected that. I don't know what I had ex- 
 
174 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 pected, but I hadn't expected anything like the aroma 
 of mildewed Irish plug. Still, I decided to per- 
 severe ; and after a few more whiffs I found the trick 
 of it. I smoked slowly and gently until the first pill 
 was spent; and then suddenly I was seized with wave 
 after wave of discomfort, swimming and throbbing, 
 which lasted some minutes. I was then ready and 
 anxious to go home; and yet, when it had passed, 
 I felt that I had been done. This couldn't be all 
 that there was in the Great Tobacco. No; I 
 wouldn't be done. I believed in the potency of the 
 spirit of the white poppy, and I wanted my money's 
 worth. I took the second pellet, and drew upon It 
 with a sort of fearful determination. Soon all feel- 
 ing of nausea passed. A deep droning began in my 
 ears. I drowsed, and the drowsiness lapped mc 
 and soothed me, as one is soothed in a hot bath after 
 a day's walking. My senses purred. I had achieved 
 the supreme moment of the white poppy; a harmony 
 of mind and body; a sustained awareness of peace 
 and power. I wanted nothing; I possessed all. I 
 could write the perfect sonnet. I could compose 
 the great music-drama. I could lead an army to vic- 
 tory. I could conquer the world with a gesture. I 
 knew I could do these things, but the ineffable peace 
 that enwrapped me was so sweet, so potent, that 
 action seemed foolish and gross. 
 
 I took the third pill. When that was done, the 
 pipe slipped from me, and I was too comfortable 
 
IN STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 175 
 
 to reach for it. I lay quiet; my eyes fixed on the 
 blue flame of the lamp. After a while I noticed that 
 the flame was growing in height and expanding in 
 radiance until it seemed a monstrous curved fan, en- 
 veloping my face. It came nearer, and seemed to 
 close in; then suddenly, the centre split into rain- 
 bow hues, and life moved within it. The hues re- 
 solved themselves into one — blue — and I was in 
 a flowered garden where a blue moon threw its light 
 upon such supernal loveliness that my lips opened to 
 it. In the forefront of the garden lay a wide lawn, 
 midmost of which stood a gilded temple of many 
 turrets and windows, and from turret and window 
 looked out strange figures moving lazy arms. (Why 
 does opium always evoke pavilions and palaces?) 
 Then, It seemed, there came the sudden stroke of 
 a gong, whose vibrations spread before me in a 
 thousand ripples of coloured light; and, at the 
 stroke, windows and turrets were empty, and the fig- 
 ures poured as a cascade of strange shapes to the 
 lawn before the temple. And there they flowed 
 and gathered themselves, and then smiled and danced 
 to tunes played by running water; and strange 
 odours rose from the grass and the flower-beds, 
 and these odours floated in the air as strings of 
 lighted lanterns. The functions of the senses were 
 Interchanged. Perfume became visible; colour could 
 be heard; sound could be felt. 
 
 It seemed that my mind divided itself. I knew 
 
176 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 that I was looking into that garden, and I knew that 
 I was lying on my back on a hard mattress in a cot- 
 tage of a brown man met at Cyprus. By this very 
 division of the mind, I knew that the Great Tobacco 
 was working. Then my mind became one, and I 
 was in the garden. The lissome dancers gathered 
 about me, in a cloud of strange shapes, and at a 
 closer view, I saw that their eyes were mournful 
 with too much beauty, and they seemed to be speak- 
 ing; and they shone so clearly as to be alive to every 
 sense but touch. Sharper and sharper grew the de- 
 tail of the scene against the blue dusk. The con- 
 tour of a cheek, the iris of an eye, the beating of a 
 pulse of these trance figures leapt clear before me, 
 until the beauty of the whole was dimmed by the 
 magnificence of detail. Colour became a creature. 
 A scarlet sash about a waist assumed a character of 
 itself, and a foam of lace about a dancer's shoulders 
 lived apart from what it decked. 
 
 There were voices, multitudinous dim voices and 
 following feet; and then a massive figure, robed in 
 a costume of many clashing colours, moved from the 
 pavilion, and tumult spread about the garden, and 
 fear. As I looked upon this scene of panic, I saw 
 my thoughts running before me like little brooks, 
 and they were beaten back by the thoughts that ran 
 from the massive figure that had broken the joy 
 of the garden. Then the garden cleared, and as 
 
IN STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 177 
 
 it cleared my heart was possessed by remembered 
 legends of monstrous midnights. . . . 
 
 But one figure remained, a figure that looked 
 with strange gravity at me, appealingly, and not at 
 the figure before the pavilion, and moved towards 
 me; the figure of a young girl. At the same moment 
 the strange figure moved towards her, and as he 
 moved, the dancer turned, saw, and fled. Through 
 the dark thickets of the garden the little one ran, 
 hotly followed; and as I watched their flight, the 
 light of the garden changed softly from blue to 
 amber, and again to gold and again to a pale light 
 that was not of sun or moon. Through lanes of 
 flowers and brakes of bush the little one led him, 
 and though the monster ran as none ever ran he could 
 not reach her. Down mossy paths and through dim 
 dells she ran. About her hung a filmy raiment of 
 a green that is known to the rainbow. Her curls 
 streamed about her face. Across the grass her 
 white feet fled like flashes of a lantern; and now 
 the monster would be upon her, and now with a 
 turn she would be far from him. 
 
 And then, in a clearing of green grass spangled' 
 with flowers, that twinkled with changing hues, the 
 light grew dim and chill as a midwinter dawn, and 
 she stumbled among the flowers, and trembled, and 
 fell. . . . And as she fell, there came a crash of 
 drums and a storm of brass bugles. Melancholy 
 brown darkness closed in upon the garden. The 
 
178 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 darkness shrank and shrank into itself until it be- 
 came resolved into a speck of pallid blue flame in a 
 candle-lit room; and I lay there in heartache (as well 
 as headache), and Gallions seemed haunted by the 
 beauty and sorrow of an unfinished tale.. 
 
—VII— 
 
 IN THE STREETS OF GOOD 
 COMPANY 
 
 UPON a dull morning Monk and I sat round 
 the fire, and diverted ourselves with making 
 choice of London's good taverns. It seemed a tri- 
 vial topic of the moment, yet when lunch was an- 
 nounced we had covered many square miles of Lon- 
 don, and were still going. 
 
 An inn does not become an inn by the granting of 
 a license ; it grows slowly. It has its first period, its 
 second period, its maturity, and its decline. It 
 gathers about it a crowd, and the aggregate spirit of 
 that crowd gives it its "note." Let one member of 
 that crowd be affronted or dishonoured, and the 
 whole crowd forsake that house, and find another 
 and there re-create their circle; and the old house is 
 never the same. It becomes arid, spiritless. Virtue 
 is gone out of it, and its only hope is that a new 
 crowd will gather and make it a rendezvous. We all 
 know inns of this kind — eclipsed inns, waiting upon 
 their second period. They are sorry places. They 
 are like hotel bars and railway-station bars which 
 are not inns, but mere drinking-places. 
 
 An equally important factor in the success of a 
 
 179 
 
180 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 bar is its landlord. You cannot have a good bar 
 without good company, and only a good landlord 
 can attract the good company. A man of character 
 can change a derelict tavern, which all men shun, into 
 a centre of bright and sober intercourse; and the 
 man of unkind shape might take over the most pros- 
 perous and popular bar and have it empty within a 
 week. 
 
 One is conscious, at first entry, of the spirit of a 
 bar. There are bars where the stranger is welcomed, 
 and bars where he is shown that he isn't wanted; 
 bars where the assistants are courteous, and bars 
 where they serve you without looking at you. The 
 staff derive their manner from the landlord and the 
 regular crowd; and from sharp-tempered service 
 you may deduce evil company. The bar that is at- 
 tended by barmen is always better than that at- 
 tended by barmaids. Your barman is not so self- 
 centred as the girl, and does not demand attention, 
 or indulge his whims upon you, or ignore one in fa- 
 vour of another. You can talk to him as man to 
 man, but around the barmaid there is a barbed-wire 
 barricade of excessive self-esteem, and you often 
 run against it without knowing it. 
 
 For your landlord — he should have an equable 
 temper and a pleasant face for all. He should have 
 the tact and discretion of the London policeman; 
 the dignity of the merchant; the geniality of the 
 man-about-town ; and a certain professional "some- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 181 
 
 thing" which cannot be put into words — a touch of 
 manner .that marks him landlord as other touches 
 mark a man solicitor or bishop. 
 
 There are inns in central London for all moods, 
 but some of the kindliest houses are to be found in 
 the near suburbs — Shepherd's Bush, Hammersmith, 
 Kensington, Whitechapel, Poplar, Wapping, Rat- 
 cliff, Highgate, Islington. Cavour's bar, in Leices- 
 ter Square is a pleasant little room, well appointed 
 for an occasional gossip; and the upstairs room at 
 Henekey's in the Strand, is the best place I know for 
 rumination. You may sit in a rush-bottomed chair 
 in the window before an oak table and a pewter 
 jug, under the warmth of a great seventeenth-cen- 
 tury-style fireplace, and look through diamond-paned 
 windows upon the Strand's business, and be as tran- 
 quil as in your own study. For company there are 
 the Bedford Street Bodega, which is finding itself 
 again, and the new Rule's which I have described 
 earlier; De Hem's ofif Shaftesbury Avenue, the haunt 
 of film-actors; the "Man in the Moon" in Vine 
 Street, where real detectives gather and talk of 
 crime as merchants talk of commodities : "Not much 
 crime about just now." "No — very slow," and the 
 basement bar of Jones' Leicester Corner, where 
 gathers daily the most nondescript and roguish-look- 
 ing crowd in London. Another favourite of mine is 
 Shereef's Wine Lodge under the arches of Ludgate 
 Hill, where you may order "goblets" of champagne. 
 
182 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 I never care for champagne, and I don't much care 
 for Shereef's; the rumbling of the trains worries 
 conversation ; but I often go there for the delight of 
 ordering a "goblet." For a taste of High Life there 
 are the "Rose and Crown" by Park Lane, "The 
 Running Footman" in Charles Street and the 
 "Grapes" in Shepherd Market. 
 
 Here gentlemen's gentlemen and other indoor 
 servants are to be seen, and sometimes heard. But 
 as a class they are aloof and taciturn, and keep them- 
 selves to themselves. There are bars for butlers, 
 bars for footmen, and bars for chauffeurs. Disorder 
 Is unknown here. The atmosphere is subdued; con- 
 versation is murmured. It is high life of the "Young 
 Visiters" sort. The topics are of sober import — 
 whether "ours" are going to the Moors this year; 
 whether "he" Is likely to obey the order of the Court 
 and return to "her"; or whether "yours" are selling 
 the country house. The butler is easily recognised, 
 but the footman and the valet are changed by war- 
 service. They are no longer the soft things they 
 once were. They are become fully masculine, and 
 though they still wear a sleek, clothes-brush air, they 
 carry themselves as other men, and are not labelled 
 Yellowplush. They might be bank clerks or shop 
 assistants ; there is nothing to mark them from their 
 fellow-servants, the chauffeurs. 
 
 But the butler Is as he always was. Butlers never 
 change and never develop. I think they are born 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 183 
 
 butlers. A man does not seem to slide into the grav- 
 ity of butlerdom from sprightly first-footmanity. 
 He seems to have been always a butler; to have been 
 conceived in gravity and born with a corkscrew in 
 his hand. He regards the world with benignant 
 severity. He is the polished plebeian, who does 
 with a gentlemanly air things that no gentleman 
 would do. He is like a critic; he knows precisely 
 how every trick should be done, but he cannot do It. 
 He is a master of Form, without understanding it. 
 He takes a glass of beer with a gesture that belongs 
 to old brandy, and his feeling towards his footman 
 is crystallised in the phrase: "these young fellers." 
 He is a Petronius Arbiter of Taste, and speaks 
 more candidly of the errors and fallings of "ours" 
 and their visitors than a mother does of other peo- 
 ple's children. At the same time, he borrows much 
 reflected Interest from them. If their interest is the 
 Turf, he is an authority on racing. If it is literature, 
 he can talk like Mr. Edmund Gosse. If his people 
 are City people, his talk is an expansion of the Stock 
 Exchange Dally Official List, and he follows fear- 
 fully the fluctuations of Mexican Oils. 
 
 I once had occasional acquaintance with an ex- 
 butler who frequented the "Running Footman." He 
 had the true butler manner, and at first glance you 
 would have sworn he was Lord Curzon. His people 
 had been musical, and he possessed all their Infor- 
 mation on music without their knowledge. But his 
 
184 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 talk was to me a malicious delight. Your butler, 
 you see, If he be gifted with an observant eye, has 
 large opportunities for critical appreciation. He sees 
 your guests more clearly and swiftly than you. He 
 has them all taped. His field of observation affords 
 him a wide knowledge of men, and he can sketch you 
 this or that guest with wondrous fideUty. In the 
 dining-room men are off their guard, and if the but- 
 ler is a true butler, nobody is conscious of his pres- 
 ence. But he's there, and that downcast eye Is ever 
 at work, noting foibles and unconscious revelations. 
 And my butler has used his opportunities. 
 
 "Always entertaining, they was — ^three nights a 
 week. Funny looking people they used to have too. 
 Eccentric, y'know. But so Interesting. As soon as 
 they began to talk you forgot how funny-looking 
 they was — they was that interesting. There was a 
 man they used to 'ave very often. I couldn't make 
 'Im out at all. Composer they said 'e was, but you'd 
 never a-thought It. Looked more like Eugene Strat- 
 ton. Very nice fellow, though, and ours seemed to 
 think quite a lot of 'im. . . . But the man that 
 gave me the jumps was that Sims Reeves. 'Ow 
 people put up with 'im, I don't know. Enough to 
 drive anybody mad. They'd find out before they in- 
 vited 'im what 'e fancied, and then 'er ladyship 
 would arrange a nice little dinner of this and that — 
 'Mr. Sims Reeves' favourites' — and then either 'e 
 didn't turn up at all, or else 'e'd say 'e'd prefer a 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 185 
 
 grilled herring, If it wasn't any trouble. Trouble! 
 Fat lot 'e cared about trouble. I tell you, young 
 man, I used to fair dread the nights 'e was coming. 
 Up and down, up and down, all the bally evening. 
 Bell going all the time. 'Give Mr. Reeves this' or 
 'Get Mr. Reeves that.' And then the business when 
 'e went away — 'alf a dozen silk scarves round 'is 
 throat, muffling 'im up 'ere, and tying 'im up there — ■ 
 and then, mind you — not a word of thanks. Not so 
 much as a thrip'ny bit. . . . But Pattl. Now there 
 was a woman. You didn't mind taking extra trouble 
 for 'er. She appreciated it so. And didn't talk to 
 you as though you was nothing, but just like one man 
 to another. I always see that she was well looked 
 after, and she always looked after me. Always a 
 pleasant word when she was going away, and never 
 less than half a sovereign. And there was an old 
 fellow used to come, and play the fiddle. And 'e 
 could play, too. You may 'ave 'eard of 'im. A 
 famous man 'e was. Jarkim, they called 'Im or 
 some such name. 'E was often there, and got to 
 know me. 'E was very partial to our old brown 
 sherry, and 'e always used to give me an eye, as much 
 as to say 'You know what I like.' . . . Yes, you get 
 all sorts to deal with, young man, and you'll notice 
 that some people It's a real pleasure to look after, 
 whether they give you anything or not, while with 
 others, even if they drop a sovereign In your hand, 
 they do It in such a way that you don't care whether 
 
186 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 they're looked after or not. . . . Well, here's my 
 very best respects!" 
 
 Until lately there was an excellent cricket centre in 
 St. Martin's Street, where many publishers live — 
 the "Horse and Dolphin" kept by Len. Braund, once 
 of Somersetshire. The walls of the saloon held 
 camera records and cartoons of all the great battles 
 of other years, and Len., who was always on the 
 reception side of the bar, gathered to his house 
 many of the young amateurs and professionals of 
 to-day. The public-house, as a business, seems to at- 
 tract the ex-cricketer. I recall that Richardson kept 
 one, and Brockwell was for a time a landlord; and 
 I believe others were in the trade. Recollection and 
 anecdote and demonstrations of miraculous strokes 
 made every hour of Braund's bar noisy. But cricket- 
 talk, indeed, any sport-talk, is, for me, an infliction, 
 and recollections &f Lord's and the Oval less interest- 
 ing than recollections of the proceedings of the 
 Hornsey Borough Council. Your sportsman, when 
 not engaged in^his sport, is no very bright company. 
 I prefer the more catholic houses, in whose bars all 
 types gather — like the "Clarendon"" at Hammer- 
 smith, the "Turk's Head" by the waterside, the 
 "Town of Ramsgate," at Wapping, the sixteenth- 
 century "Hoop and Grapes" in Whitechapel High 
 Street, Blockey's in Jermyn Street, where the taxi- 
 men dine, and the old "GreeniGate," Barking Road, 
 where the ancient and beguihng game of shove- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 187 
 
 ha'p'ny may be played. It Is a true village inn on a 
 main road crowded with tram-cars, 'buses, and lor- 
 ries. It is a wooden structure, with a wide cart 
 sweep, and trestle-tables outside, and there on fine 
 days the carters sit with their drinks and their din- 
 ners; a little Morland study set in the thick of Lon- 
 don. And the name of Morland recalls a delightful 
 suburban house where he was known; the old "Bull"" 
 at Highgate. 
 
 George Morland ! The very name is a nosegay of 
 old cottage flowers. It evokes the genial curves of 
 the English countryside; bridle roads, rough farm- 
 yard smells, lamp-lit interiors, the warm confusion of 
 Inns, and buxom, apple-blossom girls. By no other 
 artist are we so cordially Introduced to the life of 
 our country roads, for no other artist is so intensely 
 English and so sympathetic to the common people. 
 There were other artists of his time who strove to 
 interpret the rustic poor; but with these one is some- 
 what aware of a condescension, of the fine gentleman 
 patting the coachman's child on the head. Half the 
 charm of Morland's work lies In the fact that he 
 saw his subjects on the level: he was instinctively of 
 them. 
 
 Born In circumstances which the world calls "com- 
 fortable," he found his true comfort only among the 
 rude and simple; and painted the subjects that he 
 loved. In taverns, stables, farmyards, he was at 
 home, and there his Ingenious brush discovered and 
 
188 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 presented to us beauty as bright as any that drawing- 
 rooms have held. Elegance and tepid culture were 
 not for him ; he chose the plain, blunt man. Natur- 
 ally, in a period when class distinctions were even 
 more sharply marked than now, this choice brought 
 upon him much mean and envious detraction. Each 
 of his contemporaries has had a fling at him, and 
 even his biographers find it hard to refrain from 
 censure. Says J. T. Smith, author of "A Book for 
 a Rainy Day" : 
 
 "His companions were jockeys, ostlers and carters, money- 
 lenders and gipsies, yet [I like this "y^t"] he was* a man by 
 no means wanting in sense or information ; and I am certain, 
 had he embraced the friendship of those persons of intellect 
 and sound integrity who wished to serve him, he might have 
 been an ornament to Society." 
 
 Well, which would you be — ^^an ornament to So- 
 ciety or George Morland? To our delight, Mor- 
 land made his choice; and we may be sure that he 
 found among his "low" companions unclouded gra- 
 ciousness and fine feeling in as large measure as 
 could be found in those others. "Low" company is 
 not for the mean-spirited; they fear its candours, 
 and fly from it to their drawing-rooms and dissem- 
 bling gestures. To its large qualities of heart they 
 are insensible. But Morland saw and knew, and 
 did not fear or despise. He saw dogs, horses, chil- 
 dren, and drunkards as God sees them. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 189 
 
 A born roamer, he lived in many spots of London 
 and country, and in none long; and wherever he went 
 he gathered about him merry company. Himself 
 cheerful, he generated high spirits in others. Cer- 
 tainly, many of his companions were spongers, prey- 
 ing upon him; but the sponger is found in all circles, 
 and the warm-hearted genius of Morland would 
 have been marked down for prey in salons as in 
 taverns. 
 
 Unfortunately, most of his traceable haunts are 
 now demolished; and it is, therefore, with some- 
 thing of a thrill that the lover of Morland discovers 
 the little Highgate tavern that knew him well, and 
 that still retains much of his gay-footed spirit and 
 free-voiced laughter. At "The Bull," on North 
 Hill, Highgate, Morland lived for some months, 
 having sought the country air on a threat of illness. 
 It was then, no doubt, a place exactly suited to his 
 hungry sociabiHty; for North Hill in those days was 
 part of the Great North Road, clamorous with traf- 
 fic of horse and mail-coach and post-chaise; and it Is 
 said that Morland knew every coachman, guard, and 
 postboy on the route. Often he would board a coach 
 at "The Bull" and accompany it well into Hertford- 
 shire (sketch book in hand, you may be sure) re- 
 turning to Highgate by the up-mall. 
 
 To-day "The Bull" is much as It was when he was 
 its guest. Minor structural alterations have been 
 made, but it is still a wayside inn. It stands back 
 
190 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 from the road, inn-fashion, fronted by a small gravel 
 sweep. A flowered porch makes the entrance to the 
 saloon. It is a low-pitched building, of two stories 
 only, the upper rooms lighted by two narrow win- 
 dows of Georgian type. The bars are small, low- 
 ceilinged, and snug. They exude that rich, ripe smell 
 that never can be counterfeited. It is compounded, 
 I think, of many decades of smoke and human kindli- 
 ness and the outdoor perfumes of years; a whiff of 
 the^pleasant spirits of the past, promising good com- 
 pany and entertainment. 
 
 In its public bars you may meet to-day descendants, 
 I fancy, of the men with whom Morland drank. 
 The customers of "The Bull" still have about them 
 an air of the field and the stable. Still you may wit- 
 ness from Its windows such sights as Morland wit- 
 nessed; smocked drovers from Hertfordshire worry- 
 ing their way up North Hill with flocks of sheep or 
 glum-faced cows, and halting awhile at "The Bull" 
 if the hour be propitious. Nay ! I would say that the 
 spirit of Morland still influences the place; for about 
 the walls of the bar I have noticed many home-made 
 billsi in red and blue lettering, announcing hours of 
 opening, beer prices, whisky prices, etc. ; and when I 
 remarked upon the neatness of the execution, I was 
 told that they were the work of one of the four-ale 
 customers, who drew payment for them in kind. 
 Even so did Morland — and other artists, before and 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 191 
 
 since — ^paint pictures In discharge of tavern reckon- 
 ings. 
 
 That Morland could, In the vulgar phrase, "shift 
 it," Is shown by one day's drinking, recorded, item 
 by item. In his diary: 
 
 MORLAND'S BUB FOR ONE DAY 
 
 Hollands Gin Porter 
 
 Rum and Milk Bottled Porter 
 
 Coffee Punch 
 
 Hollands Porter 
 
 Porter Ale 
 
 Shrub Opium and Wat^r 
 
 Ale Port Wine (at supper) 
 
 Hollands and Water Gin and Water 
 
 Port Wine and Ginger Shrub 
 
 Bottled Porter Rum (on going to bed) 
 Port Wine (at dinner and 
 after) 
 
 One would like to connect this tremendous orgy 
 with the country air of "The Bull," rather than with 
 the hot, crowded precincts of a London gin-house; 
 but the fact is. It was celebrated at Paddlngton. 
 Still, "The Bull" to-day maintains something of the 
 same robust manners, so far as the times allow. A 
 cutting from a recent Issue of the local paper, pasted 
 up In the saloon bar. Is testimony of this. It re- 
 lates to a court charge of drunkenness : 
 
 Magistrate: Any explanation to offer? 
 
 Prisoner: I had two glasses of old Burton. 
 
192 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Magistrate: Old Burton? Where can you get 
 old Burton nowadays ? 
 
 Prisoner: You can get a good drop of old Bur- 
 ton at "The Bull." 
 
 Tom, the present landlord of "The Bull" is just 
 such a fellow as Morland would have loved : cheer- 
 ful, apt In business, pleasingly garrulous, with bright 
 words of welcome for all comers. "Beer to your 
 liking, sir? . . . That's the style. I like to see a 
 man enjoy his beer." But I do wish he would take 
 a little more interest in Morland. Again and again 
 I have begged him to introduce into his bars some 
 little touch that should celebrate Morland's associa- 
 tion with the house; even a few cheap process repro- 
 ductions would serve as a gesture of recognition of 
 the man whose memory sent many distinguished 
 callers to the house; among them, Cruikshank, Mil- 
 lais, and Landseer. But no; the saloon is still deco- 
 rated with whisky advertisements and clumsy studies 
 of Dickens' characters; and I have almost given up 
 hope of exciting him on the subject. It is not as 
 though expense or trouble were involved; every 
 tinkering little picture-shop keeps Morland reproduc- 
 tions at trifling sums. 
 
 Perhaps, however, the printed word may have 
 more effect than my spoken words ; and maybe, when 
 Tom reads this protest, he will recognise his duty, 
 and will walk across the road and pay his homage to 
 the genius loci before it is too late. For "The Bull" 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 193 
 
 may not long remain as it is. Another old Inn, op- 
 posite and a little to the south of "The Bull," known 
 as the "Wrestlers," has lately been reconstructed. 
 Happily, many of its old features have been worked- 
 in. The bar parlour has been little altered, and the 
 huge Jacobean fire-place, with its leaning mantel, its 
 six-gallon kettle, and its wide chimney have been 
 cleverly retained in the new scheme. This is good, 
 but it is an isolated case of intelligence, for we have 
 before us to-day too many unhappy witnesses of what 
 happens to old taverns when brewery companies re- 
 construct them. 
 
 "The Bull" is not the only good and cosy house 
 of Highgate. There are others — notably "The Gate 
 House," "The Flask," and "The Angel." In the 
 days when Highgate village was on the coach-road 
 to the North it had nineteen inns, and even to-day it 
 is well served. Although it lies within the London 
 Postal District and the Metropolitan Police area, it 
 is still a village. It stands on the top of the steep 
 Highgate Hill, and over its pavements obtrude the 
 gnarled rustic porch of "The Angel" and the round- 
 bellied front of the butcher's shop. When the tram- 
 cars are not visible there is little to connect it with 
 Suburbia; rather, one thinks of a Jane Austen town. 
 The high kerb, the little leaning shops with their 
 eighteenth-century windows, and the leisurely shop- 
 pers, belong more to the heart of the shires than to 
 London. 
 
194 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Happy little shops they are. So few useful, so 
 many admirable things, they sell. When you have 
 counted the butchers and bakers and candle-stick 
 makers, there remain many of a kind found in no 
 other suburb. There is the picture shop, its window 
 filled with signed proofs and graceful etchings, whose 
 owner maintains the village note by signing himself 
 "your servant." There is the Health Food Shop, 
 which assists you, for a few pence, to a simian diet- 
 ary. There is The Village Book Shop, crowded with 
 first editions, editions-de-luxe, and the best modern 
 volumes, with pleasing talk from the young men 
 whose business is their delight. There is the tiny 
 mend-all shop and hospital for sick crockery, and 
 there are frivolous hat-shops scattered freely, like 
 urgent flappers, among their more placid fellows. 
 And there was, until lately, a delightful shop where 
 bronze plaques were to be had, kept by a kindly 
 philosopher, friend of Henley and Stevenson and the 
 giants of those days, who spent his days beating epi- 
 grams and words of wisdom into bronze and brass. 
 
 A few steps down the Hill, northward, stands a 
 group of sober Georgian houses, and near them the 
 peaceful Pond Square, tacked to the main road by 
 modest alleys and byways, and the Grove — also 
 Georgian — and Waterlow Park, whence by day one 
 looks into London as a grey-green pool dotted with 
 iron reeds, or by night into an effusion of purple 
 brushed with luminous yellow and spattered with 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 195 
 
 sharp gold. To the wooden benches outside "The 
 Flask," which, village-like, is opposite the Church, 
 come to-day, as centuries ago, tired folk from Lon- 
 don on Saturdays and Sundays, their exuberant jests 
 breaking in ineffectual waves against the age-old 
 peace that clings to the neighbouring houses. But 
 on other days one may sit inside or outside "The 
 Flask," where Coleridge sat, in calm contemplation, 
 with a mind at ease. The serenity and village calm 
 of Highgate are, paradoxically, the result of Prog- 
 ress. In the high tide of coaching, the press of 
 traffic was so great that a new road was cut from 
 Holloway which gave less strain to the horses and 
 showed a saving on the time-sheet. So, half-a-mile 
 below and to the East, the new world clatters and 
 toots, and leaves Highgate Village a little back- 
 water, unruffled by its passage. 
 
 The chief inn is "The Gate House" which sits 
 properly at the head of the Village, like a jolly host 
 at the head of his table. This house was recon- 
 structed some years ago to the model of its original, 
 and though the model was not so closely observed as 
 in the case of "The Wrestlers," the work was rea- 
 sonably well done, and one can still identify its main 
 saloon with the main saloon in Rowlandson's picture 
 of the house. Its wide bay windows command the 
 exhilarating sweep of North Hill and they once 
 looked out upon a constant procession of coaches 
 and "chaises." To-day its traffic could be controlled 
 
196 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 by a country constable, and you may sit in the bay- 
 window and take your morning draught as peaceably 
 as at any by-road inn. But its atmosphere is some- 
 what cold. It wants character. It has no "regulars," 
 no daily intimate gathering of men, to endue it with 
 personality and quaint differences. 
 
 I like best, of the Highgate inns, "The Angel." 
 There indeed are cosiness and character. Its rustic 
 porch and red blinds and stained glass give a wel- 
 come which the interior confirms. The saloon is a 
 small room, whose ceiling a man of my low stature 
 can touch. There are comfortable lounges and a 
 good fire, and contemporary Hogarth prints and a 
 dado of signed photographs of the theatrical cele- 
 brities of the 'eighties, whose names are not even 
 names to this generation. There is a small billiards 
 room and a still smaller smoking-room; and behind 
 the bar are the old Highgate Horns, old pistols, 
 lanthorns, and black-jacks. And the beer is good, 
 my boy, and the company not without interest, hav- 
 ing something of the atmosphere of the house it- 
 self. I know no other suburb so rich in old inns of 
 the true type, no other suburb so rich in sharp-fla- 
 voured character and unsoftened idiosyncrasy. I 
 care not whether character be genial, wise, or fool- 
 ish, so it be emphatic in tone and insistent. In this 
 matter, this corner of Highgate (not the Shep- 
 herd's Hill corner) affords great joy. The village 
 first attracted me by the exteriors of its old inns, and 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 197 
 
 their encrusted charm, for I knew that within their 
 walls I should find ripe character. I was not disap- 
 pointed. These places gather characters about them 
 as their walls and roofs gather moss. Men become 
 themselves in these snuggeries, which afford the ad- 
 vantages of a club and much more personal freedom. 
 They expand. They assert. They contradict. 
 They shed the postures and opinions worn for the 
 outside world, and stand revealed. 
 
 I mentioned The Village Book Shop. There's a 
 character for you in its proprietor. There is nothing 
 cheap about this shop, and nothing cheap in it. He 
 should have been an artist: he has a fine sense of 
 values. You need look for no bargains there, but if 
 you want the right edition you will get it at the right 
 price. The bargain bookshop is never a very good 
 bookshop, for the bargain, — when it really is a bar- 
 gain — implies Inattention to business on the part of 
 the proprietor, which is bad for him and for his cus- 
 tomers. The Village Book Shop is what a bookshop 
 should be — a rendezvous, a pleasant retreat into 
 which one may enter and enjoy bookish chat. If 
 you are a purchaser, you will be welcomed by the 
 proprietor, if not — look out for trouble. He has lit- 
 tle skill in dissimulation; and if you don't buy or ask 
 for authors for whom he has no high regard, 
 he will probably tell you point-blank that your taste 
 is execrable, and that you ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself. A regular wasp of a fellow, sometimes. 
 
198 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 I have seen him buzz at people, and was once buzzed 
 at myself when I spent two hours in the shop with- 
 out buying. No deference is shown to the whims 
 of an enquirer, and he makes no attempt to woo 
 or wheedle that sensitive person, the idle gossiper. 
 
 "What's that? Want what? First editions of 
 Jack Hogshead? No; of course I haven't got any. 
 This is a Book Shop. Books. That's what I sell. 
 Books — not gum-and-scissors mixtures!" 
 
 Then there is the Hermit of Highgate. There 
 was in the fourteenth century a Hermit at Highgate, 
 a holy man, who by Royal Charter, levied toll on all 
 passengers; but the present hermit is a gardener, 
 who, in summer, labours full sixteen hours a day. 
 He has a small estate on the east side of Highgate 
 Hill, planted with fruit trees and fruit bushes, and 
 he grows vegetables and flowers. On the estate is a 
 battered red-tiled hut, of the seventeenth century. It 
 is a Robinson Crusoe hut. The planks of its wooden 
 walls gape widely, and there are great clefts in the 
 roofs where wind and rain come in. This is his 
 home, and there he lives, Crusoe-fashion, his only 
 companions his dogs, chickens, and bees. He cares 
 nothing for the company of men. He prefers trees 
 and flowers. They are at once his friends and his 
 children, and he talks of them with parental pride. 
 He places them highest in the scale of life. He rises 
 with the sun and lies down with the sun. He sings 
 in the local choir. And he lives joyfully, worship- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 1&9 
 
 ping the sky and his family of trees and plants. 
 
 "Y'know, between you and me, I don't think God 
 thinks a great deal of humanity. If you were a 
 gardener, you'd see that flowers and trees are His 
 favourites. See how He looks after them! And 
 He's right, too. They're worth it." 
 
 Good character is also to be found among the 
 waterside inns, at Wapping, Ratcliff, and Narrow 
 Street. Good places these for Springtide carousals, 
 especially "The Turk's Head," whose window 
 reaches over the water and its moving life. The 
 beer seems to drink more briskly In these places than 
 In other streets. The sun and the water and the 
 moving vessels — some outward bound, trimly, to 
 distant seas; others lumbering home with the gla- 
 mour of large adventure about them — and the sea- 
 talk at the bar give a tang to the bitter and a smart 
 touch to the thirst. There is a joyful house in West 
 India Dock Road, where you turn for the Isle of 
 Dogs. Many rich evenings did I spend there in my 
 youth-time. It has a large saloon-bar, loaded with 
 trophies from afar — strange birds from the Pacific 
 hang, wings extended, from the celling, cunning 
 weapons decorate the walls, and under glass cases 
 are Buddhas, Ivory statuettes, silks, and other rare 
 oddments. 
 
 At nine o'clock most evenings It Is packed with a 
 finely mixed company, chiefly seamen, white and 
 black, and their Fannies ; and It bubbles with talk and 
 
200 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 swims with smoke. Hot talk It Is, too, suited to the 
 somewhat makeshift appointments of the place. Its 
 fixtures are faded and tarnished, and I imagine that 
 the reason for the neglect is the keen press of cus- 
 tom, which leaves the staff never a minute for con- 
 sideration of repairs and renewal. But those things 
 don't matter. The company and the atmosphere are 
 full compensation for the lack of grace-notes and 
 flourishes. It is good deep company, brimming over, 
 with a head on it; for your seaman is usually either a 
 great drinker or a rigid teetotaller. Restrictive 
 morality cannot be served here. The boys are work- 
 ers and when they work they go into it fuU-heartedly 
 and so do they go into their evenings. They are 
 avid for company and cheer, and they drink their 
 beer as babies drink milk, and are no more the worse 
 for it. Casual talk is as Impossible here as in the 
 middle of the Strand; you must either whisper at 
 your friend's ear or bawl at him across neighbourly 
 heads. 
 
 "Sorry, chum!" yelled a young stoker, whose el- 
 bows the crowd had forced into my ribs. He grim- 
 aced and grinned at me over the edge of his tankard. 
 "Good drop o' beer this — eh? Ten 'alf-plnts I've 
 'ad to-night. Real benefit night with sick pay. Ar ! 
 If my mother 'ad give milk as good as this, I'd 
 never 'ave left 'er arms. What say — 'aving an- 
 other?" 
 
 We did. For to drink beer among good men Is 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 201 
 
 more blessed than to stand on a platform, with a 
 glass of water, and dirty the world with denials of 
 its beauty. We remembered to each other the days 
 when this place rang with song and music. But song 
 and all natural dehghts are now forbidden by re- 
 formers in the pay of business men. The business 
 men's theory is that by shutting off all rational en- 
 joyments, and substituting tea and a game of ludo, 
 they will get more work out of their servants, whom, 
 like animals, they put through scientific tests of en- 
 durance, fatigue, feeding, and swift production. Let 
 a perfectly sober man start a song in a tavern, even 
 piano, and a voice cries in affright — "Order there! 
 Quiet! Want to get us into trouble?" Even the 
 penny electric piano has been banished from many 
 East End pubs by the police, because it leads to 
 disorder; namely, singing. I would like to quote 
 to the woful brethren who make these orders, a 
 little song by one of the most spiritual of English 
 poets. 
 
 Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold ; 
 
 But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm. 
 
 Besides I can tell where I am used well; 
 
 The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell. 
 
 But if at the Church they would give us some ale, 
 And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, 
 We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, 
 Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray. 
 
202 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Then the Parson might preach and drink and sing, 
 And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; 
 And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at Church, 
 Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch. 
 
 And God, like a father, rejoicing to see 
 
 His children as pleasant and happy as He, 
 
 Would have no more quarrel with the devil or the barrel ; 
 
 But kiss him and give him both drink and apparel. 
 
 But your reformer never wants to re-form any- 
 thing; he wants only to suppress; and all his agita- 
 tions have a commercial origin. You can seldom 
 get money for feeding the hungry (there's not much 
 profit in that), but you can always get money for 
 corrupting the spiritual civilisations of the East with 
 the parvenu moralities of the West, or for dis- 
 couraging the little pleasures of the poor. Zeal-of- 
 the-land-Busy can always find backers. The vocifer- 
 ous teetotaller and the missionary are commercial 
 travellers for the ignoble ends of their City sub- 
 scribers, and the aim of the campaign is Increased 
 Production and Expanded Trade, which is an alias 
 for more money for themselves. 
 
 The parade of the teetotaller is really amusing. 
 I do not know what strange virtue there is in refrain- 
 ing from a perfectly natural act that so unbalances a 
 man and makes him invent a name for himself; but I 
 have never met a teetotaller who did not talk, a lit- 
 tle blandly, of his abstinence. He describes himself 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 203 
 
 as "staunch," as though he were keeper of a charge. 
 You don't hear the man who refrains from sexual 
 intercourse going about vaunting his self-denial and 
 calling love by hard names, as these rude minds in- 
 sult a noble Romanee-Conti by calling it alcohol and 
 the liquor traffic. You don't hear the unmarried 
 woman calling herself a staunch virgin. Yet they 
 have equal right to do so; for if the teetotaller's line 
 Is that the tavern Is a factor of misery, and should 
 be suppressed, then even the purest sexual Intercourse 
 should be suppressed. For the abuse of sex has 
 brought far more misery upon humanity than the 
 abuse of wine. Yet while we hear every day raucous 
 voices raised against the tavern, we hear no bleat 
 for compulsory castration. 
 
 Keep well away, my dears, from these paid pimps 
 of bleak business men and their dishonest campaign 
 for prohibition under the cloak of Temperance. 
 They don't want to bring more beauty to your life 
 or your surroundings, or to make things sweeter for 
 you and your children. The aim of their falsehoods 
 and flatulent periods Is to make you work harder — 
 for them. "Industrial Efficiency" Is all that Interests 
 them; they have given the game away In their own 
 pamphlets. One of these days there will be a great 
 scene In England — the public hanging of the two 
 enemies of civilisation — ^the millionaire and the mis- 
 sionary. They live hand In hand, and It Is fitting 
 that they should swing together. Until then, my 
 
204 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 child, live sanely; interfere not with others, nor let 
 them interfere with you. 
 
 Come away with me, my child, 
 
 To the bitter and the mild, 
 
 With a tankard in each hand; 
 
 For the world's more full of kindliness 
 
 Than they can understand. 
 
 Yes, and ginger is still hot in the mouth. Come 
 away, then, to the "Grave Maurice," in Whitechapel, 
 and the "Mrs. Grundy's Arms" off East India Dock 
 Road, two pleasant discoveries of mine. I was first 
 attracted to these places by their notable signs, but 
 they're worth knowing for themselves, especially on 
 Saturday evenings, when the marketers take recess 
 from labours. I am not old enough to remember 
 "Paddy's Goose" at Ratcliff, but that must have been 
 a glorious hole, like that other pub that stood in 
 Shire Lane, and bore the gloriously evocative name 
 of "Smashing Lumber," The traditions of "Paddy's 
 Goose" are of vermilion hue. In its time it was the 
 worst of the dockside crimping dens, where seamen 
 were hocussed, their pay drawn in advance, and 
 themselves, incapable, put on board an outgoing 
 vessel. It was also a haven for dock pilferers and 
 other offenders, and had many obscure emergency 
 exits. Now, it has swung to the opposite point. It 
 is regenerated as a seaman's Mission, a Coffee 
 Palace and a Slate Club, and Princess Mary has 
 danced a two-step upon its floors. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 205 
 
 Slate Club ! How coldly the words travel down 
 the spine. Say "night-club" — the stress-scheme is 
 the same, but how different their descent upon the 
 ear, and how swiftly the respectable pulse responds. 
 It has been my pleasant duty once or twice, to assist 
 at the paying-out night of a Slate Club; and I say, 
 from experience of both, that it was a much more 
 pleasing function than any of your Murray's or 
 Embassies or Desti's. On ordinary Saturday pay- 
 ing-in-nlghts, the job is certainly a little tepid — a 
 matter of sitting at a deal table in a somewhat chill 
 and naked hall and receiving cash, entering the 
 amounts in ledger and on card. But on paying-out 
 night, the Club drops its staid actuarial manner and 
 its gritty name, and becomes a real Club. The mem- 
 bers come up in a bunch, then; fifteen hundred of 
 them. The hall borrows warmth from the spirit 
 of expectancy and the adumbration of fifteen hun- 
 dred "good times" made by the accumulated cash on 
 my table. I sit before it like a croupier at Monte 
 Carlo, and every player is a winner. I no longer 
 feel Insipid and commercial. Mine, for the moment, 
 is the part of Scrooge on Christmas morning. Mem- 
 bers at the far end of the queue joke among them- 
 selves, though they have never met before, and never 
 joked on paying-in-nights. Here and there a gust 
 of laughter runs down the line. As each member 
 comes up with his card, I hand him his envelope, he 
 signs for it, and turns away with a "Merry Christ- 
 
206 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 mas, mister!" And I respond — fifteen hundred 
 times. Often I have to laugh a thousand times, for 
 the greater number of them try to make an occasion 
 of their appearance at the table, and have carefully 
 manufactured some facetious greeting, not always in 
 perfect Kensington taste. 
 
 All this, of course, provided that the secretary has 
 not bolted with the funds in November. That, un- 
 happily, is an annual event, like grouse-shooting, 
 over the sticks, and Epiphany, and is too piously ob- 
 served. It begins — this migration of secretaries — ■ 
 in the first week of November and continues until 
 the second week of December. During these weeks 
 many secretaries of Diddlum Clubs, Farthing Clubs, 
 and Slate Clubs, take to the road for a brief space 
 before they are put into winter quarters. But when 
 you consider the great number of these clubs, and 
 the foolish trust, without supervision, that Is reposed 
 in the secretaries, themselves penurious fellows, the 
 defaulters are very few. 
 
 The largest Slate Club in the world is the New 
 Tabernacle Provident Society, at the Leysian Mis- 
 sion, City Road. It adjoins the Alexandra Trust, 
 where you can get three grand meals a day for ten 
 shillings a week. It pays out annually about £25,000 
 and hires a posse of police to escort the secretaries 
 from the Bank on paying-out day and to guard the 
 cash table. But every little grocer's and butcher's 
 and public-house in the side streets of the poorer 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 207 
 
 quarters has its Christmas club. About June, when 
 editors are making up their Christmas numbers and 
 pubHshers are ready with their Autumn Lists, these 
 httle shops put up their first large-type announce- 
 ments : 
 
 Our Xmas Club Has Commenced 
 Pay What You Like — Have What You Like. 
 
 With the pubs, the Christmas bag is usually a 
 goose, a bottle of whisky, bottle of port, and bottle 
 of gin. With the butcher^ — turkey, goose, or joint 
 of beef or pork; and from the grocer you take what 
 you will to the value of your card. The pub Is 
 usually the safest of these clubs: pubs seldom dis- 
 appear over-night; but you want to be careful In 
 choosing your side-street grocer or "general" store, 
 for in this line failures and abandoned shops are 
 frequent. 
 
 The Slate Club at which I have assisted was a 
 public-house Club — the "Cuckoo's Nest" Slate Club, 
 in the Cable street district, kept by Mr. 'Ockington.. 
 You ought to know Mr. 'Ockington. He's a Lad. 
 Times were, in the past, when he was Handy Hock- 
 ington, a likely lad at a Canning Town boxing-ring; 
 and later, Frederick Hocklngton, seaman, and later 
 still. Police-constable Hocklngton. To-day he Is 
 Mister Hocklngton, licensee of the "Cuckoo's Nest." 
 His bar deportment is exquisite — a mixture of the 
 lamb and the lion. He can be lazily humorous, and 
 
208 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 he can blaze with rancour. He is not a big man, but 
 behind his bar he looms. He is a Presence. He can 
 crush an impatient customer with a glance; and no 
 obstreperous fellow in the four-ale bar ever waits to 
 be put out. Mister Hockington has only to lift an 
 arm towards the counterflap, and — ? 
 
 Only to familiars does he unbend, and even to 
 them he is Mister Hockington. To the ordinary 
 regular, he gives a " 'Ow are yeh? And 'ow's the 
 good lady?" To the stranger he gives nothing. 
 But when he does talk. . . . He has seen things, 
 and he has done things, and his booming voice takes 
 you round the world. He talks airily of days and 
 nights in "B. A.," and fills his stuffy bar with the 
 sharp sunshine of Buenos Aires, and the stinging 
 odour of green seas. On occasions he will sing an 
 old and improper chanty, and turn from that to his 
 days as dock policeman. He has a broad wit, and 
 expresses it by hand-written notices on the walls of 
 his bars. 
 
 "A customer was taken from here to London Hospital last 
 week. He spoke out of his turn." 
 
 "Customers who get drunk in other houses and come here 
 to be sick, are warned off." 
 
 "Obscene language forbidden. The guv'nor can do it 
 better than you." 
 
 His life has been a sequence of thwarted ambi- 
 tions. As a youth the ring attracted him, and he 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 209 
 
 saw himself with the light-weight championship and 
 plenty of backers. A few K. O.'s put an end to that, 
 and the sea called him. He saw himself with a mas- 
 ter's ticket, and was moving slowly towards it when 
 a mistake at the wheel in a Channel fog settled that. 
 (If you want to spend a night in London Hospital 
 ask Hockington how he came to lose the Iris.) His 
 integrity, however, was always recognised, and a post 
 in the dock police was found for him. And there he 
 stayed, watching day by day ships which he should 
 have skippered departing for sunlit harbours; until 
 he was retired on a pension. 
 
 Then he spent some penitential years in the pro- 
 vincial wilderness in a suburb of Birmingham, where, 
 so he told me, he "did very well in the second-hand." 
 .Those years, I gather, from his rare sidelong refer- . 
 ences, were years of bitter exile. Sorrow ate into 
 his bonny frame, and withered his cheerio counten- 
 ance, and the atmosphere of the provincial second- 
 hand — which, Indeed, must be the Avernus of the 
 second-hand — corroded the bright metal of his soul. 
 
 It is to be noted that while London is fed yearly 
 with processions of young provincials, the provinces 
 and the countryside are In equal measure fed with 
 desperate adventurers from town; but — while the 
 provincial in London remains always the provincial,, 
 the Cockney in the provinces quickly acquires the 
 colour of his world, and becomes something unlovely. 
 I have met Cockneys at lone farmsteads in the Cots- 
 
210 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 wolds, and did not know them from the thick-spoken 
 and gun-footed shepherds until they acknowledged 
 themselves in bitter words against the stark country- 
 side. Most seaside landladies are Cockneys, even 
 on the coast of North Wales; and Cockneys will 
 serve you drinks in Manchester and Norwich, and 
 will receive you at hotels in Torquay and Chelten- 
 ham and Ashby-de-la-Zouch. And always with tears 
 in the voice ; for the Cockney in the provinces mourns 
 every day with those American lyrists whose sole 
 theme is a desire to Go Back, to Go Back. I have 
 never heard this accent of longing in the speech of 
 the provincial in London. The rustic amid the nim- 
 ble graces of the town never nurses a secret yearn 
 for Rochdale or Chesterfield or Runcorn or the farm 
 at Chorlton-cum-Hardy; not he. One of our public 
 choristers put his fingers well on it, when he lately 
 asked : 
 
 "How yeh gonnu keep 'em down on the farm. 
 After they've seen Pareef" 
 
 He always wants to be taken for a Cockney, and 
 never succeeds; while the poor Cockney, against his 
 will, assimilates provincial mannerisms until he is 
 unrecognisable, thou,gh, throughout his exile, his 
 heart is in the Strand among the bananas. Some- 
 times he comes back, usually penniless; but more 
 often he develops into "our worthy fellow-towns- 
 man," and is named in the local paper. Hockington 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 211 
 
 was getting like that. He was beginning to be some- 
 body in his ward; but though there are many poor 
 folk who would rather be Somebody among the little 
 than Nobody among the great, he was not one of 
 them. And at last he came back, by no means penni- 
 less. "The second-hand" and his own prudence did 
 him so well that he was able to retire to his own 
 pavements and acquire the "Cuckoo's Nest." 
 
 And there he is now. His career of mishap has 
 not soured him. He is chairman of that Slate Club, 
 run at his house, and treasurer of the Christmas 
 Goose Club. He has been a good husband and a 
 kind father, and to him goes surely the encomium of 
 the district — " 'is word's as good as 'is bond." He 
 takes pride in his pub as In the ship that might have 
 been his. He has no mercy for the slack worker, 
 and his barman and barmaid speak of him as a 'oly 
 terror. But they don't want to leave. 
 
 On Saturday nights he sits among his boys. He 
 does not serve. That labour belongs to his wife and 
 his staff. I once heard an Impatient stranger ask 
 him three times for a bitter. He rose. He leaned 
 his bulk across the bar. He glared at the stranger; 
 then asked, clipping his words : "Wodyeh take me 
 for? A potman?" Towards his wife he Is heavily 
 facetious, and in conversation speaks of her as "that 
 woman I live with"; and when her relatives arrive 
 from the country, for a visit, he assembles them In 
 the back parlour and reads the Riot Act to them. 
 
212 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 She speaks of him as "that old fool," with a whim- 
 sical tolerance on the noun. The tolerance is justi- 
 fied. She knows him through and through, and, to 
 his faults, of which he has many, she winks the other 
 eye. She told me so, and she told me a story about 
 him; told it proudly, too. 
 
 It appears that upon a night 'Ock went out to a 
 dinner of some trade society, and he and a few per- 
 sonal friends, having done well at the dinner de- 
 cided to carry on the good work, and make a night 
 of it. It appeared from his confession in the morn- 
 ing that they went here and there, and in Oxford 
 Street they picked up company and drove to a "place" 
 where Paphian delights were to be had and bottles 
 of wine were available. 
 
 Mrs. 'Ock sat up long past midnight, and at two 
 o'clock retired to bed leaving the door unbolted, un- 
 comfortably sure that the old fool had got into a 
 mess again. At four in the morning a hammering 
 on the door. Mrs. 'Ock descended, and there on 
 the doorstep sat a weary and disreputable 'Ock. 
 
 "Come on in, y'old fool, you !" 
 
 She lugged him in by the shoulders, and he leaned 
 against the wall, head drooped, arms limp, eyes half- 
 shut, oblivious of his situation. 
 
 "Go on upstairs, yeh fool!" 
 
 He didn't move. 
 
 "Come upstairs, silly great thing, you I" 
 
 "Shan't!" 
 
IN THE STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 213 
 
 "Don't be silly, Fred. You come upstairs with 
 me at once." 
 
 Then 'Ock turned to his wife, and said the beau- 
 tiful thing that endeared him to Mrs. 'Ock for all 
 time. 
 
 "Nope. Nope, my gel. I'll — I'll stand y'all a 
 bottler w-wine, but I'm d-damned if I'll come up- 
 stairs. I got too good a missus !" 
 
 By his personality he has made the "Cuckoo's 
 Nest" a Place. Men no longer call it by its sign. 
 They say: "Let's go round to old 'Ockington's." He 
 found it a battered little beer-shanty, unfrequented 
 and of ill-repute. He has changed it into a place 
 where men may take their wives and hear nothing 
 that should shock. His life may have been a record 
 of failures, but it is crowned by this one achievement 
 — the "Cuckoo's Nest." Go and see him one day, 
 and try to make his acquaintance. I won't give you 
 the precise address but anybody around Leman 
 Street and Cable Street will direct you if you ask for 
 the house kept by the ex-dock policeman. He may 
 not be willing to know you; it depends on your sort; 
 but if he is, you will enjoy him, and anyway the trip 
 will do you good. He won't thank me, though, for 
 introducing you, be you the brightest of fellows. I 
 know what he'll say. He'll say: "Damn that young 
 fellow Burke — getting me talked about like them 
 that gets their pictures into the papers. I'll clip 'is 
 ear next time 'e comes along!" 
 
—VIII— 
 IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 
 
 THE police-court Is the living cinematograph of 
 the town's life. There, in swift flashes, hu- 
 manity passes before you In all its curious forms and 
 phases. Comedy, melodrama, farce, tragedy and 
 Incredible coincidence follow one another as "case" 
 follows "case." It is a procession of the passions, a 
 panorama of the loves, hates, sorrows, cares, and 
 freakish twists of man. Our neighbours may dis- 
 guise themselves cleverly enough in their daily life; 
 but once they are in the court, the truth comes out. 
 They stand revealed. We learn that our serious 
 neighbour, Mr. Brown, is a counterfeiter of pound- 
 notes; that Mr. Robinson, of "The Laurels," is a 
 Mormon; that Mr. Smith is addicted to secret drink- 
 ing^; that Mr. Wumble is a pathological case; that 
 Mrs. Widley Is a shop-lifter (we often wondered 
 how she got those furs — and her husband only a 
 surveyor) ; and that the venerable Mr. Steptoe is a 
 "confidence" man. And It Is surprising how the 
 court shows them up. We wonder how we could 
 ever have been deceived by them. All their criminal 
 instincts come out and perch around them. Disguise 
 is useless. There they stand, slinking like shop- 
 
 214 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 215 
 
 lifters, or crouching like poisoners. Elegant clothes 
 become shabby. Easy manners become ludicrous. 
 Agreeable voices become hoarse and uneven. Often 
 they are not guilty of the offence, but it makes little 
 difference; one can never respect them again. In 
 the dock or in the witness-box they have exposed 
 their true selves; all their assumed or native dignity 
 gone; and we, the spectators, are inclined to approve 
 ourselves as not such poor creatures after all — until 
 we begin to think how we should carry the situation 
 in the dock or the box. Yet there is no sense of 
 publicity; it is more like an informal chat in cham- 
 bers. 
 
 The procedure of one court is very much like that 
 of another. First are heard, before the public is 
 admitted, the applicants for advice and summonses. 
 Then, the plain drunks. Then, the drunk-and-dis- 
 orderlies and assaults on the police. Then the mo- 
 torist and cyclist offenders. Then, the more serious 
 cases. In the court are the magistrate, the clerk, the 
 usher (who usually combines this office with that of 
 caretaker) , one or two policemen to keep order, so- 
 licitors representing the offenders, the usual press- 
 men, and the court missionary. At the back or the 
 sides, behind a railing, the public stands. 
 
 The most interesting figure of all Is that of the 
 court missionary; usually a man, but sometimes a 
 woman, and In big courts a man and a woman. He 
 is a sort of liaison officer between the offender and 
 
216 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the law. His duties are manifold, and his hours are 
 the hours of the clock. You read the phrase: "the 
 court missionary was asked to make enquiries." It 
 sounds simple, but those enquiries may mean a day's 
 work, and, to make them effectively, the missionary 
 must have knowledge and understanding of men of 
 all types, fearlessness, a kind heart, a strong mind, 
 a quick judgment, and — most important — tact and 
 an unofficial manner. For in his human manner, as 
 against the policeman's authority, lies the value of 
 his office. By his experience he is usually apt in 
 detecting the sniveller, the hypocrite, and the rogue; 
 and in spotting innocence where all the evidence 
 points to guilt. He touches every angle of human 
 nature. He has to patch up husband and wife quar- 
 rels, to placate landlord and lodger, to get work for 
 the first offender who has been "driven to it" by un- 
 employment, to admonish naughty boys and girls, 
 to keep in touch with offenders, released on proba- 
 tion, to take charge of attempted suicides, to reclaim 
 the old offender, to talk with prisoners on remand 
 and seek to help them; and generally, to be father, 
 guardian, pastor, teacher, uncle and good friend to 
 the helpless and broken creatures of the highways 
 and hedges. 
 
 It is, I am sure, no reflection on the court mis- 
 sionaries of to-day to say that the best of them was 
 that rare character, Thomas Holmes, once mission- 
 ary of the North London Court at Dalston, and 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 217 
 
 later secretary to the Howard Society. He wrote 
 three volumes of his experiences of the people among 
 whom and for whom he worked; and If you would 
 learn charity towards all men and malice towards 
 none, get them and read them and read them again. 
 He not only did his work efficiently; he had a great 
 gift of winning the friendship of even the -"old 
 hands" in crime; and though many of them treated 
 his efforts towards reclaiming them with a certain 
 jocular scorn, they recognised his quality and always 
 came to see him when they "came out." They* 
 knew him for a straight man and fearless; and 
 though they visited his home, and sometimes lodged 
 with him, nothing of his was ever touched. They 
 might have robbed a magistrate but Mister 'Olmes 
 was on a different footing. By tacit agreement he 
 was exempt from professional attentions. I have 
 myself observed this trait in old "lags." Treat 
 them as man to man, and they and their friends will 
 never worry you. But show the least sign of re- 
 garding them as offenders, or patronising them, and 
 you are not safe. If they ask you for money, and 
 give you their word to repay it by Monday, and you 
 take their word casually, as you would take a 
 friend's word, you will get your money. But if you 
 take their word with even a suggestion of manner 
 that they need not bother to give it, because you 
 don't expect them to keep it, you will lose your 
 money; and you will damage their self-respect. 
 
218 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 For most of the respectable poor the police-court, 
 in prospect, holds many terrors, but in the metropoli- 
 tan courts these terrors have no real existence. I 
 have always found the London magistrates wise, 
 understanding, humane, and courteous — except to 
 the "twister," They are anxious to help, rather 
 than harass; kindly rather than cynical; though 
 Lord knows the job would turn most sweet believers 
 into cynics. Even when sentencing the old offender, 
 there is a sort of twinkling camaraderie between the 
 bench and the "lag" — a wry smile upon human 
 frailty and a saucy deference to the operations of the 
 law. 
 
 "Well, Bennett, this is the eighth time this year. 
 Anything to say?" 
 
 Bennett, a stocky, grizzled figure, past middle- 
 age, leans confidently across the rail of the dock, 
 and talks as man to man. 
 
 "No sir, it was a fair cop. I on'y come out a munf 
 ago — that is, a munf ago come Pancake Day. But 
 there, you know 'ow it is, doncher? Fact is, I'm too 
 full o' life to be let loose. When I'm on me own, I 
 'ave to break out now and then — or suffocate. But 
 I'm alwis well be'aved in there. They'll tell yeh so 
 — won't yeh, sergeant? I'm 'appier in there. More 
 'omey-like. But once I'm out — well, you know 
 what boys are. . . . Go on. Mister Cairns, get on 
 wiv it." 
 
 "Very well, then. . . . Two months." 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 219 
 
 '"Ard?" 
 
 "Without hard labour." 
 
 *'Thank yeh, Mister Cairns. That's real matey. 
 O revvaw!" 
 
 Then there is the indignant reprobate. 
 
 "Here again, Gassier. You're always here. And 
 always the same charge. . . . Well, did you cut the 
 prosecutor's eye?" 
 
 "Well, Mister Reynolds, 'e called me a bahstud." 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 "Yerce. Who's gointer sit dahn under that? 
 Woddud you do. Mister Reynolds, if I was to call 
 you a bahstud?" 
 
 "I think we'll leave speculative questions out of 
 it, and stick to facts. You, sir, did you call prisoner 
 a bastard?" 
 
 "Well— yes, sir, I did." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Well, 'e come storming into the bar, upset my 
 beer and pinched my wife's cheek. And as 'e's alwis 
 doing things like that I lorst me temper and called 
 'im — what you said. And then 'e set abaht me and 
 give me this." 
 
 "I see. You hear that, Gassier? Did you upset 
 this man's beer and interfere with his wife?" 
 
 "Well, I was alwis one for a bit of a lark. You 
 know that, sir." 
 
 "Yes, I seem to recollect some of your larks. 
 But I'm afraid such high spirits must be curbed. 
 
220 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 They are not good for you or your neighbours. 
 What did I give you last time?" 
 
 "Fourteen days, sir, and it seems to me cruel 'ard 
 that . . ." 
 
 "Right. Take six weeks this time." 
 
 "Six weeks? 'Ere, I say, guv'nor . . . An' after 
 'im calling me a bahstud?" 
 
 "Take the prisoner down, officer." 
 
 "All right, all right. Don't git excited. I'm 
 going. But I on'y 'ope some one calls you a bah- 
 stud 'fore long. Then you'll 'ave sympathy with a 
 man's feelings. We got our feelings same as what 
 you 'ave, an . . . 'm . . . 'm . . . 'm." 
 
 And there is the bewildered first offender, who 
 knows that the magistrate has some title of honour, 
 but does not know the term, and addresses him vari- 
 ously as "My Lord," "Your Grace," "Your Wor- 
 ship," "Your Honour," "Judge," and "My Wor- 
 ship." 
 
 Each corner has Its own atmosphere. Bow 
 Street Court and Mansion House are often sensa- 
 tional with "big" cases — fraud and murder. North 
 London has Its pitiful tale of squalor and wreck- 
 age. West Ham has its riots, assaults, and domestic 
 squabbles, and Thames, the chief court for dock- 
 land, is the richest of them all in the bizarre and the 
 unexpected. In the past, Marlborough Street and 
 Marylebone were centres of interest; for then there 
 was a daily procession of offenders, rich and poor, 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 221 
 
 shabby and resplendent. Then there were drunks in 
 last night's evening clothes, gaming-house charges, 
 disorderly house raids, silken ladies and drabs 
 charged with obstructing, street affrays, assaults and 
 battery, and all that aftermath of London-by-night 
 when London was supposed to be as "gay" as Paris. 
 
 To-day, these are the dullest of courts. "Drunk" 
 charges are few, and solicitation charges against 
 women are not made now. Our streets are cleansed, 
 and the girls that once sauntered in the open places 
 and highways now either loiter In dim side-streets or 
 have sought fresh territory in the Commons of the 
 suburbs. The old type has passed away, and a new 
 type has arisen — the amateur. I do not know that 
 this is for the better. The professionals who sat 
 night by night in the basement bars around Leicester 
 Square were old, haggard, bold and harsh. Their 
 physical appeal to young men could have been small. 
 But these new amateurs are most attractive; they 
 are pretty, youthful, graceful, and naturally lively. 
 You see them about In all parts after the big shops 
 are closed. It Is not with them a matter of the last 
 resort of all for mere bread. They are In It because 
 they like It; they want an evening out. If they can 
 get It without paying for It, they will; but they 
 are ready to give the usual return when It Is ex- 
 pected. 
 
 This class was always about, but It Is now a grow- 
 ing class. It came In during the war, when the pro- 
 
222 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 fesslonals were put down, and when the second- 
 lieutenant could have all that he asked of England's 
 girlhood. It began in khaki-mania, but it is now for 
 many a settled course of life. You will find this type 
 around the 'bus stops and in the tea-lounges of the 
 cheap-rich hotels. She bears no distinguishing marks. 
 She is mostly at the flapper-stage — in her teens, often 
 of good middle class and of fair education. There 
 is no flashy costume, not much paint, and no coarse 
 behaviour. She has not the frank inviting grin of 
 her elder sister, or the verbal appeal; but there is a 
 delicate twist on the lips and a certain veiled audacity 
 in the eye. I once asked one of these, bluntly, what 
 attracted her in playing at what was a serious and 
 unpleasant business. I wondered whether it were 
 easy money or pure animalism. Neither — -she said. 
 Things were dull at home, and she liked the fun and 
 excitement of meeting and talking to different peo- 
 ple. That was all. She talked with graceful accent, 
 and showed sense and sensibility and considerable 
 intelligence, with a perverse delight in her new 
 course of life. It spelt Adventure. 
 
 She and her kind are wary. Never do they get 
 into the police-court. They make no approaches. 
 Their demeanour is faultless. They do not parade 
 and invite. They wait for that to come from the 
 other side, and should there be any suspicion of trou- 
 ble they immediately swing round in disgust and 
 charge the man with interfering with them. That 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 223 
 
 is why the West End courts are free of solicitation 
 charges; and why makers of statistics complacently 
 point to the purging of social life. In the same way 
 they point to the absence of "drunk" charges, as the 
 result of the shortened hours. In each case, it only 
 means that the old games are going on downstairs 
 instead of on the ground floor. Letting the devil 
 pop out now and then may not be perfect policy, but 
 driving him indoors is utter folly. Vice has become 
 respectable and discreet; and never is vice so abom- 
 inable as when It Is discreet and latent. 
 
 The East End has not yet learnt these .tricks, 
 and there they go about their naughtiness with 
 clumsy candour, in open light. Daily the Thames 
 Police Court provides a pageant of curious mis- 
 demeanour; a succession of glimpses Into dark cor- 
 ners of the heart. It stands In Arbour Square, 
 Stepney — z horrid squat building of unkind coun- 
 tenance. You pass through the public entry, and 
 take your place at the back with a company of un- 
 employed, niggers, brown men, Chinks, wasters, 
 blowsy women In variegated costumes; some of them 
 idle lookers-on, others friends or enemies of the ac- 
 cused. The cinema and the music-hall cost money. 
 This show Is free to all, with the added glow of 
 grace that goes with the contemplation of the mis- 
 fortunes of your neighbours. All police-courts have 
 a smell — the smell of poverty; but Thames has a 
 rich and varied succession of smells, the smells pe- 
 
224 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 culiar to the Chink, the Malay, the Russian and the 
 Burmese. And this cluster of vague smells gathers, 
 like a swarm of bees, about the smell of poverty, and 
 becomes one definite potent stink. But this offence 
 to the nose, virulent though it be, is countered by the 
 drama that is unfolded as each case is called. 
 
 Monday is a good day. The first appearances are 
 the Saturday-night cases, and these are of every type 
 — the tough, the pugilist, the respectable workman 
 fallen from grace, a shop-keeper, a few old women, 
 and an occasional black man. The rarest charge is 
 a drunken Chink. He offends often, but never in 
 drunkenness. Rare and subtle offences, imported 
 from the East, and left unrecorded by most news- 
 papers, follow squabble between landlord and tenant, 
 husband and wife, and mother and daughter. Quong 
 Foo is charged with being in possession of opium and 
 smoking utensils. He speaks no English, and the 
 Chinese interpreter is called in. Quong Foo has 
 nothing to say. He listens to the charge and blinks. 
 The police ask for a deportation order. They pro- 
 duce evidence that he has been previously convicted 
 of keeping a gaming-house, and has been harbour- 
 ing white girls. Here Quong Foo speaks, and the 
 interpreter tells the court that Quong didn't want 
 the girls: they came to him and refused to go away. 
 Fined £io and recommended for deportation. 
 Quong pays up and goes quietly away. 
 
 Jack Ramshu Boona, Malay, charged with stab- 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 225 
 
 blng a compatriot. Boona has much to say — too 
 much — and says it at some length. Another in- 
 terpreter called. Boona admits the stabbing, but 
 shows weighty cause why he did the right thing. The 
 stabbing was quite in order and according to rules. 
 It began in Upper Burmah, and he has waited three 
 years for this occasion. Magistrate unconvinced. 
 Twenty-one days. 
 
 Mrs. O'Flaherty wants assistance to find her 
 daughter, aged 15. She hasn't been home for 
 three nights. Has lately been going with black 
 men, and four days ago two white boys set about 
 her in the street because of this. Press asked to 
 publish description. Court Missionary asked to con- 
 fer with Mrs. O'Flaherty. 
 
 Charles Gattring, stevedore, charged with as- 
 saulting gatekeeper at docks. Gatekeeper appears, a 
 bundle of splints and bandages, Gattring was one 
 of two hundred men applying for four jobs. When 
 jobs were filled Gattring assaulted gate-keeper. 
 Gattring, ex-soldier with four children and pension 
 of seventeen-and-sixpence a week, admits assault. 
 Had walked from Upper Tooting for this job. 
 When job was filled, gatekeeper became abusive and 
 "made a face at me, and got my blood up. Wouldn't 
 it you, with four kids what've on'y had stale bread 
 and water the last week?" Court missionary has en- 
 quired at Gattring's home, and found his story cor- 
 rect. Magistrate very sympathetic, but assault 
 
226 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 proved. Seven days. Missionary asked to render 
 assistance at home. 
 
 George Washington Grant Lincoln Jones, col- 
 oured gentleman, charged with shooting at landlord 
 of "Formosa Lily," and with being in possession of 
 a revolver without a license. G. W. G. L. Jones 
 denies everything. Landlord tells of refusing Jones 
 a drink after closing time, whereupon Jones fired at 
 him. The bullet smashed four bottles of whisky 
 and three glasses. Remanded. Jones leaves the 
 dock, indignantly denying the story, and immediately 
 uppercuts the landlord. Turmoil and struggle. 
 Jones collared and taken below, to be charged again 
 later with this fresh assault. 
 
 Iris May Hamburg, charged with wandering 
 without means. Has been living In Amoy Place. 
 Mother, from Salisbury, of well-to-do middle-class, 
 begs Iris to go home with her. Iris refuses. Fed 
 up. Magistrate pleads with her. Still refuses. She 
 is much happier on her own. Sent to a reformatory. 
 Scene. A wail of horror. Outburst In the dock. 
 Matron called In. Struggle, till at last physical force 
 wins. Iris disappears through doorway, a whirl- 
 wind of screams and limbs and clothes. Screams 
 ringing through court long after she has disappeared. 
 Everybody uncomfortable. Low convulsive moans 
 heard coming from the cells. 
 
 And the next case Is called, and the next. And 
 above the clamour of charge and counter-charge, of 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 227 
 
 solid asseveration and vehement denial, sits, calm 
 and cool, the magistrate, the Cadi of this corner of 
 the East. His face is impassive. You might think 
 that his attention was wandering; that he saw and 
 heard nothing. But you find, at the end of the case, 
 that he has heard and seen everything that passed, 
 and much that was imperceptible to those untrained 
 in the wile and cunning of the old offender. In one 
 case you may think him too harsh, in another, too 
 lenient. But he knows. He knows how to weigh 
 the motive against the act; how to discern the truth 
 or the lie, whether it come from Oriental lips or 
 Cockney jaws. He does not, like a judge, sit to ad- 
 minister pure law, but to guide, to counsel, to be- 
 friend, and, sorrowfully, to punish. 
 
 Punishments vary in the magistrate's discretion. 
 There are some who are noted for the extreme sen- 
 tence that the law permits; others, who seldom use 
 their full power. The main idea is that the punish- 
 ment should fit the crime, but surely this is wrong. 
 The aim of punishment is to deter, and therefore 
 the punishment should fit the criminal, not the crime. 
 Instead of a set code of punishments for set offences, 
 we should have a code variable upon the character 
 of the prisoner. Many men will continue cheerfully 
 to offend, so long as their offences may be met by 
 money-payments, while seven days' imprisonment 
 would mean hell for them. Others would more com- 
 fortably do a month than pay up forty shillings. 
 
228 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Some tough cases, sentenced to a long term, have 
 even asked that some of it may be docked, and the 
 "cat" substituted Instead; what would be physical 
 torture to others, is to them a trifle. The character 
 and temperament of the prisoner should in all cases 
 be considered before passing sentence, so that he 
 may receive the sentence that will most impress him. 
 A month's imprisonment for an old hand and a 
 month's imprisonment for a quiet suburban clerk 
 may sound the same thing, but they are widely dif- 
 ferent. For precisely similar offences, one man 
 might be adequately punished by the public expo- 
 sure, the night in the cells and the ride in the prison- 
 van; while the other would be only properly punished 
 by six-months' hard labour. For numbers of hard- 
 shelled men prison will have no horrors; for the 
 more sensitive seven days at Wandsworth is as af- 
 frighting as a stretch at Portland. 
 
 When the lighter cases are dismissed, the more 
 serious cases, remand cases, come on. It is instruc- 
 tive to hear a detective give evidence. In flat, grey 
 tones he recites what the prisoner said on being ar- 
 rested. One can visualise the scene — the shock, the 
 fright, the hoarse tones, the exclamatory appeals, 
 the whine, the outburst. But nothing of this atmos- 
 phere is reproduced by the detective. Keeping his 
 eyes on his notes, he intones from them without the 
 slightest inflection to mark one word from another, 
 so that the prisoner shall not be in any way preju- 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 229 
 
 diced by any stress or lightlng-up of possibly damag- 
 ing words. 
 
 "I told the prisoner that I held a warrant for her 
 arrest, and that she would be charged with the man- 
 slaughter of Annie Diprose, and I duly cautioned 
 her that anything she might say would be taken 
 down." 
 
 "Did the prisoner make any remarks?" 
 
 "Yes. (Reading from notes.) She said: "Oh — ' 
 my — God — that — Sal — has — put — me — away — she 
 is — a. — nice — one — what — shall — I — do — I — will — i 
 never — help — anybody — in — trouble — again." 
 
 It was at Thames that I got mixed up in the case 
 of Ernie, through his creating a disturbance In the 
 public section, and calling me his dear ole pal. We 
 were both turned out. I had never met him before, 
 but I met him often after that. Ernie has a story 
 — a pale, commonplace story; neither tragic nor 
 comic; just a dull descent into the mire, until he 
 became a regular figure in the court list. For a drink 
 he will tell you his story. He was a young man, 
 and his father, a retired mercantile captain, though 
 able on the sea, was a fool of a father. Ernie was 
 to go into business, and while father looked about 
 for a business, Ernie, lazy, weak, and shiftless, em- 
 ployed his allowance In becoming one of the lads. 
 The other lads would drink or not drink, as busi- 
 ness required; but Ernie was a dipsomaniac, on the 
 mat when they opened, and thrown out at closing- 
 
230 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 time. He abused the gift of good drink as others 
 abuse the gift of good food or the holy gift of sex. 
 He frittered his hours away in banal chatter with 
 tough loafers and in swift rounds. He, who could 
 not drink, judged men by their capacity in drinking; 
 and he looked with contempt upon those who refused 
 another when he himself was loose on his legs. 
 "You're no good, y'know. Yew earn' drink." 
 
 He was discovered by an ex-brulser, who Intro- 
 duced him to the bunch. Until then he had been 
 a lonely youth, wandering aimlessly about the streets, 
 and allaying his boredom by afternoon and nightly 
 visits to music-halls, theatres, and cinemas. Then 
 Slaughter Levinsky found him, and found the fat 
 pocket and the pale amiability. Ernie was delighted 
 with the company to whom the pug. introduced him. 
 He moved upward into a world of wit and warmth 
 and wonder. He had not known that there were 
 such good fellows about Stepney. They were good 
 boys — oh, fine boys. Real Sports. After he had 
 been an hour in their company, they told him that he 
 was a good boy, too. There, was a "something" 
 about him, they said. . . . 
 
 By two o'clock they were still there; and now 
 they were like old friends. He was "Ernie" and 
 they were "George" and "Fred" and "Charlie." 
 It seemed that George had been waiting for years 
 to meet just such a one as Ernie, worthy of his darl- 
 ing confidences. As he laconically put it, after a 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 231 
 
 shut-eyed rambling quest for the exact phrase : They 
 understood one another. That's what it was. And 
 Ernie agreed. At six o'clock in the evening they 
 met again, amid a spattering hail of — "What y'av- 
 ing, old man? No — I arst 'im first." 
 
 They left uproariously at half-past ten, bubbling 
 with stories and intimacies. 
 
 Early next morning, Ernie met Charlie In the Mile 
 End Road. Charlie passed him with barely a nod. 
 Ernie wondered whether he had given offence; or 
 whether Charlie had forgotten their long evening's 
 friendship, and did not know, "outside," the friends 
 of the saloon. It didn't seem right, somehow. 
 Charlie had barely looked at him. His face had 
 been downcast; a little knot had formed on his brow, 
 and the half-smile he attempted seemed to hurt him. 
 But at twelve o'clock, when Ernie called the rendez- 
 vous, Charlie was there, genial and open; a little 
 lower in tone, perhaps, but ready with hand at 
 pocket. "Morning, Ernie. 'Ow're yeh feeling? Bit 
 of a doing last night, eh? What's It to be? . . . 
 Well, 'ere's good music, boy!" 
 
 He was one of them. He heard their adventures, 
 shared their troubles, and applauded their exploits. 
 " 'Course, Ernie, this won't go no farther, 
 y'know. . . ." "Oh, 'at's all right, o'man. / know. 
 I'm a bo'cmlan, and a pal's a pal, whether 'e goes 
 orf the rails or not." 
 
 And while father went about looking for a suit- 
 
232 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 able business to purchase, Ernie cultivated the tricks 
 of good fellowship. 
 
 And so it went on, with two "sittings" a day; and 
 although the old man proffered various businesses, 
 none of them caught Ernie's fancy. Business was 
 to him the dullest of penances. He was sure he 
 wasn't cut out for business. The boys confirmed his 
 feeling about this. Business was all very well for 
 some people, but fine, choice spirits, creatures of the 
 air, were never meant for hacking. 
 
 Then came a night when Slaughter Levinsky must 
 celebrate a scoop. 
 
 It was a Night. 
 
 By nine o'clock Ernie has passed his own limit 
 of one over the eight, but he chuckled at his old 
 caution. He could go on for ever like this. Good 
 Sports. His words came with difficulty, and he 
 had to move his lips with deliberation. Things 
 tightened up, and objects stood out in shocking pro- 
 file. Charlie's face, now he came to look at it, was 
 one of the handsomest he'd ever seen. Like a 
 statue's. And what a figure he had. And how he 
 could hold it. Always his glass was empty, and al- 
 ways he was crying — "Now come on, boys ! With 
 me!" 
 
 After four more, a change took place in the na- 
 ture of things. The corners of the room bulged 
 and shifted. The room kept no shape for long. 
 The ceiling spun. The floor rocked. Nausea hov- 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 233 
 
 ered about him. Silly tunes sang in his head. Things 
 grew to monstrous height, yet seemed to be fading 
 away. Bar seemed to be bigger than usual. Every- 
 body seemed to be a long way from him, and the 
 bar had moved. When he stretched his arm to put 
 his glass down he couldn't reach it, and the glass 
 smashed. He tried to pick it up, and fell. Men. 
 helped him up and in helping him up knocked an- 
 other glass over. They laughed. Ernie laughed. 
 Damn funny. Picked him up, and knocked glass 
 over. Talk about laugh. Then old Glossop began 
 to tell a story. Charhe lolloped against the bar. 
 Levinsky stood swaying, feet wide apart. George 
 stood bent at a perilous angle, grinning amiably at 
 the world. They stood in the centre of a violet 
 cloud, through which glimmered the wide features 
 of old Glossop. He'd never liked old Glossop. Sar- 
 castic sort o' fellow, y'know. Jus' 'cos ev'body 
 couldn't drink like 'e could — passed remarks. He 
 wouldn't have it. He'd tick him orf. Who was 
 old Glossop, anyway. 
 
 He got up from the lounge, and swayed towards 
 them, opening the circle with a lurch. There were 
 strident protests of " 'Ere I say !" and cackles of 
 laughter. He ignored them and fixed Mr. Glossop. 
 
 "Mis'r Glossop — 'swun thing I've alwis wonnid 
 say t'you, Mis'r Glossop, you're a damn sonofabitch. 
 'Ad's what yew are. See? Jus' thought I'd tell 
 yer. See? 'M. 'M." He swayed. Mr. Glossop 
 
234 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 swayed with him. He hardly knew how to take the 
 affront. He couldn't be sure he had heard aright. 
 He stared benignly upon Ernie. Then he jerked 
 his head so suddenly that his hat flew back and off. 
 He groped for it. Somebody found it and put it 
 on the wrong way round. Mr. Glossop turned to 
 thank him, effusively, for his kindness, and lost 
 his way in the circle. He turned round twice. Then 
 he remembered something. 
 
 "Ah, there y'are, Ernie — Ernie — 'Squite right 
 what you said. I am. And proud of it. 'Ere — me 
 and you understand one another. You an' me'll sit 
 together, 'ave quiet li'l drink. Leave these ignor- 
 ant swine." 
 
 He pushed Ernie to the lounge, and they had 
 doubles. The electric lights of the bar, which had 
 once been poppy-points, were now great blazing suns. 
 They went reeling through chaos. The nausea 
 passed, and Ernie moved into the next stage of well- 
 being. He began to recognise now that he wasn't 
 himself, but he was quite content. He was some- 
 body much better. A new man, in fact. The eve- 
 ning was only just beginning. 
 
 He had two more with Mr. Glossop. . . . 
 
 Then his peace was suddenly disturbed. Men 
 were round him, standing over him. He was on the 
 floor. They were pulling him up. 
 
 "Wassamatter — eh? Siddown all of yeh. Sid- 
 down. Lessavanother. 'Smy turn." 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 235 
 
 *' 'Ere — who's going to see this dam fool 'ome. 
 Who knows where 'e lives?" 
 
 " 'At's all right. I know. Me and George'U take 
 'im." 
 
 They gathered round and lifted him up, and 
 though he fought them, and protested against homCv 
 George and Charlie carried him out. Between them, 
 they bandy-chaired him home to his father, who 
 was sitting up for him. His father took him in and 
 carried him upstairs. 
 
 Next morning there was a scene. The old man 
 began to perceive his ways and their probable end, 
 and the argument ended in a spasm of severity. 
 Cash allowance was cut off from that day. With- 
 out cash, thought the old man, he must surely come 
 to heel. 
 
 But he didn't. He was too deep in "the life" 
 to climb out at a warning cry. 
 
 Without money he was at a loss, but work held no 
 bright invitation. He stood outside saloons, before 
 and during opening hours, pondering and torturing 
 himself to think up means of getting money and tast- 
 ing again the convivial life. But for weeks he could 
 think of nothing. Between meal-times he mooned 
 miserably about the streets, smoking the cheap cig- 
 arettes bought with the sixpence a day that his father 
 allowed him. Soon he came to accept a drink from 
 anybody who offered it. And when a man does 
 that. . . . 
 
236 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 But then an idea came to him — slowly and quietly 
 as such ideas come. An idea with money in it. After 
 a few days of make-believe hesitation he paid a 
 visit to a police-station in the district. He came 
 away with money. 
 
 "And. look here," said the inspector. He passed a 
 hand across his mouth, as one wiping away an offen- 
 sive taste. He was a man of probity, who preferred 
 to do his work by the rules of the game, and disliked 
 the sometimes necessary safety-play. "Now the 
 business is done let me tell you that you're the smell- 
 iest little skunk I ever met." 
 
 ♦"Ere— what?" 
 
 "What I said. I want those boys bad. They're 
 wrong 'uns, all of 'em. But they've got a Bottom 
 Line. There's one thing none of 'em's ever done 
 yet; none of 'em's ever sold a pal. Yew — yew ain't 
 a wrong 'un. Yew ain't got the pluck for that. 
 You're a skunk — that's what yew are." 
 
 "No, but . . ." 
 
 "None o' your back answers. Else I'll . . . Good 
 night, Judas." 
 
 Ernie left that station with a creeping skin. Next 
 day as he went about the streets, various acquaint- 
 ances passed him or overtook him. Those who 
 were alone looked the other way. Those in couples 
 looked at one another, and words passed between 
 them that twisted their lips. His money made him 
 free of the bars, and he made for one. In a corner 
 
IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 237 
 
 stood two or three men he knew. He took his glass 
 and went up to them. In a concerted movement, 
 each man of that group drank up and went out. 
 Ernie's legs went to water, and his face hurt him. 
 All that day and night he drank and drank and 
 drank. And in the drunken sleep that followed he 
 had a dream. . . . 
 
 In the morning he went back to Inspector Terri- 
 ton, sick and remorseful, and offered him the re- 
 mains of the money. And Territon brushed him 
 aside and told him to go and hang himself. 
 
 That was the end of Ernie. When I last saw 
 him, stale-drunk in a Bethnal Green bar, he was 
 telling a bewildered stranger a rambling story of 
 how, two thousand years ago, he betrayed a man in 
 a garden to his enemies. 
 
—IX— 
 IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 
 
 IT was in the bar of the "Town of Ramsgate," 
 by Wapping Old Stairs, that Monk and I met 
 the man from the Port of London Authority. It 
 was a fruitful meeting. It turned our sauntering 
 afternoon into hot hours of experience. For, by 
 the agency of our friend, we toured all the treasure- 
 houses of the London Docks, and finished in the 
 wine-vaults, where hours of opening are not con- 
 sidered; and that visit to the wine-vaults sent us to 
 Canning Town and me to an adventure. 
 
 True to the Cockney's habit of ignoring the show- 
 places of London, I had never seen the inside of the 
 London Docks, though I had known the streets about 
 its walls from childhood. It is a little town by it- 
 self. Every commodity that is brought into Eng- 
 land has its warehouses here, and every job that men 
 can do has its "shop" here. There are the car- 
 penter's shop, the turner's shop, the wheelwright's 
 shop, the blacksmith's shop, the chain-maker's shop. 
 There are the dried-fruit warehouse, the pulse and 
 bean warehouse, the tea warehouse, the sugar ware- 
 house, the grain warehouse, the wool warehouse, the 
 spice warehouse, the ivory and hides warehouse, the 
 
 238 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 239 
 
 drug warehouse, the tobacco warehouse, and the 
 chilled meat warehouse. It is the stomach of Lon- 
 don. 
 
 You may walk through groves of haricot and soya 
 beans, through lanes of currants, over fields of tea 
 and sugar, and amid forests of tobacco and dark 
 undergrowths of wool. Here are clusters of ivory, 
 wrought and in the tusk; tables laden with rare 
 spices; chunks of coral and buckets of quicksilver. 
 You may punch bales of greasy wool. You may 
 tread on half-inch layers of sugar. You may crush 
 thousands of currants underfoot and walk almost 
 ankle-deep in haricots. Currants and haricots are 
 good food, and are not too cheap, but at the docks, 
 when a bag has burst and scattered its contents, the 
 correct thing is to tread them into the floor. Any 
 dockman scraping up a handful of dusty currants to 
 take home for a pudding for the kids, would find 
 himself at Thames Police Court. They call it theft. 
 So we did as we were told, and trod them in, and I 
 made an effort at calculating how many tons of good 
 food were thus wasted every month. 
 
 From the sequestered quiet of the store-houses, 
 and their challenging odours, we were hurried to the 
 carpenter's shop. Its smell was dry and drab; it 
 rang with demoniac noise and energy. A dozen 
 saws, big and little, hand and machine, were going 
 at top speed. Lathes were humming. Belts were 
 whizzing. Thence we wandered to Pier Head, for 
 
240 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the breeze, dazed with plenitude and the sight of 
 too much of everything. 
 
 London Docks are London In little and trade in 
 big. It is the pantry of Brobdingnag, and the small 
 human eye can receive no clear impression of its 
 business; only a blurred sensation of mountainous 
 movement and tremendous bulk. The spirit of the 
 immediate present is its guide. It is not working for 
 posterity; it has no truck with the dry bones of the 
 past. It lives and labours for this week, and all its 
 magnificent machinery moves for the purpose of now. 
 It is a museum of the passing things of to-day. 
 
 But then we came to the wine-vaults, and there we 
 found peace and quiet. There is no riot or clamour 
 in the wine-vaults ; all is subdued. The vaults are a 
 sort of school, and here lie thousands of wines, 
 quietly growing up and growing in grace. 
 
 At the top of a small flight of stone steps, our 
 friend handed us over to George, and with George 
 we passed from strong sunlight into dark arches. 
 What light there was came from small electric bulbs 
 embedded in the roofs, and a sweet cool smell arose 
 from the earth at our feet. On a small counter 
 by the door were ranged a number of torches — 
 flat arms of wood with little spirit lamps at the end, 
 In shape something like an opium pipe. They are 
 fashioned in this way, so that you may hold them 
 to light your feet, for the long corridors of the 
 vaults are lined with raised rails for the easier 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 241 
 
 trundling of the barrels, and as the floor is densely- 
 spread with tan these rails are sometimes obscured. 
 Each of us was given a torch, and when I came 
 to inspect mine I found that it was similar in every 
 point to those in use at these very vaults a hundred 
 years ago. You will see them depicted in an old 
 colour-print, by Robert Cruikshank, of the London 
 Dock vaults. 
 
 From the entrance-door, corridors run In every 
 direction, miles of them, each fully lined with barrels 
 of the noblest sort; and you may stand there and 
 look down vistas of Oporto, of Jamaica, of Bur- 
 gundy, of Champagne, of Xeres, of Moselle, of Hol- 
 land, of Lombardy, of Tokay, of Canary, of the 
 glens of Scotland and the valleys of the Rhine and 
 the Chateaux of the Gironde. The heart first leaps 
 at the prospect; then fails. It is too much of 
 a good thing. But when George led us in solemn 
 file down the corridor, and into a dim alcove, and 
 there got busy with a mallet, and then held up against 
 the pinched blue flame of his lamp a glass of living 
 ruby that glowed through the darkness — then, we 
 did respond. That was a moment worth holding, 
 and George had a sense of Its value. He did not 
 move, but stood bowed under the lowering roof of 
 that cool recess, holding the glass before us, who, in 
 our turn, stood silent. Our torches dropped to our 
 feet. No light came from them above the curve of 
 the barrel, but In the gloom that wine shone and 
 
242 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 gave off light. With proper gesture George handed 
 the glass to Monk, and filled two others. Wc drank. 
 The wine was of the cool, suave, cathedral quality of 
 the place : a wine to be drunk in silence ; a wine that 
 did not sing, but chanted; a wine of purity and ele- 
 gance, of gaiety and wisdom. We drank it in full 
 recognition of its quality, and then talked of It in 
 murmurs, until George led us on down the corridors. 
 
 After many turns his mood changed. Down here 
 he had a vermouth. Not merely a vermouth, but a 
 VERMOUTH. Aha! No solemnity about that. 
 Never, he said, was there such vermouth In such 
 condition as this vermouth. We must taste It. We 
 made ourselves agreeable, and certainly the ver- 
 mouth was unlike any other that I had tasted. Nor 
 have I ever found any like It outside those vaults. 
 To whom It belonged, whose barrels we were break- 
 ing into, I do not know; but If ever I find out, I will 
 make amends for my share In the ullage by ordering 
 a dozen. George led us farther. He had an Amon- 
 tillado down there. Clearly he was proud of that 
 Amontillado. . . , 
 
 We followed him. 
 
 Our firefly torches fluttered at our feet. Now and 
 then a rat scampered, leaving a filigree trail In the 
 tan.. 
 
 I know not how many miles we walked. George's 
 instructions were to follow him, and we followed 
 him, resting only at his bidding. The spirit of the 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 243 
 
 place wrought upon me — the darkness and the damp 
 and the silence. The barrels were so many mon- 
 sters, lurking in corners to spring upon us. I felt 
 that we should never get out, but go on for ever, 
 wandering round and round hundreds of miles of 
 narrow passages, following George. I wished I 
 hadn't had that vermouth. Or perhaps it was the 
 sherry. An hour passed, and we were still follow- 
 ing George. Monk was agreeable to following him 
 all night. I think I was lagging, for George called 
 to me. 
 
 "Come on, mister. You're all right. Ke6p behind 
 me. Never mind the rats; they won't fly at you. 
 You're all right. You ought to see the business I've 
 'ad with some people. Cuh ! I could write a book 
 about what I've seen down here. . . . Follow 
 me ! 
 
 We followed him. . . . 
 
 Next thing I remember is surrendering my torch 
 at the door, and climbing up the steps into a burst 
 of sharp sunlight, which momentarily dazzled me. 
 Monk, too, was dazzled by it, and was walking softly 
 towards the wall . . . following George . . . 
 until he discovered that George was no longer with 
 us. Whereupon we pulled ourselves together, and 
 got into Pennington Street, and so to Commercial 
 Road. There we agreed to take a 'bus ride to Can- 
 ning Town, on pretence of looking up old friends, 
 but really to clear our heads. 
 
244 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 I do not know that the most exquisite wine that 
 the country holds is a fitting prelude to the gritty 
 irritations of Canning Town, or that Canning Town 
 is an apt pendant to the wine. But days seldom per- 
 mit themselves to be governed by an arbitrary aes- 
 thetic. To Canning Town we went, and perhaps 
 the very incongruity of it mated not disagreeably 
 with the earlier adventure. Certainly the harum- 
 scarum 'bus ride over the pot-holes and jutting tram- 
 lines of Commercial Road cleared our heads, and 
 by the time we reached the Iron Bridge we were 
 ready for anything. 
 
 Canning Town is true East End. Its pulse and 
 temper are deep and wayward. It drums barbari- 
 cally to the rhythms of Alsatia. Here is a bit of 
 old untamed London; a whiff of Tudor Bankside; 
 and though, like all East End parishes, it has its 
 Missions and its Settlements, it hasn't yet surren- 
 dered to them. Respectability has pricked it, but 
 hasn't wholly blasted it. It is to-day what the nearer 
 East was fifty years ago. Here are big-bodied, foot- 
 fisted men and roaring Girls. The men are slow, 
 elephantine. The girls, lusty and comely after their 
 rude fashion, are full of the headlong neck-and-neck 
 spirit of the streets; and even the flirtatious females 
 of thirteen walk like colts. Here are the "Imperial," 
 and its adjoining cinema, which, only a year or so 
 ago, was the last of the tavern music-halls. And 
 here is the serpentine Iron Bridge, and the vast dis- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 245 
 
 ordered plain of water and yards and roofs and 
 chimneys that it bestrides. 
 
 It knows crashing days and vast midnights. Giant 
 Industry has this territory in thrall, and his foot- 
 falls are keenly heard and his footmarks sharply 
 seen. From the Bridge you look across a grotesque 
 allotment of toil, breathing and smoking and rumb- 
 ling; and upon waste patches where the monster 
 has passed and left only wounds. It is a wilderness 
 shot with glowering colour and ringing with the 
 voices of the pilgrims of the night. Around you lie 
 the workyards and the water ; beyond, blue mysteries 
 strung with scarves of raw light and knots of 
 shadow. It Is one of the widest prospects of East 
 London, 
 
 We made a visit to the Imperial for the sake of 
 old times, and then wandered down Victoria Dock 
 Road, and through its byways. There are queer 
 houses In these byways, and queer shops. They 
 hark back. They sell foods that have long ceased 
 to be popular in other parts. They sell shocking 
 musical instruments — the accordion, the melodeon, 
 the ocarina and the Jew's harp — now supplanted, in 
 well-conducted homes, by the gramophone. You 
 will find, too, second-hand batches of the old penny 
 dreadfuls — these also supplanted by the less dread- 
 ful and perhaps less subversive publications of the 
 big syndicates. You will find here the old Edwin 
 Brett journals, and gashly periodicals from ob- 
 
246 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 scure presses. I acquired a bob's-worth of these, 
 and good ding-dong reading they make for mid-win- 
 ter evenings by the chimney corner. The very titles 
 give a prickle to the skin — "The Black Monk's 
 Curse," "The Boy Bandit," "Blueskin," "The Vam- 
 pire's Bride," "The Wild Boys of London," "The 
 Skeleton Crew," "Tyburn Dick," "Starlight Nell," 
 "The Moonlight Riders," "The Pretty Girls of 
 London." 
 
 Rough stuff, and not, I think, altogether suitable 
 reading for the young; yet It seems that in course of 
 Its refinement the "dreadful" of to-day has lost zest. 
 It is clean, wholesome stuff, written with some care; 
 yet the essential Ingredient of hot-footed devilry Is 
 missing. The heroes are tepid and morally punctil- 
 ious. They stand for law and order, and defeat the 
 cunning and the lawless with many virtues, where 
 the older heroes were against the law and the vil- 
 lains were of Bow Street. Deplorable ethics, I 
 know, but what's a penny dreadful If It Isn't dread- 
 ful ? Heroes should have no business with scruples ; 
 they should be rebels always. 
 
 The old defunct feast of St. Valentine Is also 
 honoured. In a twisted way. In these little shops; 
 and during the month of February their windows are 
 made hideous by high-coloured representations of 
 women with asses' heads or padlocked lips and other 
 deformities. With these atrocious missives the 
 youth of the district work off old scores against un- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 247 
 
 friendly associates. They are stabs in the back; 
 delivered to the poor victim with the evil glee of the 
 anonymous-letter maniac. There are pictures of 
 squinting eyes, of club feet, of hare lips, each with 
 its malicious verse; and pictures of babies, with 
 verse suggesting that father would do well to look 
 into its true parentage. One of these shot into a 
 family circle, or sent to a sensitive girl, may easily 
 poison mutual trust, or lead to extreme action. 
 Nowhere else in London, I beheve, does the custom 
 persist, and I hope that even the strong stomach 
 of Canning Town will soon turn against It.^ 
 
 At eight o'clock I picked up Fred, at Tidal Basin, 
 and through him got into trouble. He said there 
 were to be some doings at Bow, if we cared to come 
 along. We did care, and strolled with him up 
 Brunswick Road. In a skittle-alley at Bow we 
 rested and refreshed ourselves, and sat watching him 
 collect the doings. Fred is by profession a journey- 
 man tailor, but he has far too much spirit for one 
 ordinary man; I could not face a night out with 
 nine of him. When he isn't tailoring he plays skit- 
 tles, horses, billiards, and other little games, and 
 sometimes does a bit of snide-pitching. He's a 
 twister; yet in some of his twists and turns he dis- 
 closes a companlonableness that immediately at- 
 tracts. There's no nonsense about Fred. He puts 
 up no defence. Unlike our company-promoters, he 
 knows that stealing is wrong and that he is not as 
 
248 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 good as other men. He'll tell you with engaging 
 candour how he did somebody down the other day, 
 and half an hour later he will do you down In ex- 
 actly the same way, and then call you a fool. 
 
 "Well, wodyeh grumbling about? I warned yeh, 
 dl'n' I ? Yeh can't say I di'n' warn yeh. Fair do's 
 now ... I warned yeh." 
 
 If Fred were to put the gusto and persistence Into 
 his work that he puts Into his play, there would 
 be a great outcry In the tailors' union. But Fred 
 only works when "things" are bad. He goes every- 
 where. He Is to be seen at Alexandra Park, at 
 Hurst Park, at Kempton Park, at Football matches, 
 at billiards-rooms In remote suburbs, at bowling- 
 greens, at whist tournaments, and at Brighton on 
 Sundays. Wherever the doings may be, you bet 
 Fred Is there to snaffle his share of them. When 
 Fred and I first knew one another, we were much 
 of a kind; and as I remember the old Fred, so I 
 find little In him that offends. He was then the usual 
 London lad — alert, audacious, plucky, and. If with 
 knowledge of guile, himself guileless. He has gone 
 far since then. He has branched out. His audacity 
 could not let him rest on the tailor's board. So he 
 fought circumstance with pluck and cunning, and 
 now carries himself with an air; an Ignoble air, cer- 
 tainly, but not craven or shifty. He knows he is a 
 Bad Man, as other men know that they are clerks 
 or 'bus-conductors ; and that Is all there Is to It. His 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 249 
 
 spry figure, his brilliant eyes, and his steady good- 
 humour make him friends even among his victims. 
 He is Old Fred . . . with a shrug and a nod . . , 
 a very Lad of a twister. 
 
 After he had played several games, he said he 
 would show us what a good time was like. He kept 
 his promise. He kept it so well that at midnight, 
 round about Old Ford, I lost Monk and Fred lost 
 me. As it seemed useless to attempt a search, and 
 as my shouts received no answer, I stayed where I 
 was — near a 'bus terminus — and finished a queer day 
 with a queer encounter. ^ 
 
 I hung about the deserted terminus some long 
 minutes without any sign of traffic or Company's 
 men, and was debating whether I should foot it 
 home, and chance finding a taxi on the other side of 
 St. Paul's, when a figure slouched from a side-street 
 and hung about at the corner. It was a lank figure 
 in a disreputable mackintosh and a cap pulled well 
 forward. After some shuffling it spoke. 
 
 "Waitin' f'r a 'bus, mate? You won't git one 
 now. They all gorn." 
 
 *'Oh?"Isaid. "That's nasty. Looks like a nice 
 long tramp." 
 
 "Got far to go?" 
 
 "North London." 
 
 "Cuh — that's a good step. Fond o' walkin'?" 
 
 He seemed chatty and companionable, and as I 
 had all night for my journey, and was in the chatty 
 
260 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 mood myself, I encouraged him. We talked of get- 
 ting stranded in out of the way places, of the annoy- 
 ances of things, and of this and of that. He seemed 
 by his figure an overgrown youth, but he talked with 
 a certain dash of experience. We stood away from 
 the lamp, and the peak of his cap was pulled down. 
 I could not see the upper part of his face. I saw 
 only, and that in shadow, a thin, characterless mouth. 
 The voice was the irresolute uneven voice of a youth 
 who wanted to talk and was not used to company. 
 He seemed the kind of amiable creature whom one 
 passes over with a half-conscious glance and forgets. 
 
 It is a common type. He may be as big as other 
 men, and talk as loudly, yet always he is ineffectual, 
 never can he command attention. He never stands 
 out. Even when he boldly addresses people he has 
 trouble in capturing their interest. And this type 
 always wants to be noticed, and will even thrust 
 himself forward and try, weakly, to assert himself. 
 
 Sometimes he will even fall into crime, not from 
 criminal intent, but purely from desire to redeem his 
 self-respect, and to compel the consideration and 
 respect that are given freely to other and less not- 
 able men. I once knew a man of this type who 
 committed a murder. He did not commit the mur- 
 der with the motive of advertisement; It was a de- 
 liberate crime of revenge. But after the first shock 
 of the event, he realised that he was now a person 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 251 
 
 of importance to the whole country; and he made no 
 attempt to bolt. He wanted (as he confessed when 
 caught) to see how his acquaintances would behave 
 towards him when, they knew who he was. Yet he 
 gained nothing by- it. For, during the days when 
 the hunt was up, he remained the same colourless 
 personality; his bold deed had lent him nothing of 
 character or force. Even when a group who knew 
 him were discussing the matter, and he made some 
 comments, they paid no attention to him. Even 
 when, driven to anger by this last rebuff, he seized 
 for one moment their attention with "Look 'ere — 
 let me tell yeh somethlnk. It's me they're looking 
 for. / done the Gravel Lane murder." Even then, 
 when he expected a glorious moment of uproar and 
 confusion and wonder centred about his person; even 
 then, they gave him only an Instant's glance, laughed, 
 and turned again to their own talk. Even with the 
 horrid truth, he couldn't impress. 
 
 Well, this youth seemed to me, in the little I 
 could see of him, and in his scrappy Inconsequent 
 talk, just such another, — -thin and lack-lustre. His 
 walk was a long-legged shamble. He assumed the 
 casual air with too much dihgence. He threw off 
 a too-large air of world-knowledge. His wide un- 
 certain mouth gaped indecently. He wasn't drunk, 
 and I think he wasn't quite sober. His talk was 
 rational, but — it left you puzzled. There seemed 
 
252 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 to be something struggling underneath it. His man- 
 ner, too, was furtive, with odd dashes of boldness 
 and man-to-manishness. He was an oaf. 
 
 Then he made a proposal. He had a room round 
 about there, and if I didn't feel like a walk home, 
 and would take in something, I could sit there till 
 the early trams started — if I cared about it. I hesi- 
 tated. I wasn't at all sure about him; but he Inter- 
 ested me. 
 
 "But," I said, "it's too late to get anything to 
 take in." 
 
 He made a wide leave-it-to-me gesture. "No, it 
 ain't. / know a place, if you got the money." 
 
 I went with him. 
 
 He walked me across the railway bridge at Old 
 Ford, and down a street to the side door of a shop 
 of some kind. Here he knocked, and whispered his 
 wants. I paid over the money and a bottle was sup- 
 plied. Where he took me then, I don't know, for it 
 was dark then and dark when I left to get the work- 
 men's tram. But we walked through a grove of 
 byways, and as we walked I was kept puzzled as to 
 his character. All this time I still had not fully 
 seen his face. Really, there was nothing to mark 
 him from other men; and I told myself that it was 
 my fatigue, the misty evening, the silence and the 
 strange place that lent him that something of the 
 bizarre. His queer manner, his nervous bravado, is 
 a manner found in many respectable people. But 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 253 
 
 with him I was still sensible of something I could 
 not place. . . . 
 
 At last we got to his house, and once in his room 
 I knew my man and his character. The little touches 
 that had baffled me were explained. With one foot 
 over the step I halted, and stared. I felt a sudden 
 chill, as one coming, in the dark, Into contact with 
 a nameless damp substance. . . . He caught my 
 look, and, holding the bottle, squirmed and giggled 
 at me with wide toothy mouth. Hanging on the 
 wall, by either side of the fireplace were, at a ran- 
 dom count, between twenty and thirty plaits, curls, 
 tresses, cuttings of hair, and hair-ribbons; gold, 
 brown, black and auburn. 
 
 "Lookin' at my collection? Pritty, ain't they? 
 Them golden ones — eh?" 
 
 He threw off his cap and I saw his face clearly. 
 His diffidence of the streets was gone and the face 
 was itself. It was a flaccid face, with low listless 
 eyes. It rose to a point at the forehead. It was the 
 face of a fish. 
 
 I felt I must say something, or do something. 
 "But what the devil — how — " 
 
 He grinned again and opened the bottle. He 
 poured himself a large dose, and drank heavily; then 
 pointed to a wicker chair. He seemed not at all 
 abashed at letting a stranger into his secret. 
 
 His most notable trait was a sort of private sup- 
 pressed glee which would burst from the corners of 
 
264) THE LONDON SPY 
 
 his eyes and lips in the fleeting moments when he 
 cast a glance at his "collection." Outside that room 
 he would have passed anywhere as the amiable gawk 
 I had thought him. Inside . . . When he had had 
 several goes from the bottle he began to talk, not 
 haltingly, as before, but in gushes of confidence and 
 confession. He talked of his souvenirs as a biblio- 
 phile talks of his "finds" in books. He tried to 
 work me up to share his enthusiasm in his hobby, 
 as other harmless collectors will do. 
 
 "That one corst me somethink — them yeller curls 
 wiv the blue ribbon. I di'n' 'arf 'ave a job gittin' 
 them. I see 'er in Victoria Park, and followed 'er 
 two hours, and on'y got me chance on a 'bus at Beff- 
 nal Green. And that black one — I spent I dunno 'ow 
 long in a picture-palace gittin' that. . . . It's a risky 
 business yeh know. I neely bin copped sometimes." 
 
 He giggled, and went to the wall and took down 
 the tresses, and ran them through his fingers. He 
 stood posed before me, running the tresses through 
 his fingers. Slowly, his face bent, his hooded eyes 
 half-lit, he passed them through his fingers and across 
 the back of his hand; and as he did so something 
 seemed to creep about that silent room and fill it 
 with damp echoes and wreathing shapes and the 
 slow bubbling of swamps. His mind unfolded it- 
 self before me in coils, and put things into my own 
 mind — monstrous solitudes ; faint vapours from mid- 
 night forests; the foot mark of the goat; the dim 
 
IN THE STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 255 
 
 throb of drums; acid odours. . . . He took down 
 others and hung them over his arm, and gave them 
 his venomous caresses. He chuckled. Thin-faced, 
 thin-lipped, lanky and blink-eyed, he stood. His 
 dropping attitudes and slow gestures uttered the 
 unutterable. From time to time he ejaculated a tone- 
 less, abrupt laugh, as he spoke of his captures, and 
 he had a trick of writhing in his clothes. . . . Now 
 and then he gibbered. 
 
 As he emptied the bottle his ecstasy grew. He 
 gave away his darkest thoughts. He spoke, with a 
 nudge of "other things" that he had got. He nodded 
 and chuckled. Things that. . . . He was on his 
 knees, rummaging at something, when I heard a 
 knocker-up go down the street. . .. ,. 
 
—x— 
 
 IN THE STREET OF BEAUTIFUL 
 CHILDREN 
 
 I WAS ever of opinion that the children of the 
 East End are more beautiful and more buo7- 
 ant than the children of Kensington Gardens, and I 
 think any artist who knows his London streets will 
 agree with me. East of the Pump he will find child- 
 beauty in large clusters, in streetfuls and lanefuls, 
 but the West, even In holiday-time, will yield him 
 little. I have before me an exquisite volume of 
 camera-studies of the child — street-children, high- 
 school children, children of the rich and children 
 of Lord This or the Hon. Mrs. That; and easily 
 the children of the poor outshine the others. How 
 set and lifeless are our young lords and honourables. 
 Finely featured they are and of elegant carriage, 
 but repressed, lustreless; all zest refined out of them; 
 consciously sitting for their portraits. They have 
 that dull distinction that goes with fitness and breed- 
 ing. One appreciates, but does not admire. They 
 are products of intensive culture, like pedigree pup- 
 pies. They have the air of the colts of thorough- 
 breds, sleek and sound. But beauty Is wanting. 
 For beauty cannot be bred; it happens, and visits 
 seldom by invitation. 
 
 256 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 257 
 
 But turn the page, and there — how full of urge 
 and animation and character are the studies in the 
 playground, the parks and the streets. Dear, 
 rumpled, knockabout children, impudently posed in 
 the abandon of childhood or caught secretly in tense 
 moments of application. Here are the proud, the 
 shy, the sweet, the petulant; here are faces of cherubs 
 and homely kissable faces; radiant limbs and won- 
 derful curl-laden heads. Here are big lustrous eyes 
 and sparkling eyes, and pensive eyes, and bright 
 round expressive mouths, and quiet eyes of fun; 
 and little girlhood in all its wonder and grace. The 
 little girl of the street is an elusive creature; not 
 quite a child and not an immature woman. She is 
 more than child and less than child. The boy we 
 know. He is a man-child, blunt and obvious. But 
 there are no terms that hold the little girl — that 
 bundle of tossing frocks and streaming hair and 
 candid eyes, and the strange grave beauty that has 
 bemused grown men — Schubert, Swift, even Ruskin. 
 
 In this book, this beauty is joyously gathered. 
 The collector has given us a gallery of grace. He 
 shows us children of all ages at work, at play, in the 
 home, in the gutter, and asleep; good children and 
 naughty children, laughing children and crying chil- 
 dren. The spirit of Spring irradiates every page. 
 There are little bare legs, and sweet-curved stock- 
 inged legs, flower-like limbs and fat dimpled limbs. 
 There are faces carrying in such profusion that 
 
258 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 quality that we call charm that even the camera 
 plate and the page it fills is suffused with it. It shines 
 from the book straight into you. There are torn 
 trousers and lace frocks, rags and tatters and Sun- 
 day Best. It is a golden treasury of childhood, and 
 my favourites are the beautiful figures of the chil- 
 dren in the poor streets. 
 
 Often I have wandered in those streets, and won- 
 dered whether Shoreditch or Poplar, Homerton or 
 Wapping held the palm for lovely children, whether 
 this or that Council School could outshine the others, 
 and whether the beauty was concentrated or scat- 
 tered impartially among all. Now I have made 
 my decision. I have found one street which, above 
 all others, is a street of beautiful children, packed 
 with grace of form and sweet feature. I found 
 it one morning, when, hard-up and at a loose end 
 for a job, I took on a round of rent-collecting in 
 Stepney. Coming to that street after that tour was 
 like coming upon a blessed green prospect after a 
 stony desert. 
 
 Rent-collecting is not a job that I would lightly 
 undertake again. It is only a degree or so more 
 pleasant than the job of bum-bailiff. It is at once 
 a mean and a delicate business. Few can perform 
 it efficiently, or would care to perform It. Even the 
 tact and urbanity and command of Lord Curzon 
 would be severely tested by its occasions. The good 
 rent-collector needs to be swiftly adaptable. He 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 259 
 
 must adjust his manner to the peculiar temper of 
 each household. He must be harsh here, affable 
 there, man-to-man-like in this street, sympathetic in 
 that, and unbending in t'other. He must handle his 
 clients with an easy hand, and must know just where 
 pressure should be applied and where relaxed. He 
 should have sympathy for their difficulties and a 
 knowledge of all their tricks. . . . He should know 
 whether it is all right to let Mrs. A. carry over yet 
 another week, and whether Mrs. B. shall be sternly 
 admonished and threatened with immediate proce- 
 dure. 
 
 Apart from the difficulties of the job itself, its 
 circumstances are deeply disagreeable. A tour of 
 the back-streets of Stepney on a wet Monday morn- 
 ing makes a cheerless start for the week, and calls 
 up all reserves of character and endurance. My 
 book took me through hidden streets of distress, 
 through dolorous alleys and dishevelled squares. Into 
 a world of rheumatism and the price of bread. I 
 went through East-field Street, Duckett Street, Ocean 
 Street, Dupont Street, and White Horse Lane. It 
 was a round of uncomely sights and staggering 
 smells; broken hovels, bare floors, and hilarious 
 people. 
 
 A torrent of rain had fallen the night before, and 
 every house I visited delivered Its chorus of indig- 
 nant complaint; and then broke into long dry laugh- 
 ter. "Can't 'elp seeing the funny side o' things, 
 
260 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 y'know." In some cases, the husband had stayed 
 away from work to have a go at the rent-man. And 
 I couldn't blame him. Ceilings had given way; beds 
 were damp; bedrooms were dripping with water; 
 basements were flooded; and In them stood queru- 
 lous people, angry for their rights, yet only plead- 
 ing for them; conscious of wrongs, yet fearing to 
 speak out. Instead of setting fire to the whole 
 damned street. Everywhere I heard the same cry 
 — "When re they going to do something? I've told 
 'em about It till I'm sick of telling 'em. Just look at 
 it." I learnt that day the farce of the Rent Act 
 and the operations of the Health Ministry. The 
 Rent Act is a fine friend to the slum landlord. If 
 the rent is In arrears — and It usually Is — he is under 
 no compulsion to make repairs. While the house is 
 in this state, he cannot raise the rent; but then he 
 is already doing very well at present rates, and to 
 raise them would probably mean that there would be 
 no tenants for them. So he lets the house go on as 
 it is, knowing, cunning brute, that the husband, be- 
 ing a man of his hands, will probably fix up some 
 makeshift repairs of his own. 
 
 I was told that the "Health People" had been 
 round once or twice, but I could hardly believe it. 
 Many of those houses, even to a casual, inexpert 
 view, would have been condemned by the R. S. P. C. 
 A. as stables. Water was coming in through pane- 
 less windows, under the doors, through window- 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 261 
 
 mouldings and elsewhere. Rats were abundant. 
 Clouds of flies buzzed in every room. Doors didn't 
 fasten. Fourteen shillings a week is the rent of these 
 holes. Some are even let "furnished" at nine shill- 
 ings a room. Furnished. A broken bed, a mattress, 
 blanket and pillow, a lame chair, a table and a wash- 
 stand. In each of the tiny rooms lived a family 
 of husband, wife and one or two children. I cannot 
 in a rapid phrase describe the condition of these 
 rooms. Only the crowded detail of a Hogarth pic- 
 ture could convey any idea of their confused deso- 
 lation. Tremendous battles, clearly, had been 
 fought to make them comfortable, but the result 
 was only a littered battle-field, an insane discomfort, 
 a disorderly rout of disorder. Hardly one of the 
 common conveniences of life was here. Everything 
 was futile counterfeit. Every drop of water must 
 be carried up from the tap over the sink downstairs. 
 Coal is bought by the pound. Table utensils must be 
 used in turn. "After you with the spoon, dad." 
 "Lend us the fork, mother." All families wash at 
 the common sink. Between the bed and the table Is 
 perhaps a space of six inches, and usually one of 
 the children has to have his meals on the bed. 
 
 From the top landing of a bare, eighteen-inch 
 staircase, three rooms opened from a space of about 
 one square yard. Crowding this space was a wire 
 cage, in which were two sitting hens. In one room 
 J saw a sick man, reclining half-naked on the bed and 
 
262 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 making dismal noises. In another, whose opposite 
 walls I could touch with extended arms, the hus- 
 band, black from work, was bolting his mid-day meal 
 of porridge and potatoes. In the other, three chil- 
 dren, home from school, were having dinner — ^bread- 
 and-margarinc and tea. Their young heads crowded 
 over the tiny table. They ate against time, letting 
 no crumb fall, saying no word, but gazing open-eyed 
 at the stranger, and sometimes missing their step 
 with the slice of bread and grazing their hanging 
 hair with it. Each room hummed with flies, and 
 struck hot to the face. It being Monday, the usual 
 "poor" smell of the house, which is acute and tense, 
 was over-ridden by the despondent smell of wash- 
 ing-day. 
 
 That house was the worst I saw, but many ran it 
 close; and I was amazed that the tenants could 
 restrain themselves to receive me with no more than 
 a grumble. 
 
 I had few defaulters, for in many of the streets 
 the families were just back from hopping. 'Opping 
 ain't what it useter be, as any one will tell you, but 
 the skilled worker can still make a good thing out of 
 it; and these streets were flush. It is only a side-line 
 with them; a sort of working-holiday. The staple 
 industry is fish-curing, which is carried on in the 
 backyards of every other house. 
 
 My entry into each street set it moving, and as I 
 knocked at the first door other women came hurry- 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 26^ 
 
 ing to their doors with their greasy books and their 
 fishy money and their arms covered with scales, and 
 stood awaiting me. Most of the doors in these 
 streets are left open, and through them you step 
 straight into the front parlour. Where there are 
 babies the doorways are wedged with a protecting 
 board, about two feet high, and over the top of 
 each board peers master baby. This is a common 
 custom of poor streets. It enables baby to amuse 
 himself with the sight of the street and to take the 
 "fresh" air, while mother can get on comfortably 
 with the washing or the fish-curing, knowing that 
 he cannot adventure into the perilous gutter. 
 
 At every door, after the grumble, I had a few 
 civil words from father or mother. 
 
 "I think you ought to know about 'er at number 
 twenty. I've told your people about 'er before. She 
 ain't respectable, y'know. Four different men she' 
 'ad in last week. Friends of 'er 'usbands, she says. 
 But we ain't seen no 'usband. Married at the bed- 
 rail, if you ask me. Not that I'm one to make mis- 
 chief. Gawd knows, but that sorter thing makes a 
 street so low." 
 
 Among the old couples there were no defaulters at 
 all. How they live on their old-age pensions, and 
 pay fourteen shillings a week, even with the help 
 of a young-man-lodger, I cannot guess. It's their 
 secret, and somehow they do it. Their homes, being 
 free of children, were better kept than the others, 
 
264 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 and better furnished — even over-furnished — with 
 the slow collections of years. Spotlessly clean most 
 of them were, so that they looked like a freshly- 
 bathed youth in tramp's rags; clean and cosy, If 
 you can accept the thick smell that must go with cosi- 
 ness in these parts. (After all, what's the use of 
 opening your windows when your stale air Is only 
 replaced by the stinks of the street? Better to put 
 up with the close food-and-bed smell.) Every par- 
 lour was crowded with ornaments; hundreds, I 
 would say. Mantelshelves were loaded with poor 
 bric-a-brac. Sideboards were cluttered with souve- 
 nirs of past seaside holidays. Where there was a 
 piano, that, too, was loaded with faded photographs. 
 Every wall was covered with pictures of some sort*, 
 if only magazine covers or pictures cut from the 
 illustrated papers ; and forlorn relics of forgotten 
 Christmases filled the dim cells of kitchens with dis- 
 cordant rumours of revelry and frolic. I found 
 something at once saddening and stimulating in 
 these doughty efforts at beauty and embellishment; 
 something of gallantry and gaiety; something fine 
 and resolute that Is native to the poor; and, cheer- 
 less and bothered as I then was, I finished my round 
 with easy step. My spirit was renewed. 
 
 And when, turning from- these houses of the old, 
 and their struggle for grace, I came suddenly Into 
 the street of youth and bountiful beauty, all my de- 
 pression vanished, and my heart leapt up. There be- 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 265 
 
 fore me stretched the Street of Beautiful Children, 
 and at sight of this common little street of Stepney 
 locked inside other streets, but crowded with the 
 most beautiful children I have seen in any part of 
 London, I forgot my troubles. I will not name it, 
 but if you make a journey through Stepney at mid- 
 day or evening, when the children are out of school, 
 and look down each by-way of White Horse Lane, 
 you will quickly discover The Street of Beautiful 
 Children. You will not find there the radiant, as- 
 sertive beauty of the well-fed, well-clothed children 
 of Mayfair and Kensington, but rather a pathetic, 
 wistful, evocative beauty — deep-set and wholly un- 
 conscious of Itself. Fastidious people might stand a 
 little aloof from this beauty, denying It because of 
 the dirt and street assollment that so often overlies 
 It. But it Is there — a loveliness that shines under the 
 dirt like a Toledo blade under its rust, and, in Its 
 gross setting, touches the heart with melancholy. 
 
 This beauty is not bred and nurtured In the home. 
 Almost every hour of the children's lives, except 
 those spent in school and bed, is spent In the dun 
 streets. They take their breakfast to the streets, 
 and their teas; and those for whom mother has not 
 been able to contrive a "sit-down" mid-day meaU 
 take their dinners there. 
 
 It is an unlovely street, of blunt outlines, as straight 
 
 and bare as a sword. The road Is asphalt, and the 
 
 Jjouses are brick cubes, without garnish or decorative 
 
266 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 detail. Its colour is that of French mustard. Its 
 very respectability increases its misery. It is not 
 even broken by raggedness, by torn curtains or bat- 
 tered roofs, or the last despairing flourishes of 
 decay. At early morning or late night it is as 
 bald and blank as a corridor in a military bar- 
 racks. 
 
 But at the mid-hour of the day and at evening, 
 the children make it a true Hans Andersen street, a 
 street of frolic movement and effervescent gesture. 
 In no other street in London will you find such a 
 wealth of young physical joy. Out of the wretched 
 doors leaps urgent beauty. From upper windows 
 wonderful heads smile down upon you, and — if your 
 appearance is peculiar from the local type — these 
 heads cry shrill and petulant remarks. Dark-haired, 
 pale little girls, of the rich, sad pallor that belongs to 
 the East, stand at doorways and look and look into 
 nothing; exquisite statuettes of ebony and alabaster. 
 Bare-legged and bare-footed girls dart across the 
 street, the random breeze taking their frocks, the 
 thin sunlight flashing into profile their sharp outlines. 
 Thick-curled little boys squabble and struggle under 
 the low parlour windows, crying to mother for news 
 of dinner. The narrow roadway twinkles with legs 
 and flashes with the bright hair and coloured and 
 discoloured frocks of little girls running mid-day 
 "arrants" for mother. The forgotten game of 
 diabolo is still popular here, and its urgent attitudes 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 267 
 
 gladden the street with swift figures in the felicit- 
 ous poise between movement and rest. 
 
 Such an accumulation of beauty at once delights 
 and saddens. But for their voices and manners you 
 would say they were dream-children; and any child- 
 less person, looking down this street would, I think, 
 wish to seize one of these fragments of childhood 
 and adopt it, and soften the voices and manners into 
 harmony with the faces. For it is pitiful to think 
 that time and toil, stress and hunger, soon will steal 
 their beauty from them, and that the glory and 
 loveliness will pass away. 
 
 One would like to hold it for ever, to cherish this 
 young grace and preserve it from the brute contacts 
 of its alleys. One would like to take each child 
 from that street, and from the weary way into which 
 it will lead them when they are older; but that would 
 be wrong unless you took the parents too. For 
 what would mother do if Lucy or Johnny were taken 
 from her? The Street of Beautiful Children is also 
 a street of happy people; children and parents de- 
 lighting in each other; the parents struggling for the 
 best that circumstances afford for their darlings, and 
 the children glad of what they get. It is the en- 
 vironment that should be altered. It is the cramped 
 spaces of the home that so quickly kill all beauty 
 of heart and face. In such surroundings the struggle 
 to preserve the decencies is hopeless; and soon vital- 
 ity is lowered and self-respect corroded, and beauty 
 
268 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 fades. That is why I want to take the children away 
 — not from their famihes, to which they are orna- 
 ment and dehght; not even from Stepney; but from 
 the wretched rabbit-hutches of Stepney. And those 
 children in whose homes the best is not made of 
 things, who have careless mothers and dispirited 
 fathers, or wicked and cruel, those I would like to 
 carry away to a home where their hearts should 
 know the little precious things that help hearts to 
 grow in beauty. Not into a "Home" — oh, mocking 
 word ! — and its cold squalors and brutalising sys- 
 tem, but into an ordinary happy household. God 
 forbid that I should be a party to sending any child 
 from the light-limbed freedom of this street, which 
 to their rich minds is a wonderland, into the hygienic 
 horrors of a Home. I know too much about them. 
 Failing a true home, they are better where they arc. 
 
 The daily pageant of the city streets is hourly 
 broken by many an ugly incident, flashes of distress, 
 and shocks to civic pride; but the very ugliest spec- 
 tacle of the pageant is one that evokes remarks, if 
 any, of complacent approval; I mean a procession 
 of children from a Home or Charity School. At the 
 first sight of the little regiment, and the first sound 
 of the tramping feet, the faces of the onlookers 
 smirk benignly. The poor orphans ! What a touch- 
 ing sight ! What a splendid thing these Homes are 
 for the children! 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 269 
 
 And yet. . . . Childhood implies freshness, starry- 
 lustre, and blithe movement — all the little gracious 
 flakes of another life which soon are shed by the 
 world's increasing contact. The street of beautiful 
 ragged children has its share of these things, and 
 the urchins move with the wild grace of the young 
 colt. The well-nurtured and carefully-tended child 
 of Kensington Gardens has them, too, in less ample 
 degree. But these other unfortunates — what the 
 public can perceive in their situation to "touch" or 
 gratify, I do not know. They are a procession of 
 cowed captives. Their movements are heavy; of 
 delight they know little, and their early freshness 
 Is already tarnished. They are socially branded; 
 the Charity Children. They are so many parading 
 grotesques, advertising the altruism of their protec- 
 tors. Study their faces, and you will see that, al- 
 though chubby, they are blank and witless. The 
 eyes are clear, but without zest; the lips unused to 
 laughter. The features are heavy with thick 
 food and enforced hebetude. They march like pris- 
 oners, and you may see that they look upon the 
 people and the other children In the streets with be- 
 wilderment, as creatures from another world, which 
 they are; and they would, like long-term prisoners, 
 be disconcerted If suddenly released Into that large, 
 bright, moving world of freedom and Independence. 
 They know nothing of It, and. If ungulded, they 
 move with faces like baffled sheep. 
 
270 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 "As cold as charity" is a common figure of speech 
 among the poor, who are best qualified to employ it; 
 and very apt it is. 
 
 Pity the children of the poor! 
 
 Not for the hardships of the situation into which 
 they were born, but for their sufferings at the hands 
 of the philanthropist, who rescues them from the 
 roaming plain of poverty, and carries them into bar- 
 racks. I have had bitter familiarity with these 
 Homes for Orphans, contumeliously named Ragged 
 Schools, Waifs and Strays, Industrial Schools, Pau- 
 per Schools, Working Schools, etc., and I do not 
 suffer any glow of complacence when I see children 
 dragged from The Street of Beautiful Children and 
 carried into them. I know the exacerbation of dis- 
 tress which they will suffer from their hideous garb 
 and rule-of-thumb routine, and their futile agony 
 against the callous machinery of philanthropy which 
 will blindly bruise them; and I write again as a child 
 from personal memories. I know that these Homes 
 mean to children what the immediate prospect of 
 prison means to the normal respectable man. At first 
 the child is horrified and cannot make himself be- 
 lieve that these gaunt people can mean to hold him 
 within their grip for a term of years which is eter- 
 nity to him. He is stunned, then hotly rebellious. 
 But quickly he is given "special attentions," and soon 
 he is without capacity for anger, incapable of inde- 
 pendent thought, submissive; too apathetic even to 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 271 
 
 think of running away from his captors. He be- 
 comes a part of the Home — a mere organism. For 
 these places are not without means of coercing the 
 recalcitrant. 
 
 Look upon the beautiful free faces and dense 
 tresses of the children of this Stepney Street and 
 then look at the cold-dumpling faces of Charity 
 children, shorn and shaved and ludicrous. They 
 are not children — they are little old men and women, 
 goblins of the underworld. The children of the 
 poor are, I suppose, fair game for any experimenting 
 philanthropist. Systems have to be tried sonlewhere, 
 and it is better to try them upon those who have no 
 influential parents or friends to raise misleading out- 
 cries in the press. So long as the public sees official 
 statistics and the spectacle of physically healthy 
 and well-clothed children, it is comfortably sure that 
 Good Work Is being done; and it goes home to 
 dinner, without enquiring further. 
 
 It does not know — or care — that most of these 
 Homes are a hundred years behind the age. They 
 are conducted still on the principles of nineteenth 
 century charity. The children are well-fed, and 
 tended (no doubt of that) for they are being trained 
 for Work, as useful citizens; they are as valuable 
 as horses. But their bodies are clothed In the clothes 
 of contumely, their souls are starved, and their minds 
 are fed with false doctrines of conduct, and bent 
 and twisted to the System's will. Their proprietors 
 
272 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 (I think the term is justified) claim that they have 
 snatched them from evil surroundings and conditions 
 of neglect and ill-treatment, and have given them a 
 Good Home, where comfort and sound training are 
 lavished upon them in good measure. The term 
 should be "Good Stabling," for all that the children 
 get are what the sensible farmer gives his cattle 
 — shelter, food, exercise, and hygiene. Only the 
 farmer is honest about it. He does not mis-call it 
 Charity, Philanthropy, or Kindness to the Weak; 
 he gives it Its true name, Good Business. 
 
 You have only to look at the children to see that 
 they are utterly uncared-for, in the true sense. You 
 can see that they never know caresses, or sweet 
 foolish words, or the hearty cuff and personal ad- 
 monishment of a parent. In the Homes they are 
 a Herd, and the treatment is impersonal. They 
 are what the directors brazenly call them — "assets" 
 of the nation, "material" for the services. But, if 
 I know children, they would much rather suffer the 
 rough treatment of an alcoholic father or a neglect- 
 ful mother than the cold, studied "care" and cold, 
 ceremonial punishments, of the Home. Personal 
 Injustice Is more easily endured than impersonal 
 justice. The most dishevelled hovel, the most care- 
 less and kickful parents, are points of personal con- 
 tact, of Intimacy. They carry a rough, rude cheer; 
 and even if life In the hovel is explosive and Inde- 
 cent the child develops himself more rightly there 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 273 
 
 than among the cold walls and hard floors and rigid 
 rules of Charity. He learns independence. He leads 
 a life of stimulating hazard and adventure, ever alert 
 for the moment's occasions and the rich turns of the 
 new day, and delighting in it. For the poor, in all 
 their rude aspects, are picturesque and personal, 
 while the rich are never picturesque; only rich. I 
 wonder, does the reason for the savage suppression 
 of the colour and movement of the poor lie there? 
 Is this why the rich, unable themselves to achieve 
 colour, are so rigorous in "putting it down," in seiz- 
 ing the young poor and re-forming them to a pat- 
 tern, dull and flat, like themselves? 
 
 Whatever the reason, that is what they do. When 
 the Charity, supported by the rich, gets the street- 
 child, its first action is to dope him to insensibility 
 by drill. Then it holds him fenced from life, and 
 sucks him dry of spirit and wits and enterprise. Ini- 
 tiative is taken from him, and so long as he is "good" 
 (that is, dull and automatic) his three fat meals 
 a day will be laid for him. The Home, while giving 
 him food, clothing, education, organised games, 
 moral training and a sort of aloof kindness — every- 
 thing to fit him effectually for service — robs him 
 of his most precious possession — individual charac- 
 ter. It claims to "mould" his character, and the 
 word is apt. He is "moulded" — to something very 
 mean and low. He is forced to move with the herd, 
 and, if to think at all, to think only with the herd. 
 
274} THE LONDON SPY 
 
 He Is trained not to develop himself to his highest 
 pitch for the betterment of the world and the enjoy- 
 ment of its pleasant things; not to let his faculties 
 and fancies find themselves, but to get into harness 
 and become an asset of the nation; to serve, not to 
 participate. 
 
 The spirit of the herd — they call it teamwork — 
 is a vicious spirit. You find it in charity schools and 
 in Armies, and you find it directing those deadening 
 organisations, Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. The 
 spirit of these organisations Is a negation of the 
 soul. It calls for the most vile and debasing of sur- 
 renders — not material surrender to an Invincible 
 enemy, but moral surrender to weak friends; sur- 
 render of character to the team. Less base is the 
 woman who surrenders her virtue than the youth 
 or man who yields or lowers his character and 
 abilities to the mean of his fellows. And Boy Scouts 
 and Girl Guides are trained for that very end — to 
 give up all the beauty, character, power and unique 
 quality that is their dower for the benefit of the 
 fools, that they may not o'er-top their directors. 
 Never yet did a great man make one of a team. 
 He may have led a team, but always he was him- 
 self, moving along his own lines, never sinking him- 
 self to the level of the laggards; and if the crowd 
 called him to order they called in vain. No charac- 
 ter of worth can ever efface itself, or if it does, it 
 commits the unspeakable sin. That sin, soldiers, 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 275 
 
 Boy Scouts and Girl Guides are trained daily to 
 commit — to deny their own souls for the sake of the 
 crowd. You see it in Parliament, in the Army, in 
 Trades Unions, in the athletic field, in the public 
 school, and specially in the Charity Refuge. There 
 is one great law in this country well supported by 
 the established caste: you must not he distinguished. 
 It was made by and for the dull majority to keep 
 the brighter minds — the men who know — down to 
 their own low level; but happily, as you know, it 
 seldom succeeds. Pegasus can never be harnessed 
 effectively to the plough. But in the Home all the 
 most modern machinery is employed to break the 
 brilliant down to the team. 
 
 When you have seen the Homes, you can almost 
 visualise the business men and cold women who di- 
 rect them. You will note about them a certain 
 greasy complacence — the mark of those who are 
 Doing Good; defending the children of the poor. 
 From what it Is that they are defending them, I do 
 not know, unless It Is from all beauty, Interest, joy, 
 and self-expression. These things, I am sure, they 
 would never consider as the birthright of the chil- 
 dren of the poor, and would be surprised and amused 
 If you asked them why they could not conduct their 
 schools on a curriculum similar to that enjoyed by 
 their own sons and daughters. They are self-as- 
 sured that they are doing the Best for the Children. 
 The children could present them with a different 
 
276 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 view, but they never talk to the children on the level, 
 as man to man. Your philanthropist does not see 
 the children of the poor as God sees them, but as 
 objects for his own loving-kindness, to be patted 
 on the head like good dogs. He carries Into detailed 
 practice the harsh precepts of the Church Catechism, 
 that monument of class-distinction, which might 
 have been made by a twelfth-century lord for his 
 serfs. He extinguishes all the high lights of char- 
 acter. He strips them of their self-respect and hides 
 their incipient grace under clothes as brutalising and 
 degrading as convict garb; and shows them off, at 
 feeding-times, to charitable sight-seers, as a well- 
 trained troupe. 
 
 I am not suggesting that there is any deliberate 
 unklndness In his method; but there is a frugality 
 of kindness that is perhaps worse. He does not, 
 or will not understand that the children of the poor 
 are creatures of light and ardour, as well as bodily 
 appetite. He confines the beautiful fluidity of child- 
 life within his own rigid lines, and distorts it to his 
 own ends. The little feet that should have wings 
 are bound down by big boots, and the flying limbs 
 are curbed. His system is a degradation of child- 
 hood, a denial of beauty, a mean patronage of the 
 helpless. He even permits doctors to make experi- 
 ments upon the children's bodies. This I know : but 
 I have never heard even a rumour that Eton boys 
 are subject to inoculation experiments. To all 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 277 
 
 critics he replies, in the large manner, "Pooh, Senti- 
 mental nonsense !" I am no sentimentalist, and 
 would rather see the children left to fight and frolic 
 and go hungry in the Street of Beautiful Children 
 than see them broken-in like horses in hygienic 
 Homes. The rags of the street-boy are clothes, and 
 they dress him fitly, and belong to him. They are 
 often his own creation, and he is happy in them, and 
 his movements are free and full, as they should be. 
 The uniform of the charity child is not dress, but 
 harness; they are animals, patient under the yoke. 
 In these places they are cut off from the world 
 and from all appeal, and in many Homes the chil- 
 dren are not let out until they have completed their 
 training, which means that they live for eight or nine 
 years, under a system formulated and calculated to 
 nip and kill any shoot of original feeling, to thwart 
 any groping for self-expression; and departures 
 from the strait-waistcoat rule are punished with gross 
 and obscene punishments. They rise at a bell, march 
 to dining-hall to a bell, sing grace to a bell, sit to a 
 bell, begin eating or stop eating to a bell, march into 
 class, into chapel, to a bell, form up for drill to a 
 bell, play on the signal of a bell, and go to bed to a 
 bell. Every moment of their daily life is planned. 
 Leisure is forbidden. If they are not working, they 
 must play organised games, and play hard; and if 
 the directors could control the soul's wanderings 
 during sleep, they would do so. 
 
278 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 If these Institutions are really the Good Homes 
 they claim to be, why are so many desperate attempts 
 made by the older boys at escape? I never knew 
 any child in a charity school who had not, day and 
 night, a deep-set longing to get away from it. In- 
 deed, I have known boys who nightly, with simple 
 faith, prayed to God that the school should be burnt 
 down. And I always rejoice when I hear of escapes 
 from Homes and Reformatories. 
 
 There is a boy who remembers too clearly those 
 monstrous moments when he first witnessed an or- 
 phanage flogging. He will always remember them. 
 Two boys had attempted to run away. Miserably 
 for them, they failed, and were caught after one 
 day out and dragged back. For a week they were 
 kept isolated. Then, one chill morning at eight 
 o'clock, an order came for the whole school to 
 form up In the big schoolroom. They were marched 
 in and kept at "attention" for some minutes. Then, 
 on the dais, appeared a director of the school, the 
 head-master, the bailiff, carrying a frightful thing 
 under his arm, and the two culprits, their faces 
 grey. The head-master spoke : rehearsed the facts 
 of their crime, and announced their punishment — six 
 strokes of the birch. A ripple ran through the as- 
 sembled school — a shock. 
 
 "Silence !" The boy who was witnessing this 
 horror for the first time felt sick. He could not 
 believe that these men were going to do this thing 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 279 
 
 to these children. The men on the platform held 
 themselves casually. The thick-lipped City stock- 
 broker, who subscribed his £500 each year towards 
 the Good Work, which entitled him to be present 
 on these occasions, had his hand in his pocket. The 
 bailiff wasn't interested; he stood twiddling the in- 
 strument which he carried. 
 
 It was a dim, curdled morning of January, and 
 over that bleak hall hovered something dark and 
 gloating. An order was given. The sick boys, with 
 the rigid movement of sleep-walkers, obeyed, and 
 stood before their comrades in abasement. One 
 was called forward. He shuffled to the spot Indi- 
 cated. The thick lips dropped another order. ... 
 The boy crouched in a posture that annihilated all 
 decency, honour, and boyhood. The headmaster 
 took the thing from the bailiff, posed himself, lifted 
 his arm. . . . 
 
 The school shuddered and gasped with the hiss of 
 the instrument and the scream of the victim. He 
 writhed round the platform, and his screams cut the 
 thick morning air, and cut and shamed the other 
 boys. The new boy was class-mates with this lad, 
 and knew him as a bright, eager boy, merry, clean- 
 minded, serious, and proud. And here he was, 
 twisted by his masters into obscene and ludicrous 
 shapes. The boys hung their heads and wouldn't 
 look. An order was barked — "Heads up !" Then 
 to the boys : "Over again !" 
 
280 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 The second stroke fell. The boy staggered be- 
 fore he screamed; then screamed In long walls. 
 "Down you go !" A boy in the crowd fainted, and 
 was carried out. From behind him the new boy 
 heard a snigger. He turned, and found that it 
 came from a group of teachers. . . . The hall grew 
 dim, a little circle of waving instrument and a leap- 
 ing figure, shot through with screams; and, at the 
 back of the platform, the second culprit, awaiting his 
 torture with the eyes of a dead fish and a paper 
 face. ... At the fourth stroke the boy, screaming 
 for mercy, turned from one to the other on the plat- 
 form — a mass of disordered clothes. He tried to 
 run, but his trousers at his feet were effectual man- 
 acles. He achieved only a grotesque shamble, be- 
 fore the bailiff seized him. This time he was held 
 over by the bailiff. Dazed with pain, he called upon 
 his mother. He shouted upon God. He began 
 to babble, "Our Father which art in heaven. . . .'* 
 But there was no answer. ... 
 
 Bad as the ordinary orphanage or charity school 
 Is, from the child's point of view, the reformatories 
 are a thousand times worse, being appointed with 
 torments specially devised to shock the young delin- 
 quent Into virtue. They exist for the purpose of re- 
 claiming "bad" children and restoring to them their 
 self-respect. Actually, they are factories for the pro- 
 duction of determined criminals, shorn of every 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 281 
 
 shred of self-love or self-respect. They are run 
 on methods of malevolence; they manufacture hate. 
 Let a boy be sent to one of these places, for of- 
 fences which, in a student or undergraduate, are 
 expiated by apologies and money-payments, and he 
 Is a skulking criminal for life. He is corrupted by 
 his fellows and maltreated in the name of the State; 
 tortured by Rules and Regulations and Drills, as 
 the Inquisition tortured in the name of the True 
 Faith. Glimpses of life in these places have lately 
 been vouchsafed to the public through coroners' in- 
 quests; but what drawn-out agony it is that tan drive 
 a high-spirited youth of seventeen to murder or sui- 
 cide God and the officials only know; for they are 
 caged, these children, without communication with 
 the world. Visiting justices? Travelling Inspec- 
 tors? Yes, but are they wholly disinterested? And 
 do they bring to the boys the sympathy they give 
 to their own class? 
 
 And the girls' reformatories, if not so harsh in 
 degree, are equally harsh In practice. The system 
 is the same. The breaking in and bruising are the 
 same. The forms of punishment are equally ob- 
 scene, and they degrade young girls in soul and self- 
 respect as quickly as — though in a different way — 
 the system of the brothel. The only difference Is 
 that the reformatory permits — and compels — them 
 to keep their physical chastity. For the rest, these 
 Houses of Correction break them on the wheel of 
 
282 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 obedience as effectually as the house, of ill-fame ; and 
 after a few years of their oppression, no girl leaves 
 their gates but as an enemy of society. 
 
 You are not supposed to hear the secrets of these 
 places — the long-drawn misery, the heart-ache, and 
 the self-mutilations arising from the misery. You 
 are told only just as much as is good for you; for, 
 if the truth were made plain, you might be moved to 
 interfere and stop the necessary and blessed work 
 of reformation. Much dirty work has to be done 
 in the public interest, and no doubt it is a wise rul- 
 ing that withholds the disturbing details. When 
 Charles Reade, in some of his novels, described the 
 procedure of prison-life and lunatic asylums, people 
 said, a little uncomfortably, "Overdrawn ! Exagger- 
 ated! Such things don't happen in this England of 
 ours!" And they would say the same if they were 
 permitted to know the blasting details of reforma- 
 tory procedure. One hates to shake self-compla- 
 cence; it is so amiable a vice; but those who are so 
 satisfied with this England of ours would do well to 
 make some investigation into the methods of author- 
 ity towards the helpless, and learn "how men their 
 brothers maim" and how women torture their young 
 sisters. 
 
 Charles Reade is read to-day only for his "story" 
 and "De Profundis" as a piece of literature. Few 
 people are concerned to know whether conditions are 
 so very much improved. In any case, it would be 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 283 
 
 made tremendously difficult for any private person, 
 however his conscience troubled him, to discover the 
 truth. He might procure admission to a school, but 
 he would see it working only as engines work when 
 the engineer starts them up for the amusement of the 
 curious. Only the children could tell him the truth, 
 but he would be permitted to speak only to chosen 
 children, and not then alone; and even If he reached 
 the others, they would be fearful of telling him 
 much of their hearts' misery, since they are always, 
 as a result of the system, bewildered by questions 
 and suspicious of the kindly stranger, when not in- 
 articulate. Many, too, are so blunted that they have 
 come to regard the system as no more demeaning 
 to themselves than a police-court fine to an adult. 
 You may study the Reports of these places — reports 
 as cold and Impersonal as the walls of the institu- 
 tions — but what do these Reports convey? "During 
 the month of March two girls attempted escape. 
 Both were recaptured and suitably punished." Just 
 that. "Punished." One reads the word, and passes 
 on, conceiving no picture of the child, half-paralysed 
 with terror, being dragged back to the Home; no 
 picture of the defilement of body and soul; the 
 screams of torment, the foul face of the flogger. It 
 Is not Intended that you should see these things. 
 Charity loves not the candid light of the sun. Char- 
 ity and rescue move mysteriously, with the padded 
 feet of midnight murder. 
 
284 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 If the publisher and the police and the National 
 Vigilance Society would permit me, I would give 
 you the true full horror of the business of punish- 
 ment, which I have merely sketched, and I think you 
 might then feel that the treatment of the delinquent 
 has not advanced far beyond the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, and that these Homes are not entirely the pleas- 
 ant sanatoria that the eye-winking inspectors find 
 them. But just conceive the spectacle of a half- 
 clothed girl of seventeen firmly held down by a 
 brawny attendant, while another coldly tortures her 
 under the watchful eye of the doctor, and the room 
 rings with vain cries on God and man for mercy. 
 What is the offence that merits this torture? Mur- 
 der, tyranny, secret poisoning, swindling the public, 
 high treason, cruelty to children, fraudulent com- 
 pany promoting, sending rotten ships to sea? No. 
 Running away from a Good Home. And for this 
 work of reclamation, you pay. 
 
 Only those, as I have said, who have been Inmates 
 of these places, — and who are left with the power 
 to remember — can tell anything; and few of them 
 are willing to do so. I have met many ex-reforma- 
 tory boys and girls, and all of them have in their 
 faces, in the depths of their eyes, that something that 
 time can never cure, that they can never live down 
 and never avenge. The world has done something 
 to them which lives with them and repeats Itself 
 in dreams and sub-conscious memory. They have 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 285 
 
 seen something of horror. They know too much and 
 too early of shame and despair. The child's individ- 
 uality is a precious possession, and the indignities 
 and obscenities which are heaped upon them in these 
 places in the name of Rescue and Reformation are 
 things which they can never forgive. 
 
 The girls have told me of the long sobbing nights 
 (sobbing is an offence), the aching hearts, the bit- 
 ing of the lips under the solitary punishment, when, 
 like maniacs, they were handcuffed and bound with- 
 in a body-belt; and such things, coming in the most 
 delicate and gracious years of child-life, leave an 
 enduring impression of horror and disgust which 
 colours every new experience of life. But with most 
 of them the memories are so searing and brutalising 
 that they cannot and will not talk of them, even to 
 intimate friends. That is where authority has the 
 pull; it not only torments, but silences the evi- 
 dence. 
 
 Here you may say: "Yes, this is all very well, 
 but what about it? Crime must be punished, or 
 none of us would be safe." I don't care what you 
 say — no offence against Society merits this torture. 
 And nine-tenths of these children are not criminals. 
 Reformatories are for poor children only; no under- 
 graduate or rich man's son or daughter is to be found 
 there. The undergraduate may destroy college 
 gates, and knock old men's eyes out, and break shop 
 windows, and hold up traffic, and assault policemen, 
 
286 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 but his offences are "rags," outbursts of "high-spir- 
 ited youth." The children who are in our reform- 
 atories are "in" for much milder offences than 
 these. The working-boy in Shoreditch, at a loose 
 end on Sunday, a day which makes no provision for 
 "high-spirited youth," kicks a football about the 
 streets, and is immediately taken to the station. If 
 it is his third offence, and his parents label him as 
 "beyond control," he is good for three or four years 
 of reformation in a Home, and all that that religious 
 word embroiders. 
 
 The 'Varsity ruffian may break into a struggling 
 tradesman's shop, smash his windows, destroy his 
 stock, and assault him, and he is fined. The street 
 boy knocks an apple off a stall and gets four years 
 of slavery. It's just the difference between being 
 a rich man's son and a poor man's son. The one 
 commits burglary, bringing perhaps, disaster on a 
 family; and it is called a lark. The other has a 
 lark which hurts nobody, and he is called a potential 
 criminal, and sent to Borstal and kept good by pun- 
 ishments which have driven many children to self 
 destruction. 
 
 But in any discussion of this matter the advocate 
 of violence has always won, and, I suppose, always 
 will win. The Sadists can always fling at the hu- 
 mane man the jeer of "flabby sentimentalist," and 
 under the cloak of Rough Manliness, and by eu- 
 phemising an obscenity in the cheery phrase, "a jolly 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 287 
 
 good hiding," can gratify their lust for flogging and 
 get sanction for their methods. "Our treatment 
 makes a man of the boy." What sort of man? 
 
 The foulness and shame of corporal punishment 
 are bad enough when it is practised on grown ruf- 
 fians, but that this outrage should be inflicted upon 
 the delicacy of elder childhood is a disgrace to the 
 laws of this country. The child's sense of modesty 
 is much stronger and keener than the adult's; and if 
 it be said that froward children must be punished, 
 and that disgrace is an effective punishment, I say 
 that the disgrace of whipping is not punishment; it 
 is an indecent assault; and every psychologist knows 
 why certain people plead for its retention. Indeed, 
 there exists in England to-day a body of people anx- 
 ious to promote corporal punishment of boys and 
 girls, and actually publishing leaflets teaching meth- 
 ods of child-torture. It calls itself a League, and 
 makes eloquent and lubricious appeal for the whip- 
 ping, nursery fashion, of disobedient sons and 
 daughters; especially it recommends it for daugh- 
 ters. One of their productions states that "whip- 
 ping, to be effective, should be a science." Then 
 follow elaborately minute directions, written with 
 obvious relish, which I will not offend you by tran- 
 scribing, how to go about this business; how to un- 
 dress the child, and how to use the hand, the slipper, 
 the strap or the cane, and a gloating insistence on 
 prolonging the ceremony "so that the child may feel 
 
288 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the disgrace the more" and on "the Increased feeling 
 of shame as the children grow older." 
 
 It Is precisely the language and style of the litera- 
 ture that Is produced by back-street publishers in 
 Paris and Brussels and Vienna. The police are quick 
 to seize these productions when they are mailed to 
 this country. Why the other vicious matter is al- 
 lowed to go through the post, I don't know. 
 
 But the greatest cruelty of all is the injustice of 
 the system, whereby the boy, as I have shown, who 
 indulges In a few "larks," Is dragged from home to 
 spend the best years of his youth behind walls and to 
 be crushed by a system. Figure yourself, charged 
 with having no rear-light on your car, sentenced, by 
 some monstrous misreading of the law, to two years' 
 hard labour, while similar offenders are fined twenty 
 shillings; put in convict dress, cut off from decent 
 intercourse, and, if, In your first bitterness, you dis- 
 obey, punished with demeaning punishments. In 
 that same spirit of bitterness against injustice, ninety 
 reformatory children out of the hundred live their 
 four or five years of incarceration. The other ten 
 are perhaps menaces to society, but society, Instead 
 of concerning Itself, individually, with the reclama- 
 tion, delegates the task to "committees," "bodies," 
 "institutions" and their staffs. A sight of the type 
 that composes the staffs should be sufficient to awaken 
 disgust without more Intimate detail. Hard-faced, 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 289 
 
 cold, pedagogic — that is the type; creatures that once 
 were men; lip-licking creatures capable of the most 
 nauseous kind of brutality — brutality under orders. 
 That Is the type under whom these children spend 
 their years of servitude; a pretty example for the 
 humanising and reshaping of the citizen-to-be. 
 
 Yet still the placid rich support these places with 
 money, and condemn poor people's boys and girls to 
 them, piously and with self-gratulation. I wonder 
 If they know what they are doing when they send a 
 young girl to a reformatory, or an intelligent boy to 
 a charity school ? I hope not. I sincerely hope not. 
 Still the governors and directors send out their 
 unctuous appeals and prospectuses, belauding their 
 own frigid zeal. Mr. Chadband and Mr. Grad- 
 grind have, happily, almost disappeared from public 
 life, but they are still secretly active behind the walls 
 of our charities. Mr. Barlow Is there, too, superin- 
 tending with his sleek admonishments, driving his 
 dusty platitudes through the green territory of youth, 
 and presiding with ponderous levity at Annual Festi- 
 vals. You may perceive their touch in the style of 
 the appeals. Here is one: 
 
 "The children form a delightful family party and every 
 possible amenity of family life is liberally bestowed upon 
 them. Nothing is left undone to make the Home a home 
 to which they will look back in years to come as the centre 
 of their lives. The girls are sensibly trained for domestic 
 service, an industry whose ranks have lately been sadly 
 
290 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 thinned by the deplorable spirit of the day; and the boys 
 are trained for manual crafts; and the whole aim of the 
 Home is to produce God-fearing and right-minded citizens." 
 
 Yet still they flourish. Still the money comes in 
 for restricting the sweet kingdom of childhood. Still 
 the ugly triumphs over the beautiful, the mean over 
 the noble; and still, quietly and deliberately, this 
 rude, sharp-faced phantom of charity and well-doing 
 parades mincingly and self-consciously with the 
 brotherly love of St. Paul and the knowledge and 
 love of God. 
 
 So, If charity be In you, and the means to help the 
 unhappy be at your hand, may I beg you to go to 
 some trouble In the matter? Does It not seem to 
 you that the signing of a cheque for an orphanage Is 
 but a cheap and scamping evasion of your responsi- 
 bilities, a passing-on of your liability? Even If your 
 money were being beautifully used for beautiful ends, 
 there Is little grace In your lazy gift. A flourish of 
 the pen Is little enough to do for a worthy cause, 
 and here, I maintain the cause Is sadly wanting In 
 beauty. Better to keep the money In your pocket 
 than lend aid to these affairs. Let me beg you to 
 take a little thought and trouble In distributing your 
 surplus, and, Instead of abetting, by your signature, 
 the continuance of the Home system, find for your- 
 self some child or person in need (there are many in 
 
IN STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 291 
 
 the Street of Beautiful Children), and succour that 
 need by direct action. Make that child's food, cloth- 
 ing, and education your personal affair. It means 
 trouble, I know; a lot of trouble, spread over some 
 period ; whereas the cheque relieves you immediately 
 of all thought or concern. You may plead press of 
 affairs; but much that I have written is written from 
 personal knowledge, and the saving of one child 
 from the squalors of a Home is no mean work. 
 
 Putting it on the lowest plane (of self-interest) 
 no child has a morsel of feeling for the Home or its 
 subscribers, once he is out of it (how should he 
 have?), but your one child would remember you 
 with gratitude for ever. 
 
—XI— 
 IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 
 
 AMONG the general public Bohemia seems to 
 be largely associated with third-rate artists 
 and their trollops; men with side-whiskers and girls 
 in "art" robes, whose motto Is "VestI la djibbah." 
 How this notion got about I don't know : Murger, I 
 suppose. But in all my experience I have met few 
 real poets, artists, or musicians who are Bohemians. 
 I have usually found them as precise and formal as 
 lawyers are supposed to be. 
 
 But there is a tractless Bohemia in London. It 
 has nothing to do with the fine arts. It is peopled 
 by the real wandering Bohemians; the common, hard- 
 up untalented Cockneys. Not at the supper-club or 
 the theatrical dance will you find the nonchalant 
 spirit of Bohemia. Bohemia Is simply the habit of 
 being oneself at all times and occasions; and you will 
 find more of that spirit in the Good Pull Up For 
 Carmen, even in the Athenseum, than you will In 
 these other places. In the professional Bohemia in- 
 dividuality has little play. At Art balls and revels, 
 at the Embassy Club and the Hambone Club, every- 
 body is alike, all must conform to the prevailing 
 mood and taste, and be gay or eccentric according to 
 the occasion. 
 
 292 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 293 
 
 Bohemia Is in the streets, not in cafes; in the 
 undistinguished clothes of work-a-day, not in 
 quaint or fancy apparel. Get into the streets, and 
 there you will meet it, and your wanderings about 
 sunny pavements or in the dappled dusk of alleys 
 will thread your every day with bright or mellow 
 hours of adventure or intercourse. Where the Cock- 
 ney is, there is Bohemia, and, so long as he exists, all 
 plans for "brightening" London are absurd redun- 
 dances. 
 
 The war has changed London but little, and the 
 Cockney hardly at all. There Is, perhaps^ some 
 spirit of restraint in the air, but It has not yet ex- 
 pressed itself materially. Everywhere there Is a 
 troubled fumbling after "reform" (whatever that 
 may be) ; a desire to make things "better," to put 
 down folly and to work for sweetness and light; 
 but so far this is manifest only in a purification of 
 certain of our main streets. Drink and the prosti- 
 tute have less latitude than of old. The promenades 
 of the two famous halls have been purged, and the 
 girls driven Into Leicester Square and harried out 
 ■of it by policewomen Into secret places. The Prov- 
 ence is gone; the Cafe de I'Europe Is gone, and the 
 Lounge is not itself. But what of that? Leicester 
 Square is still Leicester Square, London's happiest 
 open space, where one steps blithely. 
 
 As for the Cockney, nothing changes him. He is 
 the essential Bohemian. The spirit of folly danced 
 
294 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 when he was born, and the supper-club people can 
 achieve only a pale imitation of him and his graces. 
 He is as he was in Dekker's day — truculent, scepti- 
 cal, with large capacity for indignation and bright 
 strokes of raillery; but withal tolerant, touched with 
 saline humours, and able to see himself and laugh at 
 himself. That last, I think, is his most notable trait. 
 His sense of humour plays not only upon others but 
 upon himself. He cannot take himself seriously. 
 He leaves solemnity to the acquisitive Northerner. 
 If those others like to sweat and strive, let 'em. He 
 prefers to taste life as it comes, and getting on is the 
 last thing that bothers him. The qualities that make 
 for success are the very qualities that most arouse 
 his laughter — solemnity, wagon-hitched-to-star, and 
 organised recreation. He does not begrudge this 
 success; he only finds it unamusing; and happily and 
 fitly he drops his banana-skin under the heels of 
 solemn soap-merchants and solemn artists. 
 
 The fashionable pleasures of London pass him 
 by. What does he want with pleasure, who has joy 
 within him? The pleasures of the town are never 
 made for him, but for the wealthy immigrants and 
 their young. Midnight suppers, art balls, dance 
 clubs and revels, exotic costume, the howl of the 
 negroid Pan and the bellow of Bacchus interest him 
 little; they are like side-shows at the White City, 
 vulgar "attractions" for those incapable of creating 
 their own entertainment. Artistic frivolity can never 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 295 
 
 take root In our soil. The very name of London is 
 a denial of the term. Our native coarse gusto is, as 
 it were, a free dialect, and none shall make a gram- 
 mar of it. How shall the elegant syllables of "fri- 
 volity" mate happily with the thunderous music of 
 "London?" They shall not. 
 
 London's delight comes in big and violent gusts 
 from the heart, and while I have my banana, the 
 sensation seekers may have their supper-clubs and 
 dances. Let those whose conception of a hot time 
 in the old town is to dance all night, get on with It. 
 Have you seen the Englishman, even the volatile 
 artist-Englishman, go through the motions of what 
 he calls dancing? It is a sober parade round a hot 
 room with a woman, to the sticky rhythms of a thin 
 band; a stiff, ungainly walk, as of school-children 
 at drill, performed with set face and idiotic eye. 
 Strange that the Englishman, who cannot and never 
 will dance, has one idea of winter entertainment — 
 dancing; that is, pottering about with a half-dressed 
 girl. If his reason for dancing lies in sex-attraction, 
 why doesn't he do it properly, with cymbals and fire, 
 and invocations, instead of with this tepid capering? 
 But the dance and the ball-room are incompatible. 
 Frenzy and grace cannot live with white ties. I 
 have more respect for the clerk who picks up a girl 
 on the sea-front and salutes Pan under the cliff, at 
 the cost of a box of chocolates, than I have for these 
 drawing-room trotters. 
 
296 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 Four hundred years ago, the common folk did 
 dance with frenzy and festal ecstasy, and knew what 
 they were doing; and the titles and sweet airs of 
 those old dances, and the pagan ritual that accom- 
 panied them, bring happy echoes to an ear surfeited 
 with the machine-made titles of modern dances : 
 "Reve d'Amour," "Whispering," "Heart to Heart," 
 "Shadows," "Saucy," "Provoking," "Powder Rag," 
 and that sort of thing. Meaningless titles these ; but 
 on sixteenth century country greens they did better. 
 Listen— "Green Stockings," "Ropely Village," "The 
 Red Shore," "Temple Bar," "Goose and Gridiron," 
 "Cushion Dance," "Parson's Green," "Windsor 
 Tarass," "Farlse's Fear," "Lie Down, Love," 
 "Cherry Breasts," "Sellenger's Round," "Packing- 
 ton's Pound," "Cuckolds all Arow," "Joan's Placket 
 is Undone," "Have at thy Coat," "Bobbing Joan," 
 "Granny's Delight," "Blowzy Bella," and "Rub Her 
 Down with Straw." These are coarse; the former 
 only vulgar. 
 
 There's a whole moral world between the two 
 qualities. The professional Bohemia is a finicky 
 and vulgar Bohemia; the Cockney's, coarse and 
 human. Coarseness is healthy and of the spirit; 
 vulgarity an empty creation without a soul. It is the 
 difference between Rabelais and the "London Mail"; 
 between Falstaff and "Fatty" Arbuckle; between the 
 restoration comedies and Mr. Cochran's select re- 
 vues; between Bartholomew Fair and the seaside 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 297 
 
 Kursaals; between the four-ale bar of a pub, and the 
 Cafe Royal; between London and Brighton. 
 
 Brighton prides itself on its Bohemian spirit, and 
 certainly it has the spirit of the vociferous Bohemia. 
 Its sea-front on Sundays is a microcosm of this vul- 
 garity; a galanty-show of racing men, the rough stuff 
 of the London stage, publicans, third-rate artists, 
 blazing kerbstone stockbrokers, motors, cigars, and 
 the sumptuous "Juliets of a night." All these things 
 are to be found, I know, in equal measure in London, 
 but London has better things to balance them, while 
 Brighton exists by and for these things. George 
 IV., most vulgar of many vulgar kings, "made" 
 Brightelmstone, and I am sure he would be delighted 
 with it to-day. The "fat Adonis of forty" would 
 find much congenial company, for the parade on 
 Sunday morning is a parade of Fatties and their kept 
 women. This parade is rehearsed on Saturdays, 
 when life on the Brighton road is made unbearable 
 for ordinary people by a whirlwind of limousines, 
 fatness. Corona Coronas, and patchouli. The shar- 
 rabang may be noisy, but spontaneous noise is not 
 always so vulgar as certain demonstrative attitudes 
 in a Rolls-Royce. All day the hills and vales of the 
 Brighton road re-echo wheezily: "Thank God for 
 the war !" I think I prefer a sharrabang chorus of 
 "Stop yerticklin', Jock!" 
 
 Brighton is the Holy City of the Cheap-Rich. 
 When the obscure merchant has made money, his 
 
298 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 first thought is an automobile; his second — a week- 
 end at Brighton. In the agreeable company of his 
 fellows and their "birds" at Brighton he learns to 
 talk of Women like a nasty-minded schoolboy; and, 
 by his conduct, he has made a week-end at Brighton 
 the subject of smutty music-hall jokes. This week- 
 end Is a study of plethora. It is an example of the 
 Cheap-Rich's notion of good living — Too Much of 
 Everything. 
 
 It is a strident display of over-dressing, over-eat- 
 ing, over-drinking, over-spending, over-indulgence. 
 Brighton beach in August Is no beautiful sight, but 
 it is the resort of those who have worked for their 
 little escape, who have denied themselves and saved 
 against this one bright-beaded fortnight of the year. 
 They have a right to let themselves go, and their 
 attitudes of negligence are not without charm. This 
 coarseness of the poor puts shame upon the vulgarity 
 of the rich, who destroy the beauty of the sea and 
 interrupt the virgin wind, and make Brighton ugly 
 with the ugliness of empty, unearned, material suc- 
 cess. 
 
 To the philosopher. It Is a more painful study than 
 Spltaliields or Hoxton or Cradley Heath, for joy 
 comes to these places; but at Brighton there Is only 
 pleasure; and there Is no sadder sight than that of 
 the wealthy fool trying to buy pleasure In life. For 
 him pleasure lives In glasses and on plates. In women 
 and motors. He must have always a car and a 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 299 
 
 group of "the boys," or a woman, and the crowded 
 precincts of big hotels and restaurants. He has a 
 certain greasy appreciation of the fat things of life, 
 but no zest in them. His appetite needs always the 
 flick of the aperitif *to urge It to its function. The 
 uneasiness of surfeit hangs about him. The high 
 revelries of Hampstead Heath and Epping Forest, 
 and the crash of cymbals in dark mountain heights, 
 carry some note of animal ecstasy, some cry of the 
 human feast; but this poor parched phantom of fri- 
 volity, this thin body, galvanised into a semblance of 
 movement, arouses only disgust. 
 
 He does not cultivate the senses; he Indulges them. 
 He is not a gourmet, but a glutton. He Is not an 
 amorist, but a buyer of skirts. The man of sense 
 and imagination can break the conventions quietly — 
 and often does — but the Brighton visitor does not 
 make Infidelity serious. He only makes It mean. 
 What his Imagination cannot do, Brighton does for 
 him. It shows him how to have what he calls "a 
 good time" without any expenditure of taste, judg- 
 ment, sense, or manners. He need only spend the 
 one thing he has — money. Brighton will do the 
 rest. 
 
 But the Cockney Bohemian makes his own joys; 
 he does not buy them. Put him where you will — In 
 a pub. In a ship, on the battlefield. In barracks. In a 
 railway smash. In a fog, In a desert, in the suburbs, 
 in church, In prison, In a mess — and there he will 
 
300 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 create Bohemia. At all times and places, and at all 
 ages, he is the born Bohemian; and though grey 
 hairs may ill become the fool and jester, your elder 
 Cockney continues to the last to laugh sardonically at 
 the world and at himself. There he stands, with his 
 feet on Bohemian soil, a creature of fire and salt, 
 grimacing disrespect at arid achievement, tickling 
 us with his humours, and inviting us, vehemently, to 
 share his stock of bananas. 
 
 He is to be found In many places, for he belongs 
 to no compact section. He Is in Islington and West- 
 minster, In Stepney and Jermyn Street, in Canning 
 Town and Hoxton and Camden Town, and If his ac- 
 cent and profanity are more harsh and fluent in. 
 Lavender Hill than in Piccadilly, the difference is 
 only of degree, for Bohemlanism is no matter of 
 forms and fashions, of art or music or Intellectual- 
 ism. It is a state of mind. You have it — or not. 
 Lord Leighton, who looked and dressed like a dig- 
 nitary of the Church, had it. Augustus John, who 
 looks and dresses like a comic-paper Bohemian, hasn't 
 a touch of It. Which proves that Bohemia has noth- 
 ing to do with art. So don't look for it in the stud- 
 ent-world or In the Intellectual cafes. The minds of 
 their people are far, far above the real Bohemian- 
 ism. Soho is as near as they get to it. And Soho 
 is done. 
 
 There was a time when it was a foreign quarter, 
 but to-day it is as much London as the Crystal 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 301 
 
 Palace or Olympla. It has no lurking nooks; no 
 inner circles. It was losing its character before the 
 war, and now it has wholly lost it, and is become a 
 mart. The film business hastened its destruction by 
 taking over large blocks of buildings, and buying out 
 little restaurants at fool-prices, and changing them 
 into blaring business offices and stores reeking of 
 Judea, chewing-gum and creosote. To-day Wardour 
 Street, once a street of amusing little cafes and 
 curio-shops is an avenue of film-offices. Instead of 
 the discreet curtained window and the dish of des- 
 sert, you pass swaggering windows filled with life- 
 size photographs of wide-mouthed mountebanks, 
 pert, look-at-me schoolgirls, and middle-aged ma- 
 trons trying to represent abandoned enchantresses. 
 As for the cafes that yet remain, they are, if possible, 
 even more commercial in spirit than the film-offices. 
 Once upon a time Greek Street, Frith Street, Dean 
 Street and Old Compton Street were happy to serve 
 the hard-up Journalist, the small-part actor and the 
 chorus girl. You could then ramble round its blithe 
 byways, and carefully choose your cafe and make 
 experiments. Every month or so a new place was 
 opened; sometimes to close down hurriedly, some- 
 times to rise, on the stepping-stone of Itself, to higher 
 things — to an elaborate menu and an untrustworthy 
 wine-list. Then, each cafe had its patron and pa- 
 trone. If you had dined there once, M'sieu' or 
 Madame, at the door, had a smile and a bow for 
 
302 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 you the second time, and the third time the waiter 
 remembered whether you took the fish or the ome- 
 lette. They were pleased to see you, and departed 
 you with graceful wishes "to the re-seeing." 
 
 Now, nobody wants you. You cannot wander 
 round and drift in a choice. The thing has become 
 regulated; a function; and tables are now booked. 
 Tables booked — in Soho ! The soldiers on leave dis- 
 covered Soho, and brought their women to it from 
 Mutton-in-the-Marsh; and business began to boom. 
 Every dining-hour became a rush-hour. Proprietors 
 and waiters had no words for new guests or old. 
 If there was no table for the old guest he must go 
 elsewhere. There was no arguing about it; no tact- 
 ful discussion. If you attempted enquiry you were 
 likely to be sworn at in Basque. They were busy, 
 and there was good money in the house; a lot they 
 cared about your regular patronage which had helped 
 them when they were beginning. It is this floating 
 but steady custom that has crushed the happy atmos- 
 phere of Soho. The patron no longer regards 
 his restaurant as a pleasant place, an achievement 
 capping his long days of waiterhood, where he may 
 sit and make friends with his customers, and con- 
 gratulate them and himself on his kitchen. It is a 
 business to be built up, so that he may get away from 
 Soho, to Jermyn Street, and choose his clients from 
 the best people. 
 
 Rudeness was widespread in England during the 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 303 
 
 war, but In most quarters the armistice brought 
 gentler manners. Soho alone maintains its war-time 
 brusquerie and impatience. They don't care whether 
 you come again or not. They have no interest in 
 you as an individual — only as a customer to be fed 
 and presented with a bill. You may not choose your 
 table as of old, they tell you to sit "there" — usually 
 at a table near the hot kitchen or by the door where 
 the draught enters. A certain cafe in Old Compton 
 Street even insists that two diners shall sit on the 
 same side of the table, not opposite each other. To 
 this rudeness they have now added inconipetence. 
 The service is slap-dash and the food poor. The 
 hard-up journalist and chorus-lady wanted value for 
 their shilling. They paid attention to what they ate 
 and drank, for often it was the only meal of the day. 
 But Soho knows that its present clientele doesn't 
 care. "Dining in Soho" is the idea, and they eat the 
 indifferent food, and drink the spirituous and ex- 
 pensive wines, and pay the excessive bill, without a 
 murmur. And, if they don't come again, Soho doesn't 
 care. There are always others. Soho knows the 
 truth of the old adage — "there's one born every 
 minute." 
 
 Instead of the good value of the shilling lunch and 
 the one-and-sixpenny dinner, we have the badly- 
 served, carelessly-cooked dinner at four and five shill- 
 ings; and instead of the rough but decent "ordinaire," 
 we have a high-priced wine list of grocer's red and 
 
304 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 white wines, doctored, and wearing false labels. 
 For there is no law against describing vin ordinaire 
 as Margaux, or sticking the label "Beaujolais" on an 
 ordinary white wine. 
 
 Some day Soho will discover that this doesn't 
 pay, and will try to get back to the old methods and 
 prices. They may do that; but, alas, they will never 
 recapture the old spirit. Once that is tampered with, 
 it can never be adjusted. You may alter your ways, 
 and repent, but if you tarnish the soul you can no 
 more recover its freshness than you can recover yes- 
 terday. 
 
 Fortunately, for the modest and hard-up diner, 
 for whom Providence always moves, as the old Soho 
 went down, another arose in its place, in the old 
 German Quarter on the North Side of Oxford Street. 
 In that square made by Oxford Street, Tottenham 
 Court Road, Newman Street, and Tottenham Street, 
 new cafes are arising at intervals, and old German 
 cafes re-appearing under Swiss management. Oh, 
 yes, and the lager is coming back, and the long 
 glasses, and the thin cigars. These places cherish 
 the spirits of welcome and personal acquaintance 
 with their customers. 
 
 The L'Etoile, one of the older group, is my fa- 
 vourite. It makes no attempt at decoration or table 
 display. Its note and its cuisine are bourgeois. But 
 you get there the exciting minestrone, which is a 
 meal in itself; the perfect omelette, the elegant cut- 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON»T-CARE 305 
 
 let, and all the cheeses in the piquant moment of 
 maturity. You get, too, fresh materials, good cook- 
 ing, deft service, and the affable greeting on the 
 threshold. And at prices less than the prices of the 
 flaring and sticky Corner Houses. Out of no ill-will 
 to the proprietors, but for my own gratification, I 
 hope it and the other cafes will never become popu- 
 lar, for then art and suburbia will descend upon them 
 and ruin them. At present they are patronised 
 mainly by elderly scholars from the Museum Read- 
 ing Room, and young students from Bloomsbury. 
 
 Bloomsbury is not Bohemia, but it has a happy 
 tone. The fragrance of literature hangs about the 
 very stones and trees of this region of squares. The 
 poets and novelists of the past are represented by 
 poets and novelists of to-day; and at the gates of 
 the British Museum, and its library of the past, 
 stands modestly the less pretentious library of to- 
 day of Mr. Mudie. Where the patrons of litera- 
 ture once held their levees, now a group of publish- 
 ers — so much more useful than any patron — have 
 their offices. 
 
 Bloomsbury was never, I think, so bad as it has 
 been painted. Certainly it has had its up and downs, 
 but vicissitude is evidence of character. From a' 
 centre of the residences of what was once called the 
 "nobility and gentry," it sank to letting cheap lodg- 
 ings to an assorted crowd of workers and students — 
 "the ignobly decent" — and characters ignoble with- 
 
306 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 out decency. Then, being at the gates of Euston, 
 King's Cross, and St. Pancras, it enjoyed a period 
 of prosperity by its quiet and not too cheap hotels, 
 in whose lounges placid old ladies wielded crochet 
 needles. Now it is again in favour as a residential 
 quarter, and its hotels are reiuvenated. The decent 
 houses of its squares are entering their second pe- 
 riod, some as town houses, others as offices of digni- 
 fied businesses or learned and charitable societies. 
 Its dinge, melancholy, and resigned squalor, which did 
 exist, though not so densely as George Gissing be- 
 lieved, are wholly gone. Belgravia has fallen down, 
 but Bloomsbury has "come back." It is time for the 
 novelist to give us a Bloomsbury romance. 
 
 It is now as neat and trim as Mayfair, and its 
 history is much more illustrious. The tall plane 
 trees of Bedford Square are greener and more stately 
 than the trees of Berkeley Square. The houses are 
 fresh and carefully kept. The squares are pools of 
 green light. It Is preened and polished; bright with 
 little hotels and gay with flower-boxes and green 
 doors and shining knockers. Its straight deliberate 
 streets are broken by the chatter and movement of 
 the students; and in the doorways of the hotels cool- 
 frocked girls sit regarding the gentle confusion of 
 the traffic. 
 
 A wondrous renascence has come particularly to 
 Gower Street. In the early nineteenth century it 
 was a select residential district; at the end of the 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 307 
 
 nineteenth century It went Into a decline, and Its repu- 
 tation became associated with that of Euston Road, 
 of lodgings for the night and no questions asked. 
 Its odour was rank. Then suddenly, there came a 
 change. It staggered up and recovered Its self-re- 
 spect; and to-day it Is an address of which the most 
 circumspect need not be ashamed. In It are the 
 homes of Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins and Lady 
 Diana Duff-Cooper. What a recovery! And in Its 
 midst are the very tents of youth — the huts of the 
 India and Ceylon branch of the Y. M. C. A. where 
 graciously gowned Indian girls and tailor-maid 
 youths lounge or saunter; University College; and 
 the magnificent hostels of two big drapery firms. 
 The garret In Bloomsbury, and the starvation that 
 must, by tradition, go with a garret, are legends of 
 long yesterday. The young literary amateur from 
 the provinces, coming to Bloomsbury, may banish 
 from his memory the dim pages of "New Grub 
 Street." He will not find it there. There still Is a 
 New Grub Street, but its inhabitants do not live in 
 Bloomsbury or frequent the Museum Reading Room 
 for their work. The solid article, involving research, 
 is little wanted to-day; brighter stuff — brighter and 
 shorter — is what is wanted; and this Is the work that 
 is done in New Grub Street; this and advertisement- 
 writing. 
 
 Bohemia must be sought elsewhere. It Is not 
 here, nor is It In Leicester Square or in that cafe so 
 
308 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 famous among the Universities. You will find many 
 things there, but little that is amusing or stimulating. 
 You will find there a certain deliberate schoolboy 
 assumption of Bohemianism, but nothing more. For 
 a man is no more consciously a Bohemian or a 
 genius than he is consciously happy or consciously 
 healthy. If you discovered your true Bohemian, 
 and called him to his face a Bohemian, he would in- 
 dignantly repudiate the suggestion. He would af- 
 firm his hatred of moral obliquity and Insist on his 
 respectability, and call witnesses to prove It. It Is 
 your mediocrity, who, to escape public indifference, 
 has to dress like a member of the chorus of "La 
 Boheme." The gargoyle attitude of life, which Is 
 triumphant here, has little to do with Bohemia, and 
 good Bohemians are not now to be found there. It 
 has outlived tradition and ceased to function, and Is 
 now merely a show-place for tourists. 
 
 I would call it the dirtiest place in London. The 
 ventilation is poor, and the evening air is thick with 
 smoke and scent. The marble tables carry brown 
 rings of coffee cups and spIUIngs of beer. The wait- 
 ers are slack and dispirited and none too well kempt; 
 the effect, maybe, of a year's evenings among that 
 company and that talk. The place suggests a woman 
 in a fine evening robe and dirty finger-nails. The 
 latter is a distinguishing mark of much of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Healthy animalism finds no expression here. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 309 
 
 Laughter is seldom heard, and the hilarious binge is 
 frowned upon. No note of youthful folly arises; 
 no exuberance even in attack. All is considered and 
 deliberate; a spectacle of solemn young people try- 
 ing to be "different," wearing the absurd trappings 
 of Murger's country, which existed only at the point 
 of his pen, and trying to invoke the Russian over- 
 soul with thin drinks ; young men with pink socks and 
 pink voices fumbling with the arts, and trying to 
 forget that they came from Liverpool. Except for 
 the presence of certain types of male and female, the 
 place would be inexpressibly dull. But h«re and 
 there may be seen queer creatures. There sits a her- 
 maphroditic creature with side-whiskers and painted 
 eyelashes, praising that dear boy Oggy for the exqui- 
 site mood-values of his "Moments of Nausea." 
 There are things in women's clothes that slide cun- 
 ning eyes upon other women. Male dancers who 
 walk like fugitives from the City of the Plain. 
 Hard-featured ambassadors from Lesbos and 
 Sodom. These, and the pseudo-intellectuals, make 
 up an atmosphere cold and flaccid. If the occasion 
 were an orgy of vice, it would at least have some in- 
 terest as a pathological manifestation; but it isn't. 
 It is a thoroughly respectable affair, conforming to 
 every point of the public code of order. The com- 
 pany has neither the quick leap of the fresh youth 
 nor the bold relish of the beast, but something be- 
 tween; something crawling and discreet; something 
 
310 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 epicene. And it is worse because it is intellectually 
 cultivated. 
 
 It is bad enough when it goes without brains, as 
 among the painted boys and their ponces, to be seen 
 in certain rendezvous in Edgware Road and behind 
 Mayfair. You may know these places by the strong 
 odour of scent when you enter them, and the ab- 
 sence of women. The sweet boys stand at the 
 counter, or lounge, beautifully apparelled and 
 groomed, in chairs, under the wandering eyes of 
 middle-aged, grey-faced men. Towards these they 
 ogle and simper. But most of them were born like 
 that, and they are much less offensive than those who 
 combine their paederasty with poesy. 
 
 Well, the Cafe of the Marvellous Boys isn't Bo- 
 hemia. Neither art not eccentricity, neither excess 
 nor wit are necessary parts of the vagabond life. 
 Bohemia lies everywhere about you, except in studios, 
 for these are serious workshops; you are as likely 
 to find it there as behind the grille of the Bank of 
 England. But you will find it in East India Dock 
 Road, among the marine students ; in Smithfield and 
 Bermondsey, among the mad medicals; in South Ken- 
 sington, among the science men; in certain houses in 
 Streatham and Ilford; in Charing Cross Road and 
 in Knightsbridge. The four-ale bar is Bohemia. 
 The suburban monkey's parade is Bohemia. Hamp- 
 stead Heath at night is Bohemia. Upper Street, 
 Islington, on Saturdays, is Bohemia. In every corner 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 311 
 
 of the great bazaar of London the ardent shopper 
 of humanity will find the stalls loaded with bunches 
 of Bohemian bananas, not to be bought or bargained 
 for, but to be had for the taking. The good stout 
 London air is the very smell of Bohemia. 
 
 A Frenchman, forgetful of his nation's chief qual- 
 ity, said that the smell of London was beer. He was 
 wrong. It is a thick, aromatic smell, certainly, but 
 It cannot be so easily named. Two things that you can- 
 not describe are voices and smells; and the smell of 
 London defies all analysis or comparison. It is just 
 London, and it is concentrated under the glass roofs 
 of Euston, Marylebone, St. Pancras, Charing Cross, 
 and Paddington and Waterloo, to welcome the 
 stranger, as the smell of Paris welcomes him at St. 
 Lazare or Gare du Nord. 
 
 One often hears of those legendary country trip- 
 pers to London, who never leave the station of their 
 arrival, but spend their day there. Why should they 
 go outside? Under that roof they can inhale es- 
 sence of London; and if they went outside though 
 they might, in a few hours, see more of London, 
 they would get no keener sense of London than the 
 station can supply. This station atmosphere works 
 each way. It can give you as much of the spirit of the 
 country and the provinces, as the places themselves, 
 and I have often Indulged my mood of travel with 
 a few hours at one or other of our termini. In my 
 hard-up time I did a vast deal of travelling without 
 
312 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 trains. In none does the lust of travel burn more 
 fiercely than in myself. I am a roamer bold and 
 gay — or would be, if I had my way. But in my 
 penurious days, travel was not possible, except, on 
 occasion, by the kind assistance of the National 
 Sunday League; so I deceived myself by a passable 
 counterfeit. When the desire came upon me to quit 
 my Brixton lodging, and pitch my tent under the 
 walls of Teheran or Kabul, I assuaged the passion 
 by visiting Poplar and the Asiatic's Home. Never 
 could I rest long in one place. A glimpse in passing 
 of a shipping company's posters would set up a 
 yearning for travel that was only gratified by mov- 
 ing to Camden Town. I have had homes in Clap- 
 ham, Eltham, Balham, Bloomsbury, and Highgate. 
 Oh, I've been about in my time, I tell you. I am like 
 that great traveller who interrupted so frequently 
 Irvin Cobb's descriptions of his European tour, with 
 corrections, prompting, and amplifications of his 
 own, he having made the tour year by year. Finally, 
 when Cobb's best description was interjected by a 
 pointless correction, Cobb turned upon the cosmo- 
 politan — "Oh, all right — you tell 'em about it, Gold- 
 Fish. You've been round the globe !" 
 
 When fares to English beauty spots were cheap, I 
 could not find the money. Now that they are ex- 
 pensive, I still cannot find the money. But I still 
 travel. I keep Bradshaw and the A. B. C. on my 
 desk, and I plan meetings at Windermere, and book 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 313 
 
 bedrooms at the "Feathers," "Ludlow," and "The 
 Lygon Arms," Broadway, and take the waters at 
 Aix, and obey Mr. Thomas Cook by preparing to 
 winter in Madeira. This, of course, is not my full 
 programme : imagination, assisted by the printed 
 page, is not sufficient to transport me into the full 
 air of these places, and lend me their smell. I must 
 have material contact; the senses must be fed. And 
 I feed them at the big stations. By seeing the Con- 
 tinental trains off at Charing Cross and Victoria, I 
 am abroad. By taking a drink in a little bar in 
 Drummond Street, adjoining Euston, I travel to the 
 North- West and Scotland. 
 
 Hither come old matrons, with infinite baggage 
 and strange accent and behaviour, who open each 
 sentence with "Ey, dear"; and at these words I am 
 in the horrid wastes of Lancashire, and the stinks 
 that belong to it. I meet Scottish travellers from 
 Perth, smelling of dye-works, and black melancholy 
 Irishmen, booked for Holyhead. I overhear their 
 plans for the journey. I share their anticipated 
 discomforts, and their troubles in the matter of 
 sustenance, and sometimes I assist them by tipping 
 the cheap sandwich shop round the corner, I learn 
 from them what are the "hours of opening" in their 
 corner of England. I learn that the tea at Punk- 
 ton Junction is hogwash, and that Preston serves a 
 champion cup of coffee. In this bar the heathery 
 air of Scotch hills, the crisp air of Yorkshire, and 
 
314 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the soggy air of the Midlands are to be absorbed In 
 ianqr. 
 
 If my desire is Cornwall or Somerset, I take a 
 l)us to a little saloon in London Street, near Padding- 
 ton, where I am sure to find good company in gaiters 
 and frieze coats, who will call me "mun," and talk 
 in sweet, rich southern tones of the iniquities of 
 London publicans who sell sweet stuff in bottles — 
 yes, bottles — and call it cyder. And again I tramp 
 over Exmoor, or lounge in the villages of Dorset; 
 or I may smell the dreadful smell of wet coal, which 
 is the smell of the Rhondda Valley; for here are 
 many high-voiced, high-strung lads from South 
 Wales. 
 
 Only the other day I made a journey to Newcastle, 
 via Peterboro, Lincoln, Doncaster, York, and Dur- 
 ham; for, in a restaurant anigh King's Cross, I came 
 upon a group of rasp-voiced men, and was drawn 
 into conversation. We fell to talking of their home- 
 ward journey, and as the group included natives of 
 each of those towns, I was able to re-visit them. 
 We talked of hotels, bars, local characters and local 
 tradesmen; whether the War Memorial had yet 
 been unveiled in this city; whether that horse-faced 
 scoundrel was still on the magistrates' bench In that 
 city; whether the manager of the Empire at t'other 
 place still wore evening dress and pink socks. I 
 came away with a feeling that I was returning to 
 town after many weeks of provincial touring, and 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 315 
 
 filled with fresh joy in London and the million ameni- 
 ties of its streets; those streets that hold for each 
 of us some sleeping beauty waiting only for our 
 awakening touch; the streets of Bohemia. 
 
 I know of but one Club in London that truly is 
 Bohemian in character and style. The so-called Bo- 
 hemian clubs are somewhat depressing with their 
 solemn heavy furniture and their diligent boyish- 
 ness. You cannot have a Bohemia with money and 
 an etiquette or standard of things "done" and "not 
 done" ; but these places have a lengthy code of things 
 forbidden; and if a true Bohemian happens to get 
 into their company they are sorely perplexed. It is 
 easier to shock your professional Bohemian than to 
 shock a Y. M. C. A. meeting. They profess to ac- 
 cept life in all its nude manifestations; but show them 
 an ugly corner of life, and they are disturbed. They 
 paint ugly things and talk about ugly things, but bring 
 them face to face with concrete hideousness, and 
 they turn away. They wither at an unaccustomed 
 word. For at bottom they are dishonest, and their 
 loves and their hates are forgeries. 
 
 I once took, to a very advanced and rorty night- 
 club that thought it was a Hell Fire Club, a thor- 
 ough rapscallion whom I had picked up in St. 
 Luke's; a true Bohemian who had no code or stand- 
 ard of values for anything in life; a bruiser who 
 had been as often in prison as in the ring; and I 
 was asked not to bring him again. They hinted to 
 
316 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 me that my action was in bad taste. "Hang it all, 
 you know, old man ... I mean to say . . ." 
 
 I say I know but one Bohemian club. It is a 
 night-club, but it has none of the trappings of the 
 West End night-club. To get to it, you turn from St. 
 Bride Street up an alley, and turn down another 
 alley, and a small door admits you into a large bare- 
 floored room with bar and tables. It is the News- 
 paper Worker's Club, chiefly for the printing sec- 
 tion, but also used by members of editorial staffs. 
 The bar opens at eleven P. M. and remains open till 
 four in the morning; and meals are served at all 
 times. 
 
 Better meals in value than any West End supper- 
 club will give you; right nourishing meals at prices 
 that astonish. Well, you can sup splendidly there for 
 a shilling. Its soup is as good as mother makes, 
 and its atmosphere is an atmosphere of mateyness 
 and rich rude pleasantry. At about one in the morn- 
 ing it is most busy. Then troop in the men from 
 the printing departments of the dailies, and things 
 become amusing. The printer's vocabulary, by his 
 calling, is extensive and apt, and his language makes 
 even sergeant-majors feel inept and small. Stories 
 float about, and snuff is taken. Downstairs are an- 
 other bar and two billiards-tables, and Ted (I'm not 
 sure if it's still Ted), who command affairs. The 
 appointments are simple and rough, but this place 
 has all that a club should have in social facilities and 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 317 
 
 diversions. Many midnight hours have I spent 
 there when all other doors were closed; and many an 
 air-raid night passed Bohemianly in that basement 
 with one of Ted's schooners before me, and Ted and 
 a group of members round the billiards-table or with 
 the darts. 
 
 It has no motto, no "note," and its annual sub- 
 scription is about the price of a Strand lunsh. 
 (Which reminds me that I haven't paid mine for 
 over three years.) There, you may do what you 
 like, and be truly yourself, and let others be them- 
 selves; and if you are told, as I have been told, that 
 if you can't — well play — billiards, why don't you — 
 well give up the — table to those who — well can, you 
 will see the justice of the rebuke and make way, and 
 return flourish for flourish — all In the friendliest 
 spirit. You are under no restraint whatever. Don't 
 think that I am approving bad language or too-easy 
 behaviour. I am only thinking that we have 
 enough restraint at every turn of our over-governed 
 lives, and that a club should be the one place where 
 restraint is eased and conduct given free play — for 
 good or 111. 
 
 But, oh, dear! suppose you spoke your mind In 
 plain terms at the Studio Club In Regent Street (a 
 very arty affair) or the Hambone Club In Ham 
 Yard, a futurist den, where Impromptu concerts are 
 supposed to beguile the midnight hours. I'm sure 
 you would be asked to leave. But I don't think 
 
318 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 you'd lose much. Those concerts — they speak rather 
 of local talent in the Corn Exchange. I prefer my 
 little cafe near Great Queen Street, the Cafe of the 
 Forlorn. It is really a working-men's eating-house, 
 but other than working-men use it. You will find 
 there no bright names, no "coming" men or success- 
 ful artists. It is the rendezvous of the Failures, 
 and is happier and more stimulating than any gath- 
 ering-place of well-knowns. It has no concerts, no 
 "art" frescoes, no dancing, no hambones. But it 
 has a warm, kindly atmosphere, and you may there 
 have ripe talk with sound intelligences. 
 
 It is near Bruce House, the L. C. C. apartment- 
 block; and to it come the impoverished scholars and 
 poor gentlemen of letters from their municipal lodg- 
 ing. They are not regular customers : for they are 
 the real Bohemians for whom there are days when 
 they must dine with the sparrows. But when there 
 is a good time and two or three of them are there, 
 taking a cut from the joint and two veg., you will 
 be in rare company. Friendless and battered, they 
 can produce among themselves more merriment and 
 true delight than twenty studio clubs. Each is a 
 character, and each maintains that character. 
 
 One famous and successful man is much like an- 
 other. In the achieving of success or fame, men 
 seem to shed something of personality and angles. 
 In securing the bone, they lose the enduring shadow. 
 They are stamped and marked, like pieces of plate. 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 319 
 
 But the failures remain themselves. They have 
 quaint twists of character. They talk better and 
 more freely than the famous. They have nothing 
 to hide, and nothing to fear. They do not strive to 
 flatter and placate you. They do not quail at giving 
 offence If honesty compels It. Asking nothing of 
 the world, they are, by general understanding, ex- 
 empt from the world's petty observances and reti- 
 cences. They will tell you the truth about them- 
 selves, or about yourself, without suppression or 
 demur; and if you offer them money they accept it 
 openly and casually, with a nod. 
 
 In that eating-house, or In the adjacent saloon, I 
 have sat often among them, and heard great argu- 
 ment. Possessing abilities In large measure, they have 
 no capacity for applying them. One Is a poet, one an 
 advertisement-writer (though seldom In work, being 
 unreliable In delivery of copy) , one a fiction-writer, 
 and one a Doctor of Divinity. All are scholars and 
 good talkers; and such talk passes between them that 
 often old Jack, the owner of the eating-house, will 
 lounge against one of the pews and listen to them, 
 interested and perplexed. He doesn't quite know 
 what to make of them, but there is a nice distinction 
 between his manner towards them and his manner 
 to his reg'lars, the draymen and lorrymen. He rec- 
 ognises that they are "out of the ordinary." He 
 asked me once who they were, and I said I thought 
 they were journalists. 
 
320 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 "Journalists — ah ! I thought they must be some- 
 thing. I don't understand everything they talk 
 about, but I could sit and listen to 'em for hours. 
 That white-' aired one — the way 'e spouts — on and 
 on — never at a loss for a word, like, is 'e?" 
 
 I first met them through the advertisement-writer. 
 I was sitting alone one evening in a Drury Lane 
 tavern, watching the only other customer. He was 
 a dim, seedy, smudgy fellow, looking the worse for 
 the flotsam of decency that hung about him; and he 
 intensified his rusty clothes, which were just not 
 ragged, by drawing from his sleeve a spotless pocket- 
 handkerchief. When he had used this and drained 
 his tankard, looking deeply into it, and sighing, he 
 looked at me and spoke : 
 
 *Prmm ! As the poet says 'Go look into a pewter- 
 pot to see the world as the world's not.' " 
 
 "Poet?" I said. Then my mind took a quick leap, 
 and saved me. "Oh . . . 'Shropshire Lad.' Might 
 I help you to see a little more of the world?" 
 
 "Why, you seem to be an intelligent young man. 
 It would give me pleasure, sir, to drink with you 
 at your charge." 
 
 I passed the appropriate compliment, and ordered 
 two. Then leaving his untouched, he fell to dis- 
 cussing the state of the world to-day and Its trend, 
 with allusions to Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, Goethe, 
 and Bergson. He filled a grimy clay pipe with as- 
 sorted shreds of tobacco which he fished piecemeal 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 321 
 
 from his pocket, lit it, and between puffs, jerked out 
 reflective sentences on the Over-Soul. The four-ale 
 bar was beginning to fill. The crowd mumbled of 
 football and the spring weights. The barmaid sim- 
 pered or snapped, varying her manner to the cus- 
 tomer: and through the rumble my gentleman went 
 steadily on. Emerson ... St. Augustine . . . 
 Rousseau . . . Voltaire . . . 
 
 Then another wreck joined us. He had the face 
 and figure of Edward Grieg, and was, I learned 
 later, the poet, who wrote rhymes for the facetious 
 papers. ^ 
 
 "Ah, Bilton. Any luck?" 
 
 The white hair shook. 
 
 ■ "Nor here, either. Damn the lot of 'em — fat- 
 faced troglodytes. I have just had the good luck 
 of drinking with my young friend here — and that's 
 all. And even with him I'm not very lucky. I try 
 to stir him with Carlylean denunciations of the times 
 and he says nothing. But I think if you invited him, 
 he would join you in a drink at his expense. I tried 
 it, and it came off," 
 
 That was the beginning of four amusing hours. 
 Soon, others of their party came in, and with the 
 arrival of each I was indicated as the host. 
 
 "I have had the good fortune, Davy, to make a 
 friend of a young man with money. Come — let 
 us spoil him." 
 
 It was a meeting of the Jolly Beggars — and was 
 
322 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 the beginning of a casual acquaintance which has 
 meant much delight for me. 
 
 Here are the true Bohemians, living in the true 
 Bohemia. They wear soiled linen, not for fun or 
 for distinction, but because they cannot get clean 
 linen. They are often unshaven, not from cult or 
 negligence, but because shaves cost money. They 
 would delight in a clean change every day, in Sa- 
 vile Row clothes, and goodly restaurants, and sound 
 Burgundies and well-furnished homes, in place of 
 their shabbiness, their eating-house, their half-pint of 
 stout, and their L. C. C. room. But, had they all 
 these things, they would still be Bohemians. They 
 have the right spirit. 
 
 It Is among men like these that you will find that 
 spirit. You will find It at the meetings of the East 
 Ham Cage-Bird Society. You will find it at the 
 Annual Outing of the Barnsbury Licensed' Victual- 
 lers' Association. You will find it at Alexandra Park, 
 where, upon occasions, the huskies and rough-necks 
 of the town gather round that corrugated asphalt 
 called the Turf. You will find it at the dinners of 
 the Ice Cream Retailers' Association. You will find 
 it at the New Year Festival of the Dalston Dahlia 
 and Chrysanthemum Society. You will find It at the 
 dinners of the Antediluvian Order of Great Elks, of 
 Druids and Buffaloes. You will find It in Upper St. 
 Martin's Lane, outside Aldridge's where the taxi- 
 men join the horse-and-harness men over basins of 
 
IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 323 
 
 stewed eels. You will find It at the Monthly Socials 
 of the Street Traders' Brotherhood; and you will 
 find It In good measure at the in-aid-of meeting of 
 any benevolent fraternity, where there is "roast" at 
 one end of the table and "boiled" at the other, and 
 where the canakin clinks, and good fellowship and 
 hearty quarrels go hand In hand. 
 
 "Mister Chairman, I wish to report that the 
 genelman on my right has used an offensive expres- 
 sion." 
 
 "SIddown ! Siddown !" 
 
 "If 'e says it again, 'e'll get my tankard in 'is 
 chops." 
 
 "Siddown! Lessave a song from old George. 
 Come on, George." 
 
 "I bin in the business forty years now, and I ain't 
 gointer be told that — " 
 
 "Siddown, yeh fool. Somebody pull 'is coat-tails. 
 Where's old George ? Come on, George — The Tar- 
 paulin Jacket V^ 
 
 " 'E ain't got no right to say — " 
 
 "Will yeh SIDDOWN, Gubbins ! We don't wan- 
 cher. We want old George !" 
 
 "Not until 'e takes it back!" 
 
 "Mr. Chairman, I rise to 'pologlse. I take it 
 back. I oughter known better than dispute with a 
 man old enough to be me farver." 
 
 "Old enough to be yer — " 
 
 "Nah stop It — you've 'ad yer 'pology. Jus' 'ave 
 
324 THE LONDON SPY 
 
 a drink together and fergit it. We come 'ere fer 
 peace and quietness. Now, altogether boys: 
 
 There is a tavern in the town, 
 In the Town!" 
 
 And Mr. Gubbins and his offender see each other 
 home, in glorious amity, through the midnight alleys 
 of Bohemia, 
 
 THE END 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS! 
 
 019 826 622 A