THE
LONDON SPY

THE LONDON SPY
A BOOK OF TOWN TRAVELS

BY
THOMAS BURKE

THORNTON BUTTERWORTH, LIMITED
/ 15 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.2

Published Nov. 1921

Printed in Great Britain

TO
MONK

CONTENTS PAGE
In the Thick of It - - - 9
In the Streets of Film-Land - - 72
In the Streets of Rich Men - - 94
In the Streets of the Simple 122
In the Shops and the Markets 147
In the Streets of Cyprus-on-Thames 171
In the Streets of Good Company - - - 181
In the Street Called Queer - - 214
In the Streets of the Far East - 236
In the Street of Beautiful Children - 253
In the Streets of Don't-Care - 286

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 offer you ; pictures
snapped as we wander among quiet courts or
jostle the thickest crowd in the Strand, or cheer
the broken-down car in Oxford Street, or
encourage trapeze artists repairing telephone
wires, or, on the Embankment, watch 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 to 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 . . .
The very London, I think. Not the complete
London ; only a tiny facet of a many-sided
9

io THE LONDON SPY
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 businesslike.
There is none of the caddish larking of years
ago. It is no longer the playground of rich
scallywags from the Army and the 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 exuber
ance, and the banana belongs to it. The banana,
a somewhat solemn frait, was made, by this song,
one of that facetious company of tripe, cheese,
kippers, lodgers, and the clown's string of sau
sages : a symbol of Cockaigne.
And that's what I've been after — the London
banana, in its haunts and its humours.
For every Cockney the City has a personal and
secret significance. Each of us sees it from a
different angle. In each of us it evokes dif
fering emotions, intimate and unutterable moods.
But I think Everyman's London holds moving
crowds, lights glaring or glittering or glowing,
profuse shop-windows, street-markets, dim
alleys, long roads of dark houses running to
mysterious ends, the Strand, Piccadilly Circus,
and the banana. For we have all, once at
least, been down the Strand in what I may call
the banana mood. We have each, at some
time, made one of nineteen jolly good boys.
The hi-tiddley-hi-ti spirit has a knack of seizing
you without warning in London, when the shops
are open, and the boys and the girls are out, and

IN THE THICK OF IT n
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 Broadway or Cromwell Road ; in
Soho or Wigmore Street. Let there be three
of you, good wanderers or loungers, and a fine
evening (if you are young, a wet evening 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
liberties or restrictions, of lights and drinks and
suppers and late hours. It is within you and
the streets, always ; 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 authorities of
Oxford treat the schoolboys under their charge,
they can't confiscate my tuck-box of London
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 en
counters, the urge of the multitude, the glow
and rustle of girls ; glamorous mornings and
deep-sounding darknesses. The delicate shade

12 THE LONDON SPY
and shimmer of Green Park at eleven in the
morning, the deep-lunged midday laughter of
Charing Cross, the turbulent 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
splendours of the day and the grace of the
city's midnight. Monk and I will be leaders,
and you can march behind.
Meet Mr. Monk. . . .
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 is game for anything,
and never is he heavy in the hand. 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 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 holiday ; 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

IN THE THICK OF IT 13
all the common incidents and spectacles of the
London day he brings an appetite. He makes
bright commerce with the multitude. Shops
and advertisement hoardings, queer characters
and the amiable eccentricities of the plain man
excite and enchant him. His immediate radius
is illumined by large laughter, and his company
floats like an island of felicity through the beat
ing sea of the preoccupied crowd.
As a playfellow of the pavements he is with
out 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 which way the wind blew,
but, possessed by London, wandering, gossiping,
or holding good 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.
But here follows the idle record of that idle day
for your pain or pleasure :
We left home at ten o'clock, the respectable
hour, and proceeded leisurely to town. For
these morning hours the avenues of work best
suit the mood, 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, preoccupied, while we, whose

14 THE LONDON SPY
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 sta}^ed 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 sector ; and,
while the good hard-working citizens disappear
into doorways and go upstairs or below to their
offices, and earn their country cottages 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 aspects. There is the crowd and there
are shop windows. There are Mr. Gamage's

IN THE THICK OF IT 15
windows, with their marvellous riot of mechani
cal 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 contemplation, and Mr.
Glaisher's " remainder " bookshop. There is
the great bald-faced boulevard of Kingsway.
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
Midwinter, 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 haw
thorn leans, and the giant beeches transmute
the light to their own unearthly beauty. Cot
tage 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 hedgerow. 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

16 THE LONDON SPY
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
fragments 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 brilliance. The house-boats are under the
decorators, and in the high woods above the
river the birds make separate music and com
munal colour. 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 ride, but to tramp, to saunter,
to make casual encounters 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 springs
comes more slowly upon us, perhaps, than upon
the countryside. We do not suddenly get the
first smell of something new in the air, and
follow its delicate trail ; but day by day I be-

IN THE THICK OF IT 17
come 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 takes me through the squares or the
Sparks, 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 traffic is
attuned to my vagrant mood.
My eyes are opened. My heart sings Voi che
safiete. . . .
I note that the girls have packed away their
furs and come out in frivolous window-curtains.
I see that the painters and upholsterers 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 conductor says as
sertively 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." B

18 THE LONDON SPY
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 the things that
matter ; relieved, if at all, by conjectures as
to the achievements of Kent, Surrey and Mid
dlesex. 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 remem
bered song. I have heard it through the Winter
as a muffled throbbing, but now the muff is
removed, and we are in close contact. My nose
receives the sad odour of asphalt and petrol,
and my ears distinguish the instrumentation of
the town — the buzz of the taxis, the hum of the
buses, and the rumble of horse-traffic, and I
recognise that London has other birds than
sparrows. The truant has returned.
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 inspection. The
People of Importance (who have never been
missed) advise the Morning Post of their return
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
children ; the Italianate ice-cream barrows ap
pear, and the greengrocers' shops assume fresh
complexions. English violets and primroses
appear at the kerbside, and everywhere, in the

IN THE THICK OF IT 19
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 trans
planting, making his windows gay with newly
painted window-boxes and pots of flowering
plants. They won't live. Hoxton 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
Springtime ; 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 perfunctorily, as in Winter, but
with something of a passion ; and, as the rooms
are cleaned, so something of dustiness falls
from her heart. She and her neighbours no
longer hurry past each other, their arms pinched
in under their 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 bright
ness of the sun, and debate in new terms the
hardness of the times, and part cheerfully, what-

20 THE LONDON SPY
ever 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 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 acutely 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 mo
ment 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— Wallbrook, Bucklersbury,
Budge Row, Lothbury— shed a little of their
dinge and misanthropy, and seek harmony with
humanity. The river, from Chelsea to Wool-

IN THE THICK OF IT 21
wich, 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. Our
laughing Lady Greensleeves has kissed them.
It soon dies down, this sudden burst, and by
June, when the hot days begin, there is a per
ceptible 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 becomes a holiday event — not or
ganised and decked with White City flam-jams,
but an impromptu carnival of Spring- worship ;
deep, rich, fluent and compelling. The foun
tains 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 crouching over Winter fires, we straighten
our shoulders gladly. We begin to dawdle,
and the windows of Mr. Thomas Cook and of
the railway offices are set out with allurements
that give excuse for dawdling.

22 THE LONDON SPY
The pale office-boy (" Sidney's holidays are
in September " — Miss Vesta Tilley) looks long
ingly upon them, and lags in his errand ; Sept
ember is half a year away, and already he feels
the pull. For him and for me, the exhortation
" Spend Easter in the Tyrol ! " is but a gibe,
an aggravation of our vernal unrest. The best
that we shall achieve will be a Bank Holiday at
Southend or the South Coast ; but I warrant
that even that brief pilgrimage will render 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, Spital-
fields, 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
aromatic whiff from the hot bright by-ways 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 Prima vera. And Alessandro takes
down his guitar and sings some lucid melody of
old Naples.

IN THE THICK OF IT 23
After an hour in Italy, I take an hour in
France, in Frith Street, and take my lunch in
Charlotte Street, with its Austrian-Swiss at
mosphere, its little white cafes and coffee-bar,
and its flasks of rude but jocund Chianti, which is
very Spring — sharp, rough, but tinct with sun
shine. The season demands these things.
Steaks-from the grill, cuts from the joint, and
tankards of beer are an offence to the occasion ;
the coming of Spring presumes more gracious
observance. One must greet the visitor with the
customs 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 moon
lights. 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 sanctuary there, and cleanses
you and blesses you. The moon of Winter has
its austerity, the moon of Autumn its opulence,
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 mys
teries 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

24 THE LONDON SPY
young, look 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 third-rate
actors meet under the guardianship of Mr. Tom
Bell. They are the last of the old guard, for
the younger school of actors wears now the
respectability of Golder's Green. The estab
lished men and 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 midday, or after the show ;
comedians erect, with bent elbow and back-
thrown head, Shakespearians 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 thing ! " And always
they act ; always they talk to their neighbour as

IN THE THICK OF IT 25
though he were at the back of the house, arti
culating 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 conversa
tion. 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 twitching to tell a better one. Always they
complain about the times and always they are
friendly to all comers ; 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 ap
plication ; 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 themselves in their 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, but they should have their own
bars. The mixed bar is an anomaly, and

26 THE LONDON SPY
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 character,
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 shopkeeper, 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 intercourse and acquaintanceship. Many
lonely men have found friends who were first
met in these public places, which offer illimitable
fields of human companionship ; and aquaint-
ance grew, from occasional meetings and talks,
into close knowledge and understanding 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 lonely ones, they met, sur
veyed, and, as the phrase goes, " took to each
other." Outside the tavern they would never
have met, wanting a common ground ; and

IN THE THICK OF IT 27
they would have missed much goodly com
munion. 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, men
find theirs by ranging hither and thither, and
picking and choosing 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 comed
ians, who, by grace of tavern 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 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 London, and I can never
answer them. There is no best restaurant in
London, and there is no best church in London.

28 THE LONDON SPY
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, and
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 floor, 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 owner
ship, it was only one room with a bare floor and
a few mural decorations, and you could dine
there for two shillings. Now it has acquired the
whole 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 crowded with pluto
cratic " stars " and the smart people who affect
that company. In its new and elaborate rai
ment, it looks with slightly raised eyebrows 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 dallied with coffee and watched the new
arrivals. A pleasant pastime, this. Taking
meals out is not yet an instinctive habit with the
English. Popular in the seventeenth and eigh-

IN THE THICK OF IT 29
teenth centuries, it fell into disuse in the nine
teenth, and it is still much of a function. Man
ners and manner for the restaurant and the
home differ sharply. The Englishman does not
walk into a restaurant as into his own dining-
room. He " enters " as to a stage. It is a
self-conscious parade, and natural grace be
comes deliberate gracefulness. The Englishman
— bless him for it — always blinks at the lime
light. 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 wandered again. We thought
of a matinee, and thought better of it. There
was no 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 won
derful institution, the London Library ; and it
and St. James's 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 England that affords such
facilities to its subscribers at so low a rate.
One salutes Carlyle every time one enters its
doors. We met again later, in those suave hours

30 THE LONDON SPY
between tea and dinner when London is tuning-
up for the evening surge of song, and the femi
nine twilight 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 dis
tances 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 butterfly 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.
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, lending beauty and receiving dignity,
but the homely beauty of the East End is not
of the kind that is emphasized by the lustre of
gems. The hushed semi-tones of dim streets,
of silken twilights interrupted by suave lamp
light — 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 ap
plauding thrill and that catch of the breath
which marks our recognition of good dramatic
work. Away they go, these movies in light : motor-

IN THE THICK OF IT 31
cars in motion, liquor flowing from bottles,
flags flying, 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 best show, but that
at Leicester Square runs it close ; while Cam
bridge Circus, the Embankment and Oxford
Street all array themselves in an evening dress
of spangle and gem that bring them into com
petition with Broadway at night. I hope
Broadway knows about it, and is pulling up its
socks. Around Soho we wandered, meeting friends
released from toil, and lingering at odd corners,
until 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, ladies 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

32 THE LONDON SPY
of brow to be nobody. Snow's is arranged 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 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 cafes for all nations —
French, Swiss, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek,
Chinese, Japanese, Hungarian, Russian, 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 county and hear the accent of his
lanes. There should be a Yorkshire restaurant,
a Lancashire restaurant, a Devonshire res
taurant, a Cornish restaurant, a Norfolk res
taurant, offering pasties, junkets, pies, hot
pots, Bakewell puddings, dumplings. Not only
would they attract their own wanderers and

IN THE THICK OF IT 33
the " Society of So-and-so Men in London,"
but the curious Londoner, who is always sear
ching 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. We were in the mood for less formal
entertainment ; and I knew that about the
streets we would find bands and organs and coffee
bars and other bars, and immediately outside
the theatres good fun for which there is no
charge. Walking up Shaftesbury Avenue, we
were entertained by contortionists ; the gentle
man with soup spoons who makes merry music
with them against his poor knees and elbows,
itinerant gramophones, vocalists, elocutionists,
real kilted Scots with bagpipes (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-night to eat your banana
or your toffee-apple down our alley.
There are other nights, though, when the
theatre calls insistently. It is a form of re
creation and stimulation of which one never
tires. The phrase " going to the theatre "
still glitters and tinkles, as it glittered and
tinkled to the eyes and ears of youth; and,
though I sit now in a comfortable seat, I can
still respond to the delicacies of the acting of
to-day, as, in the old gallery days, I wept to
C

34 THE LONDON SPY
Martin Harvey, shivered to Herbert Tree or
H. B. Irving, beat my fists and drew in my
breath to the marvellous debonair gallantry of
Fred Terry, and caught some random revelation
of an outside world of glory from the ringing
ardours of Lewis Waller and the austere melan
choly of Forbes Robertson. We are quieter and
finer to-day ; the theatre grows up as we grow
up ; but I am as largely moved and exalted by
our present artists as by those more flamboyant
personalities ; though perhaps it were wiser not
to mention names : I enjoy so many of them.
And they grow better and better day by day —
not only our serious actors, but our lighter
people, of whom my favourites are that volatile
creature who shakes your midriff by constant
movement, by doing, with magnificent exag
geration, the ordinary things that you do in
your own home ; and that little fellow who
draws your laughter by doing nothing but stand
and look at you. The one is a delicious Eliza
bethan clown and tumbler ; the other a Dresden
Shepherd. One's method is the method of the
caricaturist ; the other's that of the miniaturist.
His comic effects are conceived in little and
carried out in the flimsiest material. He is all
dainty touches, midget motions. Abandon and
candour are alien to him. Everything he does
is done pianissimo, and his normal mood is
mignon— almost, may one say, so evanescent
are his suggestions, mignonette. He is funny
in the porcelain manner ; and his attitudes are
as graceful as a Charles Conder painting on a
fan ; only with him the fan is turned upside

IN THE THICK OF IT 35
down. The other, the clown, is funny in the
cap-and-bells manner, presenting life in a
series of " close-ups " through a distorted lens.
But each, in his separate style, is a joy, and the
theatre is the richer for them.
I have never attempted to analyse the extra
ordinary " pull " of the theatre, and I wou't
try it now. I only know that the outside of a
theatre still attracts me with its adumbrations
of glorious adventure, as it did in childhood.
To-day, I know something of that strange
region " behind," and still I must admit to a
thrill when I am taken through the iron door.
But in the early days the countries that lay
behind the drop-scene were true enchanted
countries, and I was led beautifully astray by
the sorrows and distresses and high raptures
of their people. They were not people of com
mon clay. They were shadow-shapes of Other
where, whose adventures did not end with the
drop of the curtain in the theatre but persisted
through every hour of their lives. And, as I
walked home, I would brood upon them, and
give them adventures of my own fashioning,
to make sweet and rich the sorry week's toil in
dismal office. Shining creatures, moving out
side the restraints and the dull negatives of our
own world, ringed with the worship of thousands,
their daily lives starred with the magnificent
moments of a hundred legends of old love and
loyalty. Many precious minutes have I snatched
from the delivery of a message, to stand outside
a theatre and gaze upon the portraits there
exhibited, and catch some breath of their green-
gardened lives.

36 THE LONDON SPY
It is a potent magnet, this display of beauty,
to love-lorn office boys (you may see them at it
to-day), and often have I journeyed from the
City to the West End during the lunch-hour, or
rather no-lunch-hour, to feed my heart upon
radiant and exquisite girlhood. For three
months I had a special theatre, the Garrick,
and, Oh foolish ! twice a day, at midday and
after office hours, I would make my way to
Charing Cross Road just to look at a certain
photograph, and sometimes, if late enough,
See Her Go In. Often, if I were out during the
day, I would somehow make time to get a third
look at it. Rapt and reverent I would stand
before it, making my devotions to glowing and
vibrant girlhood — a lonely, raw-fingered serf
outside the gates of beauty and grace and order.
To me that small photograph was a flake of
Paradise against the dun humours of Charing
Cross Road. The theatre was the palace of the
true princess, and her name hung like the curve
of the rainbow over my pallid world. She was
a girl, not a woman. I somehow missed that
phase of adolescence when the boy falls in love
with the mature woman of the world. My
precious was of my own age, and was famous as
a child-actress. No — I shan't give you her
name. She might see this and be distressed
at learning what prodigal measure of adoration
she had missed by not answering my letter.
(Yes, I wrote to her— once ; I even made songs
for her and found out where she lived and
delivered them myself at her wonderful house;
but never a line, never a flick of the lily finger

IN THE THICK OF IT 37
to the worshipping page.) Anyway, since then
she has grown up, and I have met her, not as
serf before princess, but on the level, with only
a suburban tea-table between us. Don't ask
me if I was thrilled.
I achieved the reality and lost the dream.
Many a night I wandered about Charing Cross
Road, wondering hopelessly whether I should
ever, at some green-leaved season, get to know
her ; and when I did . . .
That is a troublesome question for wide-eyed
young men — How can I get to know her ? I
warrant you that at this and every moment it is
agitating the minds of hundreds of young boys —
girls, too — How to get to know the sweet un
known. We see, fleeting by in the street, the
Perfect Girl. The trim figure, the bright face
shine through the crowd for us, and at once we
feel that we must know her. Soon, perhaps, she
becomes familiar to sight by daily meeting in
tram or bus or train, or passings at street-
corners, or daily visits to the same tea-shop ;
and the question persists — How can I get
to know her ? A difficult business, for between
you rises the mighty mountain of decorum.
Many men nurse regret for the things they
have done, but many more nurse regret for
missed chances, for the things they didn't do,
and for the girls they might have known and
never knew. We don't remember, poignantly,
the girls we have known, but we all remember
with a sigh the girls we didn't know. Maybe
she lived in your very road, in the house op
posite, or two doors away ; but neighbourhood

38 THE LONDON SPY
didn't help matters ; rather, it set you farther
away, for the eye of summary censure was upon
you. , When, upon a time, I edited a boys' paper, I
learned how wide-spread was this loneliness of
youth, yearning towards the Nice Quiet Girl,
seen in the tram or on the platform. Boys
wrote to the Editor, describing their situation
and their desire to make acquaintance with the
One Girl. " How can I get to know her ? "
Well, the Editor couldn't answer them, for he had
been in a similar fix, and had found no way out.
The man of the world would brush the situation
aside with one hand, but youth is timorous in
these matters ; awkward and fearful of blun
dering. I think I should have given a chapter to
The Street of Checked Romances. I have had
my share of them.
Each happened in the same way. For days
you would pass or meet the girl, until you came
to look for her, and it was an empty day if you
missed her. And then came the thrill — That's
the girl ! That's the girl I want for a friend.
That's the girl who would understand and help
and encourage. She became for you the one
girl in the world. Not knowing her, you endued
her with all pleasing qualities : sensibility, shy
ness, the right gravity and the right humour,
modesty, and a hatred of attitudes cheap or
rude. But — how to get to know her. Be
tween you heaved this mountain, or stretched
that flaming sword, forbidding the stranger to
blunder upon the nice girl with " Please I'd like
to talk to you— may I ? " You thought of the

IN THE THICK OF IT 39
crude dodges of the pinchbeck gallant — " 'Scuse
me, miss, I think you dropped this ? " No —
it wouldn't do. You dare not bruise her deli
cacy with a blundering intrusion of the Monkey
Parade kind. She would put you down for one
of That Sort. You decide, finally, that she
wouldn't want to know a fellow like you, any
way, and no doubt she is engaged already :
such charm and grace couldn't long go un-
captured. Certainly she would repulse any at
tempt at self-introduction. You wish you were
one of those easy fellows that you read about in
the magazine stories, who can do these things
and carry them off with an air. . . .
You follow her to find out where she works,
and at midday you find out which tea-shop she
uses. You dare not go and sit at her table, but
you get there early, and, when she does arrive,
how deliriously you tremble as she hovers near
your table. And what rapture if she sits op
posite you. Subdued rapture, of course ; you
dare not look straight at her ; but you pass the
salt or the sugar, delighting in the service, and
words tremble on your lips — airy phrases take
form in your mind and vanish when formed —
and you think of a thousand foolish ways of
beating down that outstretched sword. Then
you pause, stricken with the idea that she is
not for ransom. You wait until she removes
her gloves, and you flash an eye to the third
finger of the left hand. Empty !
But it's no use. You go on day after day like
this, and never achieve the introduction. While
she — half her time she's thinking of that quiet,

40 THE LONDON SPY
dark boy, " I wish he'd speak. I believe he
wants to."
You know she is the girl for you, and you
languish, and nourish a vain passion, and read
Byron. She is a Nice Girl ; not like the girls
in your own office — pert, self-assured, and full
of fashions and theatre talk ; but intelligent,
serious. Undoubtedly serious — that is the main
attraction to youth — not like your sisters or the
other girls you know. Nothing flighty or
Monkey's Parade-y or tennis-y about her, but a
mind for finer things — not likely to giggle at a
young man who reads poetry in his lunch hour.
And it's because she's a Nice Girl that you
can't make that approach. With the other kind
it would be easy ; but you don't want the other
kind. She is enclosed in a delicate but im
penetrable armour of reserve. She gives her
order in a quiet voice, and does not look about
her. Failing personal knowledge, you dream. You
visualise her home, where she is the useful
daughter and the jolly sister, and you conceive
the bliss of an invitation to tea in that home
one Sunday. You plan meetings, outside the
office in the evening ; dinners ; theatres. You
choose the restaurant and order the dinner, and
make a dash at the wine-list ; and She sits
opposite, gently warmed with the rough wine
(for which you have to go short next week) and
makes you free of her mind ; and always she is
the girl that you have made her — serious and
quietly gay.
There was one who always travelled to town

IN THE THICK OF IT 41
on the bus that I took, and always ate at the
same restaurant. Sometimes we sat closely on
the same seat outside, with the apron encoupling
us ; but still she was as distant as the stars.
And as adorable. Sweet agonies were those
morning journeys, while one sat quietly and
burned with desire to do splendid, bold or
dreadful things in her presence ; anything
to make oneself known, to compel her
interest and wonder. In the tea-shop she
used to read books, sometimes the book that
I had just discovered. How I longed to
talk to her about books. How I would sit
opposite her, distended with longing to tell her
that I had read that book, and what did she
think of it ? I was sure she would like to know
somebody who cared about books— she looked
that kind of girl ; lonely, like myself, and with
out congenial comrades. But day by day she
sat with head bowed over her cheap edition of
Emerson or Shelley or Matthew Arnold, and
never could I summon the pluck to speak and
(no doubt) be snubbed.
I did make one effort. Once, when she. was
reading " Culture and Anarchy, " I brought up
my copy of that book, and put it, challengingly,
on the table, by the salt, thinking that she must
see it and by some gesture or eyeshot betray
interest, since we had shared that table for some
weeks. But it didn't come off. The salt was
out of her scheme that day ; she ordered coffee
and pastries.
Then, one day, she was accompanied by a
smart and attentive young man, and they smiled

42 THE LONDON SPY
intimately upon one another ; and that settled
that. There were many others — girls met on the
way to work—girls in the train— girls living in
the same road. It needed so little to pass to,
perhaps, a delightful friendship ; but youth,
bold in most things, is punctilious in social
matters, There was the little girl in the Wool
wich train. She had a small, gentle face, and
looked as though she worked hard. She was
obviously poor, and her dull clothes were patched
and darned. We met every morning on the
platform, and after a time she began to look at
me, timidly, as though I were a dangerous
character. Perhaps her suspicion was justified,
for, when the train came in, I would stand back
until she had chosen a carriage, and then make
for that one ; and I think she had begun to
notice that trick. And in the evenings I would
often lose my homeward train from Charing
Cross, waiting about to travel home with her.
I do hope I didn't alarm her, and that she
didn't take me for one of those nasty flirtatious
fellows. All I wanted was to be her Fairy
Prince ; to take charge of her, and give her
feasts and outings ; theatres, and bus rides to
Richmond on Sunday, and tea in the park, and
concerts, and week-end walks. I would buy
nice clothes for her, and dress her slim figure
agreeably to the season, in the best that Hanover
Square could show (I was then earning thirty
shillings a week). I would give her pretty
frillies and sound smart shoes, for the patched
and clumsy pair she was wearing, and spring-

IN THE THICK OF IT 43
time fabrics and mischievous hats and roguish
scarves. ... But how could I explain my
attitude when I couldn't even get to know her ?
Altogether, I think the portraits outside the
theatres were less disturbing to the spirit ;
they were so patently unapproachable by out
siders. The Garrick Theatre was not my only
haunt. There was a second fancy, upon whose
picture I used to dote as a boy ; and I think
many others must have done the same. She
appeared in many of the Lyceum pantomimes,
and her picture was prominently displayed there.
Some years ago, in a daily paper, I described
her delightful stage-work, and that description
brought me letters from all quarters, and brings
them even to-day. Apart from the letters from
London and the provinces, I had enquiries
from South Africa, New Zealand, Canada, the
Gold Coast and America. A proud young lady
she should be. All the writers had been Lon
doners, and all remembered her and asked —
What has become of her ? What is she doing
now ? I don't know. She, too, has grown up,
and I haven't seen her name on a bill these many
years. I could not, therefore, satisfy my exiled
fellows, for whom this child still, it seems,
illuminates the mists of town-memories, Per
haps the editors of the Era or the Stage can
oblige ?
This is, I think, one of the many compensa
tions for the trials of stage life, that, although
the actors' and actresses' work is so fleeting
and impermanent, yet, in distant parts of the
world, their memories are cherished. They

44 THE LONDON SPY
stand, as it were, as types of the town, of home,
and their names are bandied over camp fires in
Australia, on the South African veldt, and in
huts of the Malay Straits and the sweltering
shores of Pacific islands. When exiles have lost
interest in all else of home affairs, theatrical
matters still seem to stimulate them ; and under
alien skies the legs of some London dancing
girl are remembered and celebrated. Politics,
society, even sport may go — but the theatre
and its sprites are the last to go. You may
prove this easily.
Every author has his little crowd of invisible
playmates, those unknown correspondents whose
letters fall upon him with News from Nowhere.
Some visit him but once ; some make an ap
pearance upon the publication of each new book.
Others are recurrent, bound by no time or
occasion, but sniping the author when the mood
takes them.
They may be divided into Classes. There are
the Shy Congratulator, the Fulsome Flatterer,
the Confidential, the Condemnatory, the Accusa
tive, the Provocative, and the Peremptory.
My latest screed from Nowhere belongs to the
last class. It comes from Montana, U.S.A.,
and comes like a lump of copper from the
Montana mines. It is written on a postcard,
and reads like a telegram :
" Mr. Birks. — Your last story in the 
Magazine. Why write such miserable stuff ?
In future write happier stories and end
them more satisfactorily. — John W. Griggs.' '
Then there is the, " Dear Mr. Burke, I feel

IN THE THICK OF IT 45
I must tell you the story of my life " kind of
letter. It comes frequently. The writers of
these letters tell me their inmost joys and their
secret sorrows. Often the poor author, who is
totally unfitted for the job, has to sit in the
confessional box and listen to dreadful things ;
and is asked to advise upon matters that require
the most considered judgment of the exper
ienced matron.
These people write to the novelist, I suppose,
because he is remote from their immediate
circle, and because, if he is a true novelist, he
will understand the twists and vagaries of the
human heart. Looking through my file of
letters from strangers is like looking into dim
by-ways of the human soul. I have learned how
A took her first step downwards ; why young
B is in such distress ; why C cannot live with
his people ; and what joy would be D's if only
she could get to London.
These letters distress me. I am no Father
Confessor, and I have not the wonderful gift
of "Aunt Mabel" and "Mrs. Wisdom" and
" Lady Felicia," and those correspondents of
the weekly home papers, in advising sagely on
every contingency of this close-faceted life.
I prefer John W. Griggs or the people who Ask
For Things.
Like this :
" Dear Mr. Burke, — I have got one of
your books from the library, and I enjoyed it so
much that I would be glad if you would send
me a set of your books autographed."
Or this :

46 THE LONDON SPY
" Sir. — I have just read your latest book.
What a beastly mind you must have.
Faithfully yours, X  Y  ."
And this :
" Dear Sir, — In an article of yours in the
-on Wapping, you mention ivory

carving. I have a quantity of broken
ivory, and if you can put me in touch with a
dealer I will pay you a decent commission
on results."
Until I published a book I did not know that
there were so many Thomas Burkes in London.
I have had letters from, I think, ten of them.
Each salutes his namesake. Each writes in the
same style. And each suggests that I might be
willing to do a hard-up namesake a good turn,
mentioning the wretched sum of even five shil
lings as a godsend. It is notable that all these
Thomas Burkes live at newspaper shops or
barbers' shops — " Letters may be addressed
Here." But the surest way of calling these voices from
the void and bursting your letter-box is to
touch, in some magazine, review or newspaper,
upon some controversial matter of the theatre.
Say, for example, quite casually, that you re
member the night when Billy Merson first sang
" Let's all Go Down the Strand." Just that.
And for the next month you'll be busy. First
you'll get the English packet — letters and post
cards — curt, rude, polite, discursive, prolix,
terse ; bawling, telling you, begging to point out,
venturing to differ. By the time they have
eased, the first overseas batch comes in, and

IN THE THICK OF IT 47
you will begin to realise the influence of one of
our empires upon the other. And when you
have strewed these letters neatly around your
study floor you have a picture of the five con
tinents in a state of upheaval, downing tools and
upping pens to put this portentous blunder
right and send across the world a mighty chorus
of "He didn't ! It was Charles Whittle." You
might misquote Gladstone's dictum of 1881 ;
you might say that Wagner's operas were never
performed in England before 1900 ; you might
speak of Ben Jonson's " Taming of the Shrew ";
your letter-bag would suffer no strain. But the
most trivial matter of the theatre arouses the
passions of half the globe ; and rightly, for the
theatre is the soul of a city, and the drama is
its pulse.
I know there are many people, who, while
interested in the drama, loathe the theatre, and
to whom an evening at a play is three hours'
boredom ; but I don't understand them, any
more than I understand the man who is in
terested in politics. But, if they find a visit to
the theatre so dreary an occasion, I suggest
the Dining-Room Table Theatre, with which
they can indulge their taste for the drama at
choice, and play their favourites as they would
like them to be played. They will find it less
physically exhausting than a visit to the theatre,
and they will not be bothered by the posturings
of actors and actresses. And, when bored, they
can stop the show at a moment's notice. They
say, if you want a thing done well, do it yourself.
Very good ; and if these people want a satis-

48 THE LONDON SPY
fying dramatic entertainment, but dislike the
theatre, they can make their own entertainment
on a Pollock Theatre, as used by Stevenson.
In odd corners of London raay still be found
relics and survivals of old trades and customs.
Even as the old actor, whose day is past, can
still find people to stand him a drink and listen
to his tale of old triumphs, so these old trades
still find their patrons. One might think that
the cinema had killed the magic-lantern ; yet
there is still big business in lantern slides. One
might think that the theatre-going habit would
have killed the toy theatre and marionette
business, but there still survives in London the
Last of the Toy Theatre Merchants.
Amid the sad clamours of Hoxton Street, Mr.
B. Pollock, of whom Stevenson wrote so ap
preciatively in " Memories and Portraits," is
still doing good business at " The Juvenile
Drama House," with his Penny Plain and Two
pence Coloured. His shop makes a gay splash
of colour in the plain stretch of Hoxton Street.
Here, of old time, the " old Brit " nursed the
now departed splendours of good mellow-drama
and sublimely idiotic farce ; and nightly, in the
gallery, your fourpenn'orth of " lean-over "
would harrow you or terrify you or delight you,
or set you kicking your legs, or somebody else's,
with inexpressible glee. Heroic heroes, radiant
heroines, and unspeakable villains made jubilee
every night in Hoxton before the best audience
in England. Now there is only Mr. Pollock left
to carry on the great tradition ; and, next to the
pictures, the great delight of the Hoxton kids

IN THE THICK OF IT 49
is to glue their faces against the window of his
shop, which is filled with deep-hued posters of
brigands, pirates, buccaneers, Rob Roy, Don
Quixote, Aladdin, Paul Clifford, and other
giants of the nursery, and with spangled " sets "
of ballets and transformation scenes.
And the industry flourishes. Stevenson wrote
of it as the delight of his childhood, but
Mr. Pollock has few child customers. Some
times the adults may pretend that they are
buying for " the children," but don't you be
lieve it. I don't, nor does Mr. Pollock. He
knows the appeal of his goods to the little bit
of childhood that remains in the greybeard.
Stevenson himself paid many visits to the little
shop, and Mr. Pollock speaks of Stevenson as
pleasantly as Stevenson spoke of him. A firm
customer of to-day is Mr. G. K. Chesterton, who
thinks out his articles while playing with a
Pollock home-theatre ; and in the past Miss
Ellen Terry was a frequent patron, and possesses
a complete collection of Pollock dramas, so
rich in the savour of Old England. Listen :
"Charles the Second," "Children in the Wood,"
" Corsican Brothers," " Daughter of the Regi
ment," "Douglas," "King Henry," "Lord
Darnley," "The Lord Mayor's Fool," "The
Mistletoe Bough," " The Miller and his Men,"
" Paul Clifford," " Timour the Tartar," " The
Silver Palace," " The Waterman," " The Blind
Boy," " The Maid and the Magpie."
It is pleasing to learn from Mr. Pollock of the
popularity of his products. One seldom hears
about them, and seldom sees them. Yet he has
D

50 THE LONDON SPY
recently had orders from large country houses
and from Hampton Court Palace and St. James's
Palace, and is anticipating a good winter
season. And I don't wonder, for they make a
fascinating pastime. The setting of the stage,
and the working of the characters is at once
soothing and stimulating — as soothing as pa
tience and as stimulating as chess— -and much
more interesting. And it can be played alone
or with a crowd.
Mr. Pollock is a charming, grey-haired figure,
with the manners of the old school. He keeps
shop with dignity and courtesy, as men kept shop
in the past ; and his dim room, with its echoes
and flavours of aforetime romance, is an agree
able retreat from the dolours of the district.
In his naive delight in his craft, he reminds one
of the toymakers of old Nuremberg, or of a
Hans Andersen character. I believe he would
love to give his theatres away to the grubby
urchins at his door, only — I think he knows that
they would not be as highly appreciated as they
deserve ; free passes for the " Pictures " would
be more appreciated. He loves to talk of his
theatres and their history, and of his dis
tinguished patrons. Every theatre is made on
the premises by himself and he has his own
printing-press for his plays. I introduced them
to Charles Chaplin when he was over here, and
took him to the shop one night. He was as
delighted as a child at its contents, and the
sounding glories of the catalogue of plays ;
and was crazy to return next day to buy three
or four theatres and a bundle of the dramas to

IN THE THICK OF IT 51
take back to Hollywood. There, I have no
doubt, he has introduced them to others, to the
deserved profit of Mr. Pollock ; and thus Steven
son, who wrote of Hoxton and of California,
may bring them, by this fragile link, together.
I believe we had got to Shaftesbury Avenue
when I broke off so abruptly. Well, we passed
through " theatre-land," and went on towards
Oxford Street, and thence 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 Monk, with
buxom face and twinkling eye, quoted Edgar
Saltus, and we walked to the fluent pace of the
night amid multitude and mystery.
We covered many miles. Starting from
Piccadilly Circus we challenged the recesses of
Barnsbury and Canonbury, and finished late in
"The London Apprentice " at Hoxton, striking
in our path cunning episodes and curious drama
in those shy quarters that are so generous with
impressions to the amateur. Not in the great
roads of London, its hotels or big houses, do you
come upon these nocturnes. 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,

52 THE LONDON SPY
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
phantoms of another world, idly busy upon
their various occasions, reading, sewing, eating,
lounging, posed in their harmonious setting as
exquisitely as in the frozen moment of statuary.
I have known these by-ways from earliest child
hood, 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 Beautiful Children.
But of that I will tell you in another chapter.
Through and through these streets we went
noctambulating, presented at every turn with
warm nooks, robust highways, or heartless
spaces that filled the night with innuendoes 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

IN THE THICK OF IT 53
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 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 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 unsuspicious trees is
most desirable ; and the front parlour at home
is too public, too fraught with interruption 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 acknowledge a sweetheart to the family
until she be turned eighteen. But love does not
wait upon these arbitrary distinctions : it a-
wakens when it will. You may forbid and for
bid, and lecture and admonish, but before
Maudie is out of the school p^ground 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

54 THE LONDON SPY
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 imminent. But the stars,
the dumb walls, the pavements, 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 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 crepuscular corners, wherever
the friendly shadows are assembled, they impede
your passage, lost in silent wonder of each other's
magnificence, forgetful 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 ?

IN THE THICK OF IT 55
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 delight.
To me, these lovers are one of the chief
beauties of London's night. To be abroad, be
tween 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 door-ways, are making
their long good-nights, is to suffer as sweet a
thrill as that which possesses themselves.
This open-secret, by-way love-making is, per
haps, 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-street 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 unprofitable 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 become as a stage set for

56 THE LONDON SPY
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 part
ings in more distant nooks. Wherever there
is a square or alley or remote corner, they dis
cover 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 untroubled by the
tide of traffic and the confusion of men, the
youth of the city has built a bower of memory.

IN THE THICK OF IT 57
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 counted,
under the trees, over a hundred hairpins, not to
mention some half-dozen scraps of ribbon ;
relics of the abandon of the night.
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 — that 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 in
viting flicker of firelight, he bursts into recogni
tion of Daisy's nice eyes or the jolly curls of Joan
or the wonderful smile of the tea-shop waitress.

58 THE LONDON SPY
Winter inspires an appetite for warmth and
intimacy. We feel a need for social contact.
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 fire. It is a season of drawing
together, of communion, a throw-back to the
cave days, when men gathered together for
mutual 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 Spitalfields and Stepney,
in the courts and passages of Shadwell and
Wapping, in the sunken, broken streets about
Bankside, in the swimming light of the Embank
ment 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 con
scious of compa ny. 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. Melan
choly motor-horns hoot across the slumbering
houses. Wheels rumble. Your ears gather the
desiccated 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

IN THE THICK OF IT 59
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 devils who delight in this blasphemy ;
female devils in uniform, who make a quest of
interrupting this sacrament, and dropping damp
paws upon the pleasant heart of love, and whis
pering 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 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 mid
night, 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 hard-eyed dragon pad and prowl,
and indulge to the full her lust of Interfering-
ness ; glory and loveliness have not yet passed

60 THE LONDON SPY
away, nor will they at the bidding of such
creatures. To-night 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 ga
thered 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 unaccustomed 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, mumbling only
of necessity, crushed, as I say, by the solemnity
of the hour.
But there is one coffee-stall which is a spec
tacle, 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 lounging or

IN THE THICK OF IT 61
mumbling here, but brisk business all the time,
with bobbing helmets, quick elbows, soiled
uniforms, 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 complaining voices ; and I spoke
my thought to Monk. I had thought of a
certain 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 a " caravanserai."
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 at the counter
under a blind archway, girdled by the immense
night ; in it, yet enclosed from its surge. Out
side, the cars hoot and voices wander. Inside,
the bacon hisses in the pan. Outside, cold and
dark. Inside, light and warmth and teasing
odours, growling voices, comminations, and
tales of adventure. Never do eggs-and-bacon
eat so well as at this hour and in these sur
roundings. Foods, like people, have their pecu
liar and proper setting when they are at their
best. Pommes f rites at the Carlton are not half
so delicious as a paperful of " chips " eaten
under the moon.
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.

62 THE LONDON SPY
For we had been guilty of those very offences
upon which they were now growling anathema.
" Ur— quar' ter twelve and wonnid me to go
to Wimbledon. ' What's it worth ? ' I says."
" An' woddid *e say ? "
" Said 'e'd see abaht it."
" See abaht it ? "
" Ur."
" And woddid you do ? "
" Told 'im where 'e could put 'is fare, an'
left 'im standin'."
" 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 di'n say much. But I just give 'er one
look what she won' fergit in a 'urry, an' tole
'er to put it in the kids' money-box."
" You was too easy. They want 'andling,
them sort."
"Ah, but y' never know — with a woman.
" Specially that kind, what knows regulations
and all. Woddud yew do wi' one like that ? "
" Me ? Rub 'er nose in it. Ur ! "
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 en
vironment of heavy odours and hot air and
rough language and bustle.

IN THE THICK OF IT 63
" What you want in this life, y'know, me boy,
is to keep yer 'ead. At's all. Jus' keep yer
'ead, an' yor'l git on. Let the others do the
grousin' — 'at's the secret. Look at me— ain't
I got enough sometimes to sen' a feller batty ?
But look at me. I never worry." Plop goes an
egg to the floor. " At's the second to-day— but
what's the good o' gettin' fussed up ? Take
life easy — 'at's my motter. 'Ere — your doings
is ready— give us up yer plate." Smack goes
another rasher, pink and white and crisp and
curly. " But wouldn't a little method make all the
difference ? " I asked him.
" Method ? Coo, I ain' 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 — 'at'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 a rasher. To see him with a
fryingpan in each hand, and two separate and
intricate conversations engaging his spare at
tention, is to see a pretty piece of work. I
have never seen a woman-cook handle a frying-
pan with such grace and facility.
And now the boys — though the term hardly
fits your taxi-man — began to crowd in and
clamour ; so, warmed and fed, I holla' d for
Parker, and Parker arrived and sped us through
the brooding streets to our beds.

64 THE LONDON SPY
There is quiet delight in motoring through
London at midnight. One seems to flow through
goblin streets of lonely lamps, with nothing but
the humming of the engine to disturb— no,
confirm the large tranquillity of the city. The
cool wind beats upon your face, and the stars
and the clouds, in the subdued light, discover
themselves. Commerce stands shuttered and
dumb ; the roads lie clear before you ; you may
speed or crawl as you will. The tide is out. You
ride alone through the loaded silence of the
night, amid living enterprise and monuments of
past endeavour ; 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 myself who have not so much as a
flivver to my name. I cannot afford a car, but
I command ten cars and four chauffeurs. On
the rare occasions when I require 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 have the bulge on the car-
owner ; but my biggest bulge is Parker. I do
not have to tinker with the thing ; I do not have
to keep eyes and nerves taut for the hazards of
the road and warning signs. I am free to ob
serve 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.

IN THE THICK OF IT 65
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 temper required by
that job remain 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. His round
red face was made for a low-crowned beaver,
and he would look fit in a five-caped coat,
taking the Devonport " Quicksilver " down the
road ; and " Nimrod " would have delighted to
sit by him and record in the pages of " Fraser's "
his talk and his mannerisms.
I^i,s a pity that we have no C. J. Apperley
wif '<, ^-to-rlPi^to mark and celebrate the pretty
sr o v^- '^hinloest chauffeurs. (Here's a hint
fof3. rp^ -dlau.) Parker deserves such notice.
Driving '?^ot Is not, with him, a job. It is his
daily stimuSA. He misses a day from the
wheel as otheriaen 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 : he never complains. 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
E

66 THE LONDON SPY
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 light is the contact
of his hand with the lever. His manner at
the steering-wheel has the finish and precision
of Cinquevalli or Chaplin ; nowhere 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
burdens of the day ; a round, affable back, that
looks 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 pat on the back ;
summons for assault, I expect.
Parker and I have covered many hundred
miles of English road, and have.i~ven long tours
together. He is a perfect roafrd a^arpanion.
Nothing disturbs him. You c^-uffeu surprise
him, and he will never surpris/ire tff. He is
ready for anything ; never disigg/e'd by mis
chances or change of plan, -bttt 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 Cockney, taking his banana, in the
most tiresome situations, with relish.

IN THE THICK OF IT 67
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 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 conversational 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 fanci
ful the mere sight of a garage, with its adumbra
tions 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.

68 THE LONDON SPY
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, more interesting, to me, than any
other casual talk ; and, listening, one may com
pile 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-chapters of Dickens, " Nimrod," de
Quincey, Disraeli and Birch- Reynardson, plays
again about our highways and roadside villages
and inns. We are all in this. The sharrabang
has reopened 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

IN THE THICK OF IT 69
find that only the vehicle has changed. 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 luggage is stowed away in the boot. Still
the driver and guard have their favourite
damsels, whom they salute in passing with
elaborate pantomime that permits no mis
understanding. Still they execute commissions
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
impossibly hospitable establishments. Dif
ferent 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
freshment 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 " Temer-
aire Hotel " in "A Little Dinner in an Hour."
The strictures which he passes on the inns of
his time are sadly true to-day. Seldom do you,

70 THE LONDON SPY
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
stimulating as a dinner at our favourite town
restaurant. We laugh at surly innkeepers as
people laughed at the insolence and brutality
of the stage-coachman. But, if you are out
with Parker, he will see that you are 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 innkeepers
who fall from the standards demanded by those
organisations for their members. Let there be
any overcharging 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 saturnine 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 implacable face, and the " Hi — what d'ye
think you're doing ? Want me to set about
vou ? " 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

IN THE THICK OF IT 71
have dismissed the matter with : " Ask Parker
about it ! "
And Parker would see to it, as he sees to
everything. 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.

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, wanting the zest and
cameraderie of the stage-world and the quiet
zeal of the business world. It is a bastard,
parents unknown. Your film-director has the
appearance of something between a ring-master
and a Junior Whip, and the business and exe
cutive side of the industry attracts attention by
its facial features and its Oriental nomenclature.
But these are found throughout the entertain
ment 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 imagination (that quality
would damn his chances of engagements), but of
reality. When he goes out to rescue the damsel
from the sinking boat, he does rescue her from a
72

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 73
real sinking boat in real water ; he is incapable
of deluding his audience with simulated heroisms.
To convince by illusion demands higher quali
ties than he possesses. Raptures, 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 rewards 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 pro
ducer ; his not to reason why ; his but to do
what he's told, comforted by knowing that every
effect 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 multi
tude. He is never, like your stage-actor, who
works through his imagination, ablaze with
personality. He moves, in his own person,
through greater actual 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
arranged. His work is a slow-moving matter,
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

74 THE LONDON SPY
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 professional 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 personal
interest are required for these " stunt-
merchants.' ' You have only to perform the deed,
in the right clothes, and then you're finished.
The cheery, chatty crowd at a theatrical re
hearsal, abrupt, generous, free, is the precise
opposite of the film-studio company, which has
somewhat the atmosphere of a parish-hall
meeting of church-workers. 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. Hearti
ness 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 com
pany to spend a day at his studio, we readily
accepted, for we wanted to see something of the
marvellous " inside " processes that produced
this queer form of entertainment. We both
love to see the wheels go round. So we set out
for 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
lighting cables. On all sides were little islands
of " sets," and we were led through halls,

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 75
through a drawing-room, through a dining-
room, through the forecourt of a country man
sion, and stumbled over cables and against the
million-candle-power arc lamp before we found
our producer, with a shade over his eyes, di
recting his people in a bedroom "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 ap
paratus at the wish of the camera-man. All
were wearing eye-shades.
Outside the set sat those actors not immed
iately 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 sat a girl with
the 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 voluminous
notes to assist, these things do happen, and the
producer is blamed, as he is blamed for every
thing. Serve him right, too, for taking so much
upon his own shoulders.

76 THE LONDON SPY
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 like this.
The business 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, perfunctorily, the quiet
voice of the producer : " We'll 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 pro
gress, 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 seasick.
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 producer directed the shot, in a slow, con
versational tone. There was no excitement,
no harassing.
" Camera ! Come on, Butler. Come on,

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 77
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 car
penter and electricians and the scenario-writer.
A " still " was taken of a dramatic point in the
picture, and there were more conferences.
Large notices on the walls prohibited smoking,
but everybody smoked. Nothing seemed to be
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
procedure. 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, loun
gers, wastrels ; they were what they looked.
" Types," said my producer. " Types. That's
what we want in this game. Not the suggested
character, but the type. Externals always.
We don't want character-actors, however per
fect 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

78 THE LONDON SPY
moved among them, posing and miming and
explaining. They followed his movements with
intent eyes, pelmanising each gesture, and
practising it to themselves. 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 proficient. 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
and exacerbated the tempers of his supers.
They were coached gently, slowly and with
unfailing courtesy and patience ; and the help
less 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 midday,
when all the workers, like freed schoolchildren,
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 commissionaire
next the producer. All were at work on the
picture, and all were equal. 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 institu
tion, and it was pleasant to see the democratic
spirit alive at headquarters. At afternoon tea,

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 79
which was served downstairs in the studio, the
same quiet amenities prevailed. 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 car
penters, machinists, and boys — had not that
air of " When the hell are we going to finish and
get away ? " One felt that they were intensely
interested ; intensely.
It seemed distressing, 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 everything in this studio
was genuine. In the film-world 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 realism,
but the raw picture 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 carved
cardboard ; it was oak panelling, bought at great
expense. The brick fire-place was brick. The
books in the bookcases 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

80 THE LONDON SPY
making of this obvious 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 Riccardi type,
on real vellum, each copy signed by the Chair
man of the Company, 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 bride-cake
appearance and its functions, and the film has
brought a flicker of outside life into desolate
villages. It has rejoiced us with moving pro
cessions 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 Gracie, 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 monkey's 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 canoodling.
But it's always the way. Directly things are
made a little easier for you, along come the
hard-faced to say " You shan't." When one of
the many repressions and restrictions of youth
is lifted, some busybody hears about it, and
invents another. And now there are actually
horrid old people going about the picture-

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 81
palaces, trying to order managers to keep the
lights up, or, if that be impracticable, to employ
someone to keep an eye on the behaviour of the
audience in the cheaper seats. Damned im
pertinence ! H appily it is ineffectual. As the
young man of good family said to the magistrate,
when fined and seriously admonished for un-
towardly 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 play
ground, 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
around, and meet an eye, inviting 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 Reid ? "
" I think I like William Hart best. I like
men who do brave things."
"Seen many of Lilian 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, with bits of the fifth Sym
phony stealing through, and magic cowboys and

82 THE LONDON SPY
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
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 the hall is a
vault of dim colour ; 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 conductors
would adopt it for their recitals.
Seen at close quarters the faces are curiously
placid 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 homo
geneous ; it is gathered in one common bond,
inspired by one impulse — the desire 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 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
audience : it is an assembly of units, each
separate and enclosed in his own darkness ; and,

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 83
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 morbid,
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 con
firms it in its complacence. 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
shadows, 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
presented to the world the mercurial personality *
of Charles Chaplin, the only mime that it has
yet produced ; gave him, in fact, the only
medium through 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 conversa
tion the pale hands flash and flutter and the
eyes twinkle ; the body sways and swings, and
the head darts birdlike back and forth, in time

84 THE LONDON SPY
with the soft chanting voice. His personality
is as volatile as the lithe and resilient figure.
He has something of Hans Andersen, of Ariel,
with rumours of 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 loneliest,
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 " different," and finally a rendez
vous 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 sight of whom people of all classes were doing
vigil; but, discounting that, much remained;
and the shy, quiet figure that stepped from the
shadow of the window was no mere film star,
but a character that made an instant appeal. I
received an impression of something very warm
and bright and vivid. He was all 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 en
dearing, for he was even then being pursued by
the crowd, and had taken this opportunity to
get away for a quiet walk through narrow streets.
But the charm remained, and remains still. It

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 85
is a part of himself that flows through every
movement and every gesture. He inspires
immediately, 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 by-ways of Hoxton, Spital-
fields, 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 feehng 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 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 Whittington return
to the city whose stones were once so cold to him ;
for the most philosophic temper, the most aloof
from the small human passions, 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 enclosures of
life, he does not forget those early years ;

86 THE LONDON SPY
and even now that he has made that return it
does not quite satisfy. How should it ? It
is worth having — that hot moment 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 well as all who have risen know, that
the very people who were clamouring and be
seeching 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. He owes little enough to England. To him it
was only a stony-hearted stepmother — 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 England — recognition and
decent society. He spoke in chilly tones of his
life in England as a touring vaudeville artist.
Such a life is a succession of squalor and mean
things. A round of intolerable struggles against
the unendurable. The company was his social
world, and he lived and moved only in that
sterile circle. Although he had not then any
achievements to his credit, he had the potentia
lities. Although he was then a youth with
little learning, an undeveloped personality, and
few graces, he had an instinctive feeling for
fine things. Although he had no key by which he
might escape, no title to a place among the

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 87
fresh, easy, cultivated minds where he desired
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 re
mained 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 him all that
it formerly 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 recognized,
and the midnight crowd gathered and sur
rounded 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 him
self 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 make
shifts for better things. As I watched the frail
figure struggling against this burst of enthu
siasm, in which voices hot with emotion, voices

88 THE LONDON SPY
of men and women, cried boisterous messages
of goodwill to " our Charlie," 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 affection. A
prince is only a spectacle, a symbol of nation
hood, but this was a known friend, one of them
selves, 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 privately 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 the people as to arouse this frenzy
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 Frankenstein 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 possession
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 Chap
lin I found myself trying vainly to connect him,

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 89
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 make-up the
Chaplin I had met, and again I failed. The
clown of the films is purely a studio creation,
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, glamorous 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 un
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, some
times 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,

90 THE LONDON SPY
the exile, sometimes getting a foot within the
gates, but ultimately being driven out, hopping
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 strenuous 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 realized 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. To the quick melancholy of the Latins —

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 91
for he is Anglo-French, and was born at Fontaine-
bleau — is added that unrest which men miscall
the artistic temperament. But even without
these he could not, I think, command happiness.
He is still an exile, seeking 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 confessed. 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 arm-chair like a tired child, eating short
bread and drinking wine and talking, 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. " I'm afraid of it — it's all so set
and solid and arranged. 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

92 THE LONDON SPY
England— had washed out boundaries and divi
ding 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 go
verning 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 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 evenings at home with a
few friends and books and music. He is deeply
read in philosophy, social history, and economics.
His wants are simple, and, although he has a
vast income, he lives on but a 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 dis
traction 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

IN THE STREETS OF FILM-LAND 93
httle 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 before 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 original. You cannot pin him to
paper. Even were he obscure, a mere nobody,
without the imposed colouring of " Charlie "
and world popularity, he would be a notable
subject, for he has that wonderful, impalpable
gift of attraction which is the greater part of
Mr. Lloyd George's power. You feel his pre
sence in a room, and are conscious of something
wanting when he departs. He has the rich-hued
quality of Alvan in " The Tragic Comedians."
You feel that he is just the flamboyant figure
that leads revolutions. You feel that he is
capable of anything. And when you connect
him with " Charlie " the puzzle grows, and you
give it up. The ambition that served and
guided him for ten years is satisfied ; but he is
still unsatisfied. The world has discovered
him, but he has not yet found himself. But
he has discovered the weariness of repeated
emotion, and he is a man who lives on and by
his emotions.

In the Streets of Rich Men
" Blimey ! " said the Duchess, " this asparagus
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
met a Duke whose table manners were really
odious. Yes, I have moved a little in the
streets of rich men, among the demi-repingtons ;
but I was always glad to get out again, back to
civilization. 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 nothing 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 Eng
land that makes laws and makes wars ; the
England that fears Bolshevism ; the England
that writes to the Times ; recreant, forbidding
94

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 95
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 un-
clubbable 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 library 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 Eng
lishman bored in his own home ; but every
Englishman in a club has an air of boredom at
breaking-point. Yet, even in this street of the sedate mood, I
have had adventures. Even the cool sleek
world of the rich sometimes throws 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 litle abashed and a little fluttered at
the prospect of sitting 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

96 THE LONDON SPY
giving my name to a retainer of the nobility, I
felt a little depressed and conscious of my shape
less 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 un
kempt 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
feeling, but it did. I felt 1 could talk to any of
them. Some of them I recognised from pub
lished portraits — a playwright, a critic, a scien
tist, an authority on Tudor literature, a philoso
pher — just ordinary people. And when I had
been among them some few minutes I recognised
how well their shabbiness 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 architec
tural 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 remark to itself. Fear
ful as I was at my first visit to the Athenaeum, I
feel now, after several visits, that it is the most
serene and easy club in London.
But how different the club to which my friend
now conducted me ! Melbourne Inman, he
said, was giving a display at his " other " club,

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 97
and we would go there. His other club was the
Marlborough, and in ten minutes I found myself
among a group of exquisites in full evening
toilet, all alert, calm and clean, standing or
pacing in graceful but ready attendance upon
the dinner-gong. The Marlborough is a small
club, neither august nor splendid. Its apart
ments 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 Athen
aeum ; more set ; more of the solid rich earth
of the English shires than of the fluency of specu
lative 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 pottered. Oh, beautifully they
lounged ! Decidedly I was among the People
and the Accent. How elegantly they carried
their clothes ! How beautifully their beautiful
manner wasn't apparent. How perfectly 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 I
experience. How courtier-like were these mem
bers of King Edward's Club — so that you could
never have placed them as courtiers or as any
thing but idle men. How patly each resembled
the other in gesture, poise, and movement.
How skilfully they didn't express anything.
I had expected to find them ' ' talking passionately
about the laws in a low undertone," but the
little talk I heard was the talk you may hear in
G

98 THE LONDON SPY
any suburban railway carriage. They bartered
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
freshening of the atmosphere as though a win
dow 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 behaviour 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 another
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.
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 guests' 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. Mearv*

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 99
while Inman ate and beamed and murmured
Yes or 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 as
sumed 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 examined the balls. If only those inept folk
who are 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 rever
ent 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

ioo THE LONDON SPY
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, ungracefully ; 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.
Every movement had a smack and relish of its
own. 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 business as he would.
It was devilment — a white ball streaming across
green cloth to go here, there, back, across, at the
lightest touch of the wizard's wand. It thrilled
me as, I fancy, folk were thrilled oy Paganini'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 whp.t exquisite poise he
assumed and twitched the native mantle of
those courtiers. And how deliriously he missed
and flummuxed, so that his opponent 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 won
derful things. I have even lunched in Berkeley

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 101
Square. Yes, I have. That in itself is an
adventure, but at the lunch I made the acquain
tance 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 sound of
Bow Bells, and belongs to several generations
of Londoners. He is our only Cockney pianist.
My first meeting 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 have had many talks
and meetings, but the first impression 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
attitudes and gestures.
You have not been five minutes in his com
pany before you discover that he has heights and
depths. He is a wonder, and everybody wonders at
him. I think he wonders at nimself. 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 remember him as a little
boy of ten, in the usual velvet suit of the pro
digy — a tiny figure that could hardly be dis
tinguished from the great piano on the great
platform of that great Coliseum — the Albert

102 THE LONDON SPY
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 assumed 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 recognized the boy's
ability, and interested 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 adolescence he
would become stale, and his growing genius
would be thwarted and perhaps killed. In 1916,
therefore, Percy Colson, the composer, formed
a small committee of music lovers, who made it
their business to take him off the public plat
form 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.
As yet he has not arrived, but I think he will,
for he has passion and imagination and when
these are under the control of technique he will
surely fulfil Cortot' s expectations of him.
With all his temperament, which he reserves
exclusively for his work, and with all his devo
tion 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

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 103
first name. He is still in his 'teens, and loves
all the things that most appeal 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; 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 melancholy
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 Heinesque a sense of humour to
permit himself to be lionized. 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 cha
racter. The people who live in these parts are
trained to keep in check any little idiosyn-

104 THE LONDON SPY
crasies that mark them from their fellows, and
the side-streets of Piccadilly offer nothing of
fantasy or flamboyance. But here and there,
among the workers of these side-streets, you do
happen upon whimsical water-colour character,
laid, as it were, upon superfine deckle-edged
paper ; and in the old mews of Mayfair many
hard-up people have found lodging. These
mews, which once sheltered the horses, car
riages 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. Davies, 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 elegant 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 cowshed. 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 hand-bags. He brings to
this street of ignoble dignities a breath of old

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 105
brotherhood with the simphcities. He sends a
note of Mozartian song across this musical-
comedy stage.
More in the key of the West End was that
newsagent of Duke Street, Mr. Bottom. He
was a Midsummer Night's Dream child. He
was a half-brother to Davy Stephens of Dublin.
He respected nobody and his attitude was 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 West
Mr. Ellis goes Home Early
The Second Advent
Mr. Chaplin Arrives at the Ritz
On any morning walk about Piccadilly you
were sure to meet Bottom, and his airy salu
tation would 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 strolling aimlessly along that
section of Piccadilly where are Hatchard's, Fort-
num & Mason's, Hatchett's, Sotheran's, Bond

106 THE LONDON SPY
Street and the Ritz. Suddenly, somebody
stops, head thrown back in surprise and grati
fication. 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 man.
The figure I most like to meet in the West is a
figure that is only to be seen during the London
season ; 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 impulsive
and warm as the South, and as piquant as the
South-East, he baffles the interpreter. And I
have a 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 imposes upon his
modernity the dash and charm of the cavalier
which glitter in his very name. He loves the

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 107
arts and the graces, but I think he loves life
more. Wherever the movement is, there is
Crowninshield. He lights up his circle and sets
it flaming and flickering, while he himself re
mains serene and steady. He rides on the
whirlwind and directs the storm. That is the
secret of the good Prime Minister 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 Claridge'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.
Certainly, it is full of traps for tne inexperienced.
The 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 a 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,

108 THE LONDON SPY
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 Savile
Row). You have to take your chance, as, at
Madame Tussaud's, you offer your sixpence to
the programme girl, and take your chance
whether it'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 his 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 com
poser 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 atmosphere of Claridge's. I now give you
the first verse of that song :
He was a bad glad sailor-man.
Tan-tan-ta-ran-tan-tare-o I
You never could find a haler man.
Tan-tan-ta-ran-tare !
All human wickedness he knew
From Millwall 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 I
Whrow-ow-Whrow !
Bloody good companee I
Wow I

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 109
And now, please, imagine a pink-and- white
bedroom 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 per
sist. Princes, diplomats, runaway princesses,
exiled monarchs, financiers, courtiers, and other
truly great folk have sought refuge at Claridge's,
appreciating its chastity and repose. 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 think,
would have difficulty in framing a complaint
against such disorder. There are some things,
you know. . . . Well, what could Buckingham
Palace do if somebody got Sam Mayo with one of
his songs into 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, Madame 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."

no THE LONDON SPY
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 I subdued myself
to the tone proper to such an occasion. Might,
majesty, dominion and power were to be mani
fested. 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 Hous^of Com
mons. And all my soul-preparation was wasted. I
need not have gone through those 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 circumstance, hard times, good
times, serious times, trivial times, good turns,
bad turns — these make no difference to the

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN in
ticket-office of the House. Theatres and cine
mas may complain 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
the cinemas can't fill one-tenth of their seats,
this 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 country, 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 Mutton, 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 police
man, 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. Before him was a

112 THE LONDON SPY
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.
I found myself in a chamber of ecclesiastical
type, without windows or lighting fixtures,
lighted artificially from the top. The air was
musty, like church or theatre air, and the at
mosphere 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 im
posing 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 Commere and Compere stand
at either side of the stage in revue. I had
expected the Mother of all Parliaments 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

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 113
but well-fed ; just the kind of people one goes
home with in the tram or the bus, only fatter.
The clothes, style and speech were all provincial,
and the atmosphere, full of the tun-bellied John
Bullishness of the cartoons, was no more metro
politan than the atmosphere of the Regent Palace
Hotel. 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
Borough 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 men of education without
knowledge and men of knowledge without edu
cation ; of inept creatures honestly doing their
sorry 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 enjoying himself. His eyes
twinkled at the pert replies 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 ;
and 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. H

114 THE LONDON SPY
The gentleman in the wig called upon " Hon'
ble Member for Mutton."
Bald head rises : " Number eighty-four to
Minister of 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 ques-
tion-and-answer business are prearranged. I
had thought, like the child at the variety show,
that the varieties just happened. But it isn't
so. Questions are written down and printed on
the ordinary paper, and sent to Cabinet Minis
ters, 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, readings of "papers," and all the
movements of debate are like the movements of
a ballet — only less passionate.
After question-time there came an interval,
and half the Members trooped out. The gentle
man in the wig rose and announced the next
item, and called upon the Hon. Member for
Trumpington. I had heard about him. He
was always speaking somewhere and getting into
the papers with little aphorisms in those columns

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 115
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 impression 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 Govern
ment would not lay aside his burden with
a sigh of rehef. Is there any man who would
say that any member of the Government,
for his own enjoyment, ambition, or emolu
ment, is desirous of clinging tojoffice 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), ask us to see signs of failure
(prrhm ! ) in the present association of parties
(snuffle), I absolutely —er — absolutely challenge

116 THE LONDON SPY
the statement that has been made (prrhm ! ) of
failure. (Pause.) I say that that man is mad —
er— mad, who would say (business with waistcoat
button) that any member of the Government
would not (fumble among papers) would not lay
aside his burden with a sigh of rehef. 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 into the thick khaki light.
It is a light that withers all inspiration and all
nobility. 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 ail proverbs, the
progenitor of all platitudes. Out of his mouth
proceeds desiccated truth. It was he, I am sure,
who wrote those gemmy aphorisms that dis
figured 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 rumi
nant mind that notes that a bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush ; and tells you so. He
discovers each morning some new truth ;
as that money doesn't bring happiness ; that his
dog is wonderfully 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

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 117
Christmas here. Bat 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 pronouncements. 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
thinking, thinking, happening at times upon the
golden thought for the day, which 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- Atlantic 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
midnight cogitations. Whenever you hear his
voice saying " It always seems to me . . ."
fly from him 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 platform,
with a woman — probably Mrs. Gore ; he is
always uxorious. He was nursing a dog, and

118 THE LONDON SPY
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, 1
don't suppose we shaU ever have another
Landseer." Mr. Gore takes his tastes and his hobbies
seriously. He is no mere enthusiast ; he is a
zealot. He does not, hke the rest of us, follow
a recreation for fun ; he " believes in it." 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 manifestations 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 reading 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 believes. He believes in India,
he believes in Ireland. A festive season is to
him a service to be attended, an office of his
much too common prayer-book.
He_-annunciates the indisputable. He un
nerves us with his incessant affirmations.
And his true home is the House of Commons ;
and, while in small intimate doses he is an ir
ritation, in the mass he is a stimulant, an insane
entertainment. 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

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 119
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 exhibitions ; native pow-pows
and war-councils. I once thought that Gilbert's
" Mikado " poked fun at Japanese court cere
monial, but I see now that he was more subtle ;
his satire was really directed at English par
liamentary ceremonial. All the hirelings of the
House have their ownresounding titles of barbaric
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 cere
monies of the natives, their beads and coloured
glass and enemies' teeth and skulls, while all the
time the war-paint, the head-dress, the incan
tation 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 shillings
spent on those " African Villages," and I think

120 THE LONDON SPY
Mr. Kiralfy might have told me that I could see
a similar show 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-y oah ! ' ' 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 hwlled. 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 blasting him
where he sat, that his conduct was un-English.
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 a mean-mouthed schoolboy ; no grand re
monstrance, 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 " Order ! "-ed
each other. They gave a display that would not

IN THE STREETS OF RICH MEN 121
be tolerated for a moment at the Muswell Hill
Local Parliament . But they gave us our money' s
worth. It was the English mob-spirit made
manifest. Then, as it began, it stopped. Big-Man sim
mered down, flourished a few more phrases, and
sat down amid Yoah-yoahs from the faithful.
Other little men bobbed up, but only one was
allowed 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.

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 dwelling s. It has a vegetable market
and a gravely beautiful church, and it is over
shadowed by a great Goods Station and its many
arches ; these things endue 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, aim
less 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 vivaciously.
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. For here are
gathered colonies of the strangely assorted races
of the Balkans — Poles, Lithuanians, Czecho-
Slovakians, Albanians, Georgians, Serbs, Rou-
122

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 123
manians, Esthonians ; many of them refugees
of 1914 who have settled here, quite comfortably,
yet daily fill the air with exiles' yearn. For
them the shops are filled with strange merchan
dise, 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 penurious days I had good times there with
the other tenants. It is a hideous affair to look
upon. It is of the Peabody school of archi
tecture — a school that has many followers.
Its chief lesson is the elimination of beauty.
These buildings are for the poor ; therefore,
they need only be serviceable ; and their builders
spend a thousand pounds upon rough utility
and begrudge tuppence for beauty. Look upon
our Elementary Schools, our Public Baths, our
workhouses, our orphanages, our infirmaries,
our " dwellings," and compare them with the
dignity of our Stores and banks and business
offices. They are sores on the face of London.
The lives of the poor are ugly enough by cir
cumstance ; their benefactors seem determined
to keep them bound in ugliness.
But the tenement folk manage, somehow, to
triumph over the ugliness of Peabody, and
to soften its crude angles by kindliness and self-
help. I don't know how it is, but tenement
families are much more agreeable than next-
door neighbours of house and flat. The tene
ment, indeed, is one big house, except — there
is an " except " in every tenement — except for
" that stuck-up thing," Miss Simpkins ou the

124 THE LONDON SPY
third floor, who makes a passion of reserve, and
won't join 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 cordial ; you are expected to be " neigh
bourly." 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-
supporting as Queen Anne's Mansions. We had
not a restaurant, but we had a tailor, a cobbler,
a medical student, a charlady who " did " for
the student 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 news
boy, a Salvation Army lass for spiritual con
solation, 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 nui
sances. But we didn't need those rules ; give-
and-take was part of our nature.
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's party and don't drop in at Mrs.
Smith's party. To each floor of the tenement

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 125
is given a balcony space where washing is hung
during the day, where the old ladies sit on warm
afternoons, and where youth lounges in the
evening. Very pleasant are these loungings and the
evening meetings of the youug people. You
stand on the fourth-floor balcony at twilight,
between the dust and the stars, looking over tne
aching, muttering face of East London, and to
you comes young Dolly, from No. 14B, to admire
the " view." You lean together across the iron
balustrade, gazing at something 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, silent and stiU 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 light, that you
should throw up a bunch of violets, and that she
should throw you 
There was that affair of Cissie and Dick
Wentworth. Cissie lived on the fourth floor, sharing her
rooms with a workmate, Ivy. Cissie was a
heart-smiter, proud and petulant. Cissie was
neat and slim, with large roguish eyes, and held
much grace in her slender 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

126 THE LONDON SPY
of her soft cotton blouse, and in the wonderful
rhythmic fall of yellow hair from head to shoul
ders. 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 looking 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 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 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 mur
mured " Cissie ! Cissie ! " They had a tug-
of-war. He pulled her to the corridor leading
to his room.
"No! No!" short and sharp. "Dick-
no!" " Oh— Cissie ! "
" No — we mustn't ! " But she did not speak

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 127
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 ?
" 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
morning, as he went to work, he gave a keen but
pessimistic glance at the caretaker's apparel.
No hope there, he felt, for many months ; the
caretaker always wore his raiment to rags.
Cissie, 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

130 THE LONDON SPY
But withal a happy man, if serenity of mind
and settled estate be happiness.
And even he expanded to one of our weddings.
Our weddings were affairs. Everybody was
invited, except that old thing on the third floor,
who wouldn't join in anything. We all wore
our Sunday clothes, and all the children were
dressed in their best, and crowded about the
courtyard and the staircases, waiting for the
great moment. Some would go to the gate
spying for the first approach of the cabs ; others,
within, brought now and then reports of pro
gress. "She's dressed! I seen 'er. Oo! she
do look lovely. And 'er muwer's crying, they
say." Ordinary affairs were suspended ; there
was an atmosphere of expectancy. Work was
neglected, and even the most hardened — like the
caretaker — hung about to pick up bits of gossip.
" 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." Every
body sent a present, if only something towards
the festa, or the " lend " of table appointments
or extra chairs.
And when they came back from the church —
Oo my ! Then the yard glittered with confetti
and the kids screamed and the old 'uns yelled, and
the principals had to fight their way upstairs ; and
we got an organ into the yard to make music
under the windows during the feast and for the
dancing in the yard that always followed. The
bride, warm-cheeked and properly shy, wore
lavender and white ; the bridegroom, with new

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 131
lounge suit and white buttonhole, grinned upon
all. The sitting-room and kitchen were "turned
out " the week before. The table was covered
with the best cloth, and the best spoons and
forks, carefully preserved these two years, in an
old bit of wash-leather, were brought out from
their nest, and the children were let in by twos
and threes to view the table. Then, after orders
and disputes as to where the guests should sit,
and a sort of impromptu game of musical chairs,
they sat ; and thereafter was rattle of knives
and forks, clink of glasses and striving voices.
The front door would be left open, and on the
staircase groups of well-wishers gathered looking
on and crying salutations. Everybody talked
at once, and looked after everybody else, push
ing 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 0' fat, Auntie."
" Get those clean plates, Emmie. Come on,
stir yourself."
Then followed the kids' feast, and the crumbs
from the table were fairly distributed among
them. Then we would adjourn to the yard, and
dance, and tell stories, and the bottles would be
opened; and when they were spent the male
guests retired down the street to the place at the
corner, and came back and brought so much
zest to the occasion that the police would inter
fere, gently suggesting that we've had quite
enough of that, and it's time to ease up. Well

132 THE LONDON SPY
well, perhaps it is ; but, after all, we don't get
married every day, do we ? And you were
young yourself once. ... So we would ease up,
and then discover that the bride and bridegroom
had disappeared ; and the rest of the evening,
until past midnight, was spent in looking in at
each other's rooms and discussing the affair.
Yes, altogether it went off very well. No
hitches — nobody got " nasty," as they do some
times 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 weddings. 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 were
dated from "the wedding" — "jus' afore
Minty' s gel got married" — "You know —
about a week after the Mintys' ' do.' "
Annie, our Salvation lady, was the character
of the building. She had had a hard time 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

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 133
least with complacence. It was the evenings
that so chilled and depressed her.
Home meant a back kitchen, a ponderous,
alcoholic father, and a querulous, complaining
mother. Her father, when he was at home,
didn't talk ; he would come home heavily,
go awkwardly to his chair, and sit there, drows
ing, 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. Monday'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 going to be
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 Monkey's Parade. This was
even less agreeable, for she ha(. 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 ?

132 THE LONDON SPY
well, perhaps it is; but, after all, we don't get
married every day, do we ? And you were
young yourself once. ... So we would ease up,
and then discover that the bride and bridegroom
had disappeared ; and the rest of the evening,
until past midnight, was spent in looking in at
each other's rooms and discussing the affair.
Yes, altogether it went off very well. No
hitches — nobody got " nasty," as they do some
times 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 weddings. 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 were
dated from "the wedding" — "jus' afore
Minty' s gel got married" — "You know —
about a week after the Mintys' ' do.' "
Annie, our Salvation lady, was the character
of the building. She had had a hard time 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

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 133
least with complacence. It was the evenings
that so chilled and depressed her.
Home meant a back kitchen, a ponderous,
alcoholic father, and a querulous, complaining
mother. Her father, when he was at home,
didn't talk ; he would come home heavily,
go awkwardly to his chair, and sit there, drows
ing, 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. Monday'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 going to be
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 Monkey's Parade. This was
even less agreeable, for she haf 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 ?

134 THE LONDON SPY
wouldn't mind 'aving 'er fr a week-end, eh ? "
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 indeterminate age, was speaking, and
suddenly Annie was caught. She hardly fol
lowed the message, which was crude and obvious,
delivered in a piercing street-corner falsetto.
What held her war the 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, ex
pressed 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 in
viting 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 abase
ment these people called themselves sinners,
and sang and shouted about their sinfulness,
and laughed happily in speaking of the Great
Friend who had redeemed them. They praised

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 135
God in a dozen different ways. They bawled.
They bellowed. They brayed. They piped.
They chuckled. They yelped. They intoned.
They roared. Happy, happy children of sin !
Oh, glory, glory !
When the meeting broke up she slid shyly to
the speaker. The woman listened to her halting
sentences, 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 meeting. 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 object hardly in
terested 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

136 THE LONDON SPY
told to do. Here at last was adventure. Work
ing 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 purpose ; something to live for ;
a career. So she became a probationer, and was
put to laborious tasks — scrubbing, washing,
selling the War Cry in public-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 streets ; but she
was done with them. And slowly, impercep
tibly, 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 married a young man of the factory and
lived a fretful housekeeping life, desiring more
than her means afforded. She might have gone
with the boys, and be now on the streets. She
might be toiling 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

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 137
occasional " 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 medi
cal 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
Purgatory, 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 girls ; and she told
me what she said to them. Something like
this :
I ain't then. It's yew that's dirty. 'E's
bin all right to me ; treated me like a 'uman
being. But yew treat me like a — like— a
bit of  •" and 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 family ; their behaviour
was reported to the authorities. But Edie and

138 THE LONDON SPY
her friend were too quick for them. They
bolted. The housemaid knew a " place," and as they
were both bright pleasant girls they were re
ceived into that " place " — certainly no worse a
" place " than the barrack that had held her for
five years. It was a " place " where only
" gentlemen " of good family were received ; and
the lady in charge impressed upon Edie the
urgent necessity, under pain of immediate ex
pulsion, of complete secrecy and tact. Some
of the visitors were famous men, but if Edie
recognised them from their portraits in the
papers 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 willing ; the more she pleased,
the more money she would get ; but no " non
sense " would be tolerated by the " gentlemen."
No intoxicated men were admitted to 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

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 139
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 human type was Mrs. Dobson, the
occasional charlady. Life, for her, was a joke,
and her philosophic attitude was expressed in pro
found husky bursts of laughter. If a man slipped
down in the street — Haw-haw ! — out came that
laugh. If the dinner went wrong, or there was
no dinner, or her rheumatism crippled her —
Haw-haw ! — short and explosive. Goodness and
naughtiness, the rent collector and the shooter-
of-moons, the drunkard and the teetotaller —
all made her laugh. She even laughed at the
air raids. And her Sunday, instead of being
a day of rest, was a day of laughter —at her own
troubles and at other people's. She had a hoarse
voice and a clear spirit attuned to the old
verities. Her laugh gave you at once her
character, 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 !
of great spirits like Mrs. Dobson.
When I first arrived at the tenement, I was
asked how I was " going on " about cleaning.
" 'Fyou want anything done, Mrs. Dobson' 11
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, who is Mrs. Dobson ? "

140 THE LONDON SPY
" 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
prize ; a good laundress, a doughty scrubber, a
confident 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, rheumatism and all. " If work's gotta
be done, get on with it. Staendin' lookin' at it
won't do it. Walk into it. That's what I do
and always 'ave 'ad to do. I d'no, though . . .
some people seem to get away with it. Look
at that daem fool daen stairs I do for — young
Artley, the medical. ' E won't work if 'e can
get aet 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 STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 141
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. Often she appeared in
pubhc with a black eye or discoloured 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 spoke of them proudly, as wonders
of wickedness. " Thad George o' mine — 'e was
a bit o' no-good, if yeh like. I d'no 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 was no work to be had she would
sit and chuckle at the damnableness of things ;
and when summoned to a job she would re
ceive it with Falstaffian 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. I
d'no '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 was the willing slave of the tenement.
If a difficult or disagreeable task were to be done,

142 THE LONDON SPY
people thought at once of her, and slid it to her
shoulders. She was a soft-mark, and her ac
quaintances knew it. " Missis Dobson' 11 see
to that."
" I wonder if yeh'd mind, Missis Dobson.
You understand these things, and I'm such a
fool." So always she was on her feet, doing
other people's shopping, taking other people's
children to the doctor, minding other people's
babies, and buying other people's insurance
stamps ; and in return they gave her a few
coppers or a drink or a meal, and lent her their
novelettes. " I like a bit o' love — I don' wanta
read the noospaper 'orrors."
Often she had a shilling on the big races with
the caretaker, and roared with laughter and
got mildly drunk when she backed a winner,
and laughed out rich round curses when she
lost. " My blasted 'orses seem to be like me —
alwis left daen the course and sworn at. Haw-
haw ! " Her chief joy in life was her cup of tea,
" me old cup o' glory ! " It is a blessed com
forter to the poor, the cup of tea ; that and a
good fire change the whole complexion of things
from drab to rosy. In the morning, if you are
out of sorts, it bucks you up. In the middle 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 new hope or at
least calm acceptance. In sorrow or rejoicing,
war or peace — " let's make a cup o' tea, dearie ! "

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 143
So that she had her tea, Mrs. Dobson would
carry on. Not until that was out of reach,
would she give in. Through many foodless
days and fireless 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 aet for charity ? No fear,
me gel. Not me. I ain't come as low as that
yet. I got some self-respeck left. As long as I
can get me cup o' tea, I can 'old aet until things
improve. I got me 'ealth an' strength, thaenk
Gawd, an' while I got that I won' be in nobody's
debt. I ain't going trucklin' to nobody."
Granny Simpson was just such another, but in
a softer key. She never stood up to life. She
accepted, without complaint and without ap
preciation ; 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 with
out 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 hved and toiled. She had little
to give in the way of friendship, and therefore

144 THE LONDON SPY
received none, for she wanted that vital some
thing that inspires interest and feeling. When
she could no longer hold a needle, she knew that
it was The House. Neighbours commiserated
her descent 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.
" 'Tain't 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 definite 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 accumu
lated odours of cellar and alley-way, and, to
most noses, the air is bitter. But Granny sniffs
it, and approves. " Lovely day again. I al
ways 'ave the luck. I always 'ave King's
weather ! "
A dockman, 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.

THE STREETS OF THE SIMPLE 145
"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 something 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 enjoy
ing everything. There 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. Be
hind the broken bushes the tram-cars clatter,
and the horizon offers ash-heaps and factories K

146 THE LONDON SPY
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 real lady, I'd come and sit out 'ere
every day ! "

In the Shops and the Markets
Johnson's remarks upon the felicities afforded
by a good inn might aptly be applied to good
shops. Shops are the first amenity of civilisa
tion. They are a promise of sociability. They
give news of the civil bustle of men. They are
an unwaning delight for all, young and old, rich
and poor, for you may have all the joy of their
windows without spending a penny. Their
lights are more alluring and more satisfying than
the lights of all your houses of entertainment,
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 pros
pect of a suburban street, and how they lighten
the tone of things within their immediate
neighbourhood. Within the orbit of shops peo
ple move more briskly, 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 invigorating as the sight of a
firelit window after a 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,
everyday shops, dainty shops, eccentric shops,
whimsical shops, bazaars, booths, arcades, and
stalls. Every commodity that the world pro
duces has its proper shop in London There are
147

148 THE LONDON SPY
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-d-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
prefers 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 personal association
with the names over their doors, but style and
atmosphere remain. I think of the beautiful
shops of Fribourg & Treyer, in Haymarket, of
Hatchard and Fortnum & Mason, in Piccadilly,
of Dunhill's, in Duke Street, of the bell foundry
in Whitechapel Road, of Buzard's in Oxford
Street, of Quaritch's in Grafton Street, of Ellis's,
in Bond Street, of the old chemist's shop in
Drury 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

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 149
selling. 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 priesthood. At Dun-
hill's, pipes are sold by ceremony, and the as
sistants 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 DunhiU'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.
" Gentleman wants a pipe."
" A pipe ? " Senior and junior stared upon
the young man with vexed brows. " Afraid
I don't quite-

c«

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 I "
In Burlington Arcade there is similar cere
mony. 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

150 THE LONDON SPY
pounds and a dozen lounge shirts at two guineas
each. And, when you buy cigarettes at Fri-
bourg & Treyer's, or wine at Mr. Downman'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 multitudinous appeal are sure breath-
takers. Rank upon rank they stand for review,
each with its personal note, each offering some
thing 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 es
cape in an hour from all gloom and introspec
tion ; the long green desert of the country only
intensifies these disorders. Many folk, when
harassed, or run down, express a desire to " get
away from everything" ; 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 immediate 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 sullen curios-

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 151
ity. 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, ner
ves, megrims, vapours, or boredom, I would say,
Go out and look at the shops. Before you know
it, your alien humours 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 fatigue. At
every pace the mind is caught and occupied ;
kept alert but not unsettled. Let me get into
Fortnum & Mason's, and I ask no better en
tertainment. 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'ceuvres —
cock's-combs in jelly, truffles from Perigord,
caviare from Astrachan, anchovies from Scan
dinavia, olives from the South — in jars and bot
tles, their vessels fashioned in fantastic shapes for
their delightful purposes. Each corner of the
shop makes its picture. In one, the hams,
tongues, fowls, galantines, sausages and salamis ;
in another the Yorkshire pies, Melton Mowbrays,
game pies, Oxford brawns, jellies, biscuits and
Oriental flim-flams — curry powders, potted char,

152 THE LONDON SPY
Bombay ducks, poppadums, ginger, chutneys,
mangoes, 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 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 confectioner, 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 shop then that in
flicted 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 sec
ond-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

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 153
the Bookman Christmas Number, 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 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 poc
ket, 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 co
quetry of shopping. Then I always have the
feeling, in these places, that I'm under observa
tion. It may be conscience, but every pillar
seems to shield a detective, and every other
shopper has the detective air. It is very plea
sant 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

154 THE LONDON SPY
one roof ; but that isn't shopping. One goes to
the Stores deliberately, giving a day or half-day
to it, but shopping only yields its full flavour
when it is done in the first rush of a 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 per
sonal eccentricity — I never can get what I want
in these universal provision stores, and I feel that
the assistant 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 choosing.
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 at
tention 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

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 155
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.
But your bookseller is more jealous of his
reputation. 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 knows, wants 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 lofty-
browed young man of serious bent 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 — '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 dignity and brilliance of the shops, but they
have an open-air boldness that is equally al
luring ; and, if you want to spy upon the London
er in his most un-self-conscious phases, the best
observation-posts are 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 seeking

156 THE LONDON SPY
recreation and a httle conscious of itself. In
the markets we have people on business, ob
livious of everything but the exigency 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-no thing, peering here and there for the
cheapest meat or fish, or a piece of oilcloth for
the kitchen, or a parlour table, or trimmings 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 shop
ping," but those in less comfortable circum
stances 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 West
minster 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 gingerbread ! "
" What is't you buy — rattles, drums, halberts,
horses, fiddles o' the finest ? " " New Ballads ! "
"Cherry Ripe!" "Ribs of beef!" "Hot
sheep's feet ! " " Hot peascod ! " " Pepper and
saffron ! " " Mack-er-el ! " " Fine felt hats or
spectacles to read ! " " Silks, lawns, and Paris
thread ! " " Rushes green ! " To-day it is " Buy !
Buy ! Buy ! " " 'Ere's yer fine orange — all

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 157
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 air be none
too sweet) than in the elaborately appointed
Emporium or Stores.
The war brought a great increase in the num
ber of street markets and we have lately heard
much outcry, from the ill-used shops against
their pert competitors. Similar outcry was
made in Elizabeth's time by the shopkeepers
against stall-holders as " unruly people." But
questions of prestige and economics apart, I am
for the stalls. Self ridge's and Harrods are
delightfu1 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
tht 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 scapegrace
pedlar or hawker or 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 busi
ness, and tells the street about it ; where your
shopkeeper goes about his trading darkly, with
hushed voice, as though fearful lest his rival
should get to hear of it. He labours in secret,
while the stall-holder shouts to the sunshine
or cries your custom under flagrant naphthas.

158 THE LONDON SPY
Monk and I lately filled a Saturday 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 Middlesex Street. But
neither of these markets has now any shred of
character left. Too much Press publicity has
ruined them. Petticoat Lane years ago became
a show-place, and laid itself out to attract the
unsophisticated sight-seer, as the New York
Bowery did ; and when, during the war, May-
fair 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, Farringdon Road, Notting Dale,
Brick Lane, Exmouth Street, W7hitecross Street,
under the eccentric spire of St. Luke's, and, the
biggest of them all, the enclosed market near
Wakefield Street, East Ham, which is as vast
and as vehement as Bartholomew Fair. Each
has its distinguishing " tone," each its own
type of shopper 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 dia-

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 159
lects 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 Perigord, Chianti,
salsifi, polenta, Bologna sausage, capsicum, sa
lami. 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 languor that belongs
to the quarter. Even strangers, moving with
the businesslike tread of the Londoner, catch
something of its quality, and come from Berwick
Street with a lighter toe and a more soufflant eye.
Here they do not cry their wares ; they wheed
le you. You are making a difficult passage
through 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 cla
mour 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 other markets, step out and buttonhole the

160 THE LONDON SPY
wayfarer with challenges : " 'Eere — mister —
you never see a finer bird than that, I 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 by some means 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 suf
ficiently served by the " Old Brit," now, alas,
a movie palace, and a few pubs. 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 look
ing 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 make
shift 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 quiet.
Certainly they make a noise, but their noise is
less cheerful than Soho's quiet. It has a bitter
note, almost a wailing in it.

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 161
Farther eastward, in Chrisp Street, Poplar,
the tones of life are a little louder and fuller, and
the wares are 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 yesterday's fish. The old
sweetstuff stall survives here, with its home
made " humbugs " and clove rock and bulls'-
eyes ; and these light the street with the spirit
of childhood. I often pity the children of
Kensington Gardens with their silken clothes
and "latest children's fashions " and well-
upholstered carriages and sedate nursemaids.
They miss so much. I am 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 advantage,
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 coun
terfeit 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 box of
beads at a penny, 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
L

162 THE LONDON SPY
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 father could not give him the gla
morous 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.
There is a warmth among the stall-holders of
Chrisp Street. Sometimes, as when Mrs. Gub-
bins, who has been studying the " proper retail
prices " in certain daily papers, expresses her
views on the quality 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 argument by dis
playing gaily devised catchwords : " Live and
Let Live"— "Quality and Civility"— "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
comment on the goods and the state of business,
man against man, stall against stall. Their
cries are peremptory rather than seducing. The
voices are husky, or strident, but they are the
voice of Autolycus crying 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

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 163
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
substantial 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
magazines, the Friendly Gleaner, Life and Work,
and back numbers of those too-too pious organs,
The Cottager and Artisan and the British Work
man. The colporteur is a grave, shy character,
who spends most of his time in rearranging 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, Colum
bia Market, which was the gift of' Baroness
Burdett-Coutts, who, with that lack of under
standing that distinguishes her type, was always
giving the poor what the)?- 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

164 THE LONDON SPY
settled melancholy of the tribes of Eastern
Europe hangs over it, and the faces of the shop
pers are not London faces. Strange foods appear
on the stalls, smoked meats are in demand, and
curious achievements in sausage form decorate
the shop-windows. Costume, too, does not
follow London or Paris models, but moves way-
wardly 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 inveigle 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 leisurely 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 bargaining ; and when,
after long minutes, a deadlock is reached, the
prospective purchaser will go away and return
later and reopen the matter ; and depart again,
and again return, until he or the vendor is ex
hausted. How a man prospers who conducts
his business with this large contempt of time I
do not know ; I can only suppose that the ulti
mate 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

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 165
amusement in the foibles of their fellows is
afforded by the midday 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, elderly pro
fessors 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 misspent 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 Thing 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 Sportsman. They like to deliver
their good news in sealed envelopes, lest it get
into profane hands that would show it no res
pect ; and to receive from their beneficiaries
some token of his True Sporthood.
Elsewhere, you will find brisk young gentle
men who have apparently taken a course of
lessons in " How to Become a Convincing
Talker," and now, in tones that ring with sin
cerity, offer you one guinea fountain-pens at
two-and-six, or gold watches, sleeve links, solid
leather wallets, at the price of a lunch. These
do good business ; but the book-stalls, the

i66 THE LONDON SPY
haberdashery stalls, and the broken-iron stalls,
having little excitement to offer for the splendid
shilling, suffer by this insidious competition.
People would always rather waste their money on
an empty thrill or a humorous swindle than
spend it wisely on solid value. No right-minded
hawker displays gingerbread without gilt.
Here indeed are noise and talk in excess.
You catch the true accent of Bartholomew Fair.
"Now, gentlemen, I c'n see 'at you're all sports
men 'ere, and they're the men I like to talk to.
Now don't run away — I ain't goin' ter talk abaet
meself — I don't 'ave to. Ev'body round 'ere
knows me. I'm Ogtrot, 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' fr 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 baeck I'll clip yer ear-
'oles. . . . Now listen . . .
" These boxes of choc'lits what I 'ave 'ere
er sold in the shops at ten shillin's a box. Ten
shillin's, laydiss. But, owing to my investin'
several thousand paends in the purchase of a
bankrup' stock, I'm offerin' 'em at — what ? —
at two shillin's the box, laydiss. Ten-shillin'
boxes of choc'lits, at two shillin's. Every box
I sell means a dead lorss to me, but I ain't
worrying about thaet. It pays me by making
me name known. Yor'll find me 'ere every
daey, an' I know 'at when you've dealt with old
George once yor'll come back. . . . Pass 'em

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 167
up, Fred. 'Nother one over there — laydy in
blue 'at. ... I don't sell duds, laydiss.
No 'alf-filled boxes 'ere. Examine every one
of 'em. No dummies. No throw-out samples.
No dud stuff in faked boxes, but the Real
Thing. Ten shillin's fer two shillin's."
And betweenwhiles 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, gentle
men. And not by patent medicines. But by
Nature's remedy. Yes, gentlemen, I am not
offering you here any product of the chemist's
laboratory. 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

168 THE LONDON SPY
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 unabashed. The most convincing of Con
vincing Talkers cannot lend, glamour to a horse
hair 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
shoppers 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 bar
gaining in the sale. Things here are what they
seem. " Persian " rugs, " Axminster " carpets,
" Benares " ware, deny their labels to your face ;
and for the rest there is no opportunity of camou
flage. Popular songs of ten years ago and
bric-d-brac from Birmingham have nothing to
say for themselves ; and they do not say it.
Among the Sunday markets, of which Mid
dlesex 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 accompanies the business deals.
Your bird fancier is much " wider " than your

SHOPS AND THE MARKETS 169
housewife. He does not buy a bird in a cage, or
a pig in a poke, without close scrutiny and chaffer
ing. Parrots, parakeets, canaries, 'finches — all
species of birds are offered here. And the sing
ing competitions of rival aviaries are occasions
for much invective and much book-making.
The man who " fancies " his bird materialises
his fancy into terms of cash.
But the best days of Club Row are gone. It
is falling off, like Middlesex Street and Caledon
ian Market. Soon it will belong to that group
of derelict markets which are now markets in
name only— Columbia Market (Bethnal Green),
Cumberland Market (Kentish Town), Mortimer
Market (Bloomsbury), Shepherd's Market (May-
fair), Clare Market, 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
notice that, while old licences will be renewed, no
new licences will be issued, and this is no doubt
the first flourish of the campaign.
Don't we all remember Ludgate Hill on
Christmas Eve, when the penny-toy pedlars
stood shoulder 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

170 THE LONDON SPY
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 atmosphere, and the stolid as
sistant 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 survival of the
street-market. They make an appeal which shops can never
make. When " all goods are marked in plain
figures," 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. One wants to hop, skip
or j ump through these arcades of exultant light.
And one does. The routine of shopping is not
only made a pleasure ; it becomes 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.

In the Streets of Cyprus-on-Thames
A trip to Cyprus sounds beguiling. At the
suggestion one visualises green seas, white
coasts, and blue moon-swept hours of Cyprian
delight. But this Cyprus holds little of en
chantment. 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 battle 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 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
171

172 THE LONDON SPY
a struggle, and no farther. About the streets
and from the houses shuffle and peer pale women,
faded by long toil, and with little appetite for
life ; and pale beautiful children run from
school. Their keen-edged laughter has the tone
of Japanese 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
bitterness to the general atmosphere. Cyprus
itself is an ironical gibe. Only one spot here is
aptly named — a little street near some allot
ments, named Savage Gardens.
Cyprus Place is the supply depot of this cur
ious 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 sweetstuff shop, a few second
hand dealers, and the Ferndale Hotel, the only
pub in Cyprus.
It is many years since I first took a 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 (nothing to do with tea-shops)
and is a quiet, well-conducted house. There
you may sit, under warm light, and listen to

STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 173
the night wail of industry — the squalling syren,
the melancholy hooter, and the gruff lullaby 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 inter
change of gossip becomes 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 Beaconsfield 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 dis
content 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 wrangle 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 casual encounter with a brown
Oriental on the bridge crossing the dock. He
was an old man, and his parchment face won
me by its honesty and engaging whimsy. We
stood for some minutes, exchanging broken
chit-chat, when he asked abruptly if I had
tasted the Great Tobacco. I hadn't. He pro
mised me plenty amusement. I was young then,

174 THE LONDON SPY
and ardent for curious and cunning experience.
Everything once. I believed him, and went with
him to a cottage in a side street about Gallions.
I remember that journey very clearly.
It was a cold gusty night of March, We
started from Cyprus at chucking-out time, when
the Ferndale was urging the last of its lingering
customers to the dark pavement. They stood
there in clamant bunches. Squalls of argu
ment and hot profanity broke from the corner.
A street organ drew up and sent its tintin
nabulation through the stress of the crowd and
the hooting and shrieking of the docks. Young
girls scampered from by-ways, and an un
gainly dance began. Their hair flew grotesquely
about them. Their gaping boots kicked up the
March mud. On the fringe of the circle hovered
evil shapes. Through their towzled hair the girls
leered back at the faces with knowledgable eyes.
But my brown man plucked my sleeve with
promise of gentler things, and I followed him
through long lanes of bright windows, through
broken streets, past the oozing windows of fried-
fish bars, into pools of light and out into un-
lamped darkness; through all the tossing and turn
ing of the city before it settles for the night.
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

STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 175
in a woman's voice, with a random rumble
of protest from a man, and the sudden scream
of a child shot over the dark houses. When the
light came I looked about me. I cannot
clearly describe the room ; I have only a blurred
memory of 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 was the ordinary tiny bedroom of the work
man'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 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 instrument 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 fas
cinating to me, and he made of it a gracious
ceremony. Each gesture at each stage seemed
to be the deft and right gesture, and to each he
gave significance. It is in this beautiful busi
ness 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, for the White Poppy
holds in essence the radiant serenity of the heart

176 THE LONDON SPY
of Asia, and the peace of its pastures and the
cold grace of its people. 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 cooking and knead
ing, 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
coming down to breakfast unshaven ; like taking
exercise in the bath-room ; like studying Eng
lish 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 schoolboy'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 business was as interesting as the pre
paration. 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 one
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-

STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 177
street room of Gallions. I looked and looked
upon them until they seemed to move. I could
see the swinging water-jars and hear the tinkle
of wind-bells and smell the hot sleepy 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 expected, but I hadn't expected anything
like the aroma of mildewed Irish plug. Still, I
decided to persevere ; and after a few more
whiffs I found the trick of it. I sucked 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 be
lieved 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 feeling
of nausea passed. A deep droning began in my
ears. I drowsed, and the drowsiness lapped me
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 of power. I
wanted nothing ; 1 possessed all. I could
write the perfect sonnet. I could compose the
great music-drama. I could lead an army to
victory. I could conquer the world with a
M

178 THE LONDON SPY
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 com
fortable 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, enveloping my
face. It came nearer, and seemed to close in ;
then, suddenly, the centre split into rainbow
hues, and life moved within it. The hues
resolved themselves into one — blue — and I was
in a flowered garden where a blue moon threw
its light upon such 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 figures
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

STREETS OF CYPRUS-ON-THAMES 179
visible ; colour could be heard ; sound could be felt.
It seemed that my mind divided itself. I
knew that I was looking into that garden, and
I knew that I was lying on my back on a hard
mattress in the cottage 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 detail of the scene against the blue
dusk. The contour 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 grey, 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 and filled it with the fear of
old midnight legends. Then the garden cleared.
But one figure remained, a figure that looked
with strange gravity at me, appealingly, and

180 THE LONDON SPY
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 she went fleetly, 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. Her white feet
fled across the grass 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, and he stretched a great arm to her
shoulder. Melancholy brown darkness closed
in upon the garden. The darkness shrank and
shrank into itself until it became resolved into a
speck of pallid blue flame in a candle-lit room,
where I lay in headache. The woman next door
was screaming. The man's voice rumbled on.
An engine bellowed in the sidings, and a Salva
tion Army band blared, and a big brown figure
was shaking me by the shoulder.

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 trivial
topic of the moment, yet when lunch was an
nounced we had covered many square miles of
London, and were still going.
A bar does not become a bar by the granting
of a licence ; 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
bars of this kind — eclipsed bars, 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 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
181

18a THE LONDON SPY
take over the most prosperous 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 attended by
barmen is always better than that attended by
barmaids. Your barman is not so self-centred
as the girl, and does not demand attention, or
indulge his whims on you, or ignore one in favour
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 police
man ; the dignity of the merchant ; the geni
ality of the man-about-town ; and a certain
professional " something " 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 bars in central London for all moods
but some of the kindliest houses are to be found
in the near suburbs — Shepherd's Bush, Hammer
smith, Kensington, Whitechapel, Poplar, Wap
ping, Ratcliff, Highgate, Islington. Cavour's
bar, in Leicester Square, is a pleasant little
room, well appointed for an occasional gossip ;

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 183
and the upstairs room at Henekey's, in the
Strand, is the best place I know for rumination.
You may sit in a sturdy rush-bottomed arm
chair at an old oak table set with a pewter jug,
under the warmth of a great seventeenth-
century-style fireplace, and look through dia-
mond-paned windows upon the Strand's busi
ness, and be as tranquil 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, off 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's, Lei
cester Corner, where gathers daily the most
nondescript and roguish-looking crowd in Lon
don. Another favourite of mine is Shereef's
Wine Lodge, under the arches of Ludgate Hill,
where you may order " goblets " of champagne.
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 themselves to themselves. There are bars
for butlers, bars for footmen, and bars for
chauffeurs. Disorder is unknown there. The

184 THE LONDON SPY
atmosphere is subdued ; conversation is mur
mured. 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 them
selves as other men and are not labelled Yellow-
plush. 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 butlers. A man does not seem to slide
into the gravity 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 gentle
manly 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 be
longs 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 failings of "ours" and their visitors than

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 185
a mother does of other people's children. At
the same time, he borrows much reflected inter
est 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 Daily Official List, and he
follows fearfully the fluctuations of Mexican
Oils. I once had occasional acquaintance with an
ex-butler who frequented the " Running Foot
man." 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 information on music,
without their knowledge. But his 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
fidelity. In the dining-room men are off their
guard, and, if the butler is a true butler, nobody
is conscious of his presence. But he's there,
and that downcast eye is ever at work, noting
foibles and unconscious revelations. And my
butler had used his opportunities.
" Always entertaining, they wasf — three nights
a week. Funny-looking people they used to
have, too. Eccentric, y'know. But so interest
ing. As soon as they began to talk, you forgot
how funny-looking they was — they was that
interesting. There was man they used to

186 THE LONDON SPY
'ave very often. I couldn't make him 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 him. . . . But the man
that give 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 invited '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 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, 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 Patti. 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

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 187
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 they're looked after
or not. . . . Well, here's my very best res
pects ! "
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 land
lord ; 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 re
collections of Lord's and the Oval less interesting
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 " Claren-

188 THE LONDON SPY
don " at Hammersmith, the " Prospect of
Whitby " and the old " Town of Ramsgate " at
Wapping, the eighteenth-century " Hoop and
Grapes " in WTiitechapel High Street, Blockey's
in Jermyn Street, where the taxi-men dine, and
the old " Green Gate," Barking Road, where the
ancient and beguiling game of shove-ha'p'ny
may be played. This is a village inn on a
main road crowded with tram-cars, buses, and
lorries. It is a wooden structure, with a wide
cart-sweep, set with trestle-tables, and there
on fine days the carters sit with their drinks and
their dinners, making a Morland mezzotint in
the thick of London. And that name recalls a
delightful suburban house where he was known
—the old " Bull " at Highgate.
The very name of George Morland is a nose
gay of old cottage flowers. It evokes the genial
curves of the English countryside : bridle roads,
rough farm-yard smells, lamp-lit interiors, the
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
somewhat 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
" comfortable," he found his true comfort only
among the rude and simple ; and painted the

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 189
subjects that he loved. In taverns, stables,
farm-yards, he was at home, and there his in
genuous brush discovered and 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 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 " yet "] 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
Society or George Morland ? To our delight,
Morland made his choice ; and we may be sure
that he found among his " low " companions
unclouded graciousness 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 dissembling 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, children, and
drunkards as God sees them.
A born roamer, he lived in many spots of

190 THE LONDON SPY
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. Certainly, many of his com
panions were spongers, preying 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
something 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 sociability ;
for North Hill in those days was part of the
Great North Road, clamorous with traffic 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 Hertfordshire (sketch-book in hand,
you may be sure) returning to Highgate by the
up-mail. 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 from the road, inn-fashion, fronted by
a small gravel sweep. A flowered porch marks
the entrance to the saloon. It is a low-pitched
building, of two stories only, the upper rooms
lighted by two narrow windows of Georgian

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 191
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
kindliness and the outdoor perfumes of years ;
a whiff of the pleasant spirits of the past, pro
mising good company 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 witness from its windows
such sights as Morland witnessed : smocked
drovers from Hertfordshire worrying 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 bars I have noticed
many home-made bills, in red and blue lettering,
announcing hours of openings, 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 cus
tomers, who drew payment for them in kind.
Even so did Morland — and other artists, before
and since — paint pictures in discharge of tavern
reckonings. That Morland could, in the vulgar phrase,
" shift it," is shown by one day's drinking, re
corded, item by item, in his diary :
MORLAND'S BUB FOR ONE DAY.
Hollands Gin Porter
Rum and Milk Bottled Porter
Coffee Punch

192 THE LONDON SPY
Hollands Porter
Porter Ale
Shrub Opium and Water
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 Paddington. 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
relates to a court charge of drunkenness :
Magistrate : Any explanation to offer ?
Prisoner : I had two glasses of old
Burton.
Magistrate : Old Burton ? Where can
you get old Burton nowadays ?
Prisoner : You can get a good drop of
old Burton at "The Bull."
Tom, the present landlord of "The Bull," 'is
just such a fellow as Morland would have loved :
cheerful, 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 association with the
house ; even a few cheap process reproductions

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 193
would serve as a gesture of recognition of the
man whose memory sent many distinguished
callers to the house — among them, Cruikshank,
Millais, and Landseer. But no ; the saloon is
still decorated 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 reproductions 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 recognize
his duty, and will walk across the road and pay
his homage to the genius loci before it is too late.
For " The Bull " may not long remain as it is.
Another old inn, opposite 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, and rare; we have before us to-day too many
unhappy witnesses of what happens to old
taverns when brewery companies reconstruct
them. " The Bull " is not the only good and cosy
house of Highgate. There are 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
N

194 THE LONDON SPY
to-day it is well served. Although it lies within
the London Postal District and the Metro
politan 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 double kerb, the little
leaning shops with their eighteenth-century
windows, and the leisurely shoppers, belong
more to the heart of the shires than to London.
Happy little shops they are. So few useful,
so many admirable things, they sell. When you
have counted the butchers and bakers and
candlestick 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 dietary. 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 frivo
lous 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 time

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 195
beating epigrams and words of wisdom into
bronze and brass.
A few steps down the HiU, northward, stands
a group of sober Georgian houses, and near them
the peaceful Pond Square, tacked to the main
road by by-ways, and the Grove — also Georgian —
and Waterlow Park. Here is Nell Gwyn's
garden, evoking memories of oranges and lemans.
From it one looks by day 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 gold. To
the wooden benches outside " The Flask,"
which, village-like, is opposite the church, come
still, as centuries ago, tired folk from London
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" in calm contemplation,
with a mind at ease. This serenity and village
charm of Highgate are, paradoxically, the
result of Progress. 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 backwater, 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 reconstructed some years ago to the model
of its original, and, though the model was not so

196 THE LONDON SPY
closely observed as in the case of " The Wrest
lers," the work was reasonably 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 once
looked out upon a constant procession of coaches
and "chaises." To-day its traffic could be con
trolled 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 somewhat 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 welcome which the interior confirms.
The saloon is a small room, whose ceiling a man
of my low stature can touch. There are comfort
able lounges and a good fire, and contemporary
Hogarth prints and a dado of signed photo
graphs of the theatrical celebrities of the 'eight
ies, 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, having something of the atmosphere of
the house itself. I know no other suburb so rich
in old inns of the true type, no other suburb so
rich in sharp-flavoured character and unsoftened
idiosyncrasy. I don't care whether character

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 197
be surly, genial, wise, or foohsh, so it be emphatic
in tone and insistent. In this matter, this cor
ner of Highgate (not the Shepherd's Hill corner)
affords great joy. The village first attracted me
by the exteriors of its old inns, and their en
crusted charm, for I knew that within their
walls I should find ripe character; I was not
disappointed. These places gather characters
about them as their walls and roofs gather moss.
Men become themselves in these snuggeries,
which afford the advantages of a club and much
more personal freedom. They expand. They
assert. They contradict. They shed the pos
tures and opinions worn for the outside world,
and stand revealed.
I mentioned the ViUage Book Shop. There's
a character for you in Mr. Clayton, its proprietor.
There is nothing cheap about his shop, and
nothing cheap in it. He should have been an
artist : he has a fine sense of values and he knows
the prices of things to a halfpenny. You need
look for no bargains there, but if you want the
right Masefield or Conrad you will get it at the
latest tape-price — no lower. The bargain book
shop is never a very good bookshop, for the bar
gain — when it reaUy is a bargain — implies in
attention to business on the part of the pro
prietor, which is bad for him and for his cus
tomers. The ViUage Book Shop is a business
affair, and it is a pleasant retreat into which the
book-buyer may enter and enjoy bookish chat.
If you are of the right buying sort, you will be
welcomed by the proprietor, for he is a
second-hand bookseller of the modern sort,
not of your old-time sort, who hated — or pre-

198 THE LONDON SPY
tended to hate — to part with his treasures. The
proprietor of the Village Book Shop sells books,
and he will sell you first editions of Jack Hogs
head, whom he loathes, as cheerfully as he sells
the writings of his favourites. Your good shop
man should be all things to all men. The owner
of the Village Book Shop can wear that manner,
during business hours, to perfection.
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 veget
ables 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 walis gape widely, and there are great
clefts in the roof 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, worshipping
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

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 199
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 Spring
tide 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 glamour 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. It has a large saloon bar,
loaded with trophies from afar — strange birds
from the Pacific hang, wings extended, from the
ceiling, cunning weapons decorate the walls,
and under glass cases are Buddhas, ivory statu
ettes, 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 swims with smoke. Hot talk it is
too, suited to the somewhat makeshift appoint
ments of the place. Its fixtures are faded and
tarnished, and I imagine that the reason for the
neglect is the keen press of custom, which
leaves the staff never a minute for consideration
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

200 THE LONDON SPY
over, with a head on it ; for your seaman is
usually either a great drinker or a rigid teeto-
taUer. Restrictive morality cannot be served
here. The boys are workers, and when they
work they go into it full-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 elbows the crowd had forced into my ribs.
He grimaced and grinned at me over the edge of
his tankard. " Good drop o' beer this — eh ?
Best I've tasted fr a long time. 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 another ? "
We did. For to drink beer among good men
is 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 delights
are now forbidden by reformers in the pay of
business men. The business men's theory is
that by shutting off all rational enjoyments, 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
endurance, fatigue, feeding, and swift produc
tion. Let a perfectly sober man start a song
in a tavern, even piano, and a voice cries in

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 201
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
woeful 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.
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
anything ; he wants only to suppress ; and all
his agitations 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 mora
lities of the West, or for discouraging the little
pleasures of the poor. Zeal-of-the-land-Busy
can always find backers. The vociferous teeto-

202 THE LONDON SPY
taller and the missionary are commercial
travellers for the ignoble ends of their City
subscribers, and the aim of their campaign is
Increased Production and Expanded Trade,
which is an alias for more money for themselves.
The parade of the teetotallers is really amusing.
I do not know what strange virtue there is in
refraining from a perfectly natural act that so
unbalances a man, and makes him invent a
name for himself ; but I have never met a tee
totaller who did not talk, a little blandly, of his
abstinence. He describes himself 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 insult a noble Romanee Conti by
calling it alcohol and the liquor traffic. You
don't hear the unmarried woman caUing 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 sup
pressed, 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-minded business men, and their
dishonest lobbying for prohibition under the
disguise of temperance. They don't want to
bring more beauty to your life or your surround
ings, or to make things happier and healthier
for you and your children. Their aim is to make

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 203
you work harder — for them. " Industrial Ef
ficiency " is all that interests them ; they have
given the game away in their pamphlets. They
are going to take away the only club you have,
and will give you nothing in place of it. They are
working behind your backs, and one morning
you will wake up and find you may not have a
glass of beer under dreadful penalties.
A lordly bishop has hopefully announced that,
" as soon as the leaders of commerce and in
dustry can be brought to see that prohibition is
in their interests, they will enforce it on the
country." So there you are, then. But you
may be sure those leaders of commerce who are
not teetotallers will not enforce it on themselves.
It will work here as in America. The rich man
will have his cocktails and bottle of wine with
each meal ; the poor man will not be allowed
one glass of beer a week.
I have sat among them and heard their in
formal discussions of the matter and outlines of
their unscrupulous plans of campaign, glibly
formed with every circumstance of lie and deceit.
" No," said a very rev. Archdeacon, " the
time is not ripe for the term Prohibition. It
would only antagonise the country. We can
lead them better by retaining the old title' —
Temperance — it sounds better to the general
ear, and no suspicions are aroused. And I don't
think we should direct our campaign at the
people' — yet awhile. It's the heads of industries
and factories that we must get at. Once we've
got them, the rest will follow."
One of these days there will be a great public
occasion in England — the hanging of the two

204 THE LONDON SPY
enemies of civilisation — the millionaire and the
missionary. They live hand in hand, and it is
fitting that they should swing together. Until
then, my 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 dis
coveries 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 marketeers take recess from
labours. But the best of the East End houses is
the " Black Lion," at East Ham, the most
Continental bar in London. It is newly
fitted with rustic alcoves, lit by electric lan
terns ; it has a broad oaken gallery, similarly
fitted ; it has a staff of waiters, a string band
and a dancing floor. The tables will comfortably
accommodate five hundred people, and it is in
the best sense a family resort. It's a pity the
West End can't take a lesson from the East Ham
licensing justices, and give us a bar or two where
we can have good music for the price of a drink.
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 strangely evocative

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 205
name of " Smashing Lumber." The traditions
of " Paddy's Goose " are of vermilion hue. In
its time it was the worst of the dockside crimp
ing dens, where seamen were hocussed, their
pay drawn in advance, and themselves, in
capable, 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 Seamen's Mission, a Coffee
Palace and a Slate Club, and Princess Mary has
danced a two-step upon its floors.
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 res
ponds. 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 paying-in nights, 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
members come up in a bunch, then ; fifteen
hundred of them. The hall borrows warmth
from the spirit of expectancy and the adum
bration of fifteen hundred " good times " made
by the accumulated cash on my table. I
sit before it like a croupier at Monte Carlo, and

206 THE LONDON SPY
every player is a winner. I no longer feel in
sipid and commercial. Mine, for the moment,
is the part of Scrooge on Christmas morning.
Members at the far end of the queue joke among
themselves, 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 Christmas, mister ! " And I
respond, — fifteen hundred times. Often I have
to laugh a thousand times, for the greater num
ber 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, unhappily, is an annual event, like grouse-
shooting, over the sticks, and Epiphany, and is
too piously observed. 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 penuriousHeUows, the
defaulters^ are very few.
The largest Slate Club in the world is the New
Tabernacle Provident Society, at the Leysian
Mission, City Road. It adjoins the Alexandra
Trust, where you can get three grand meals a

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 207
day for ten shillings a week. It pays out an
nually 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 pub
lic-house in the side streets of the poorer quar
ters has its Christmas Club. About July, when
editors are making up their Christmas Numbers
and publishers are ready with their Autumn
Lists, these little shops put up their first large-
type announcements :
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 disappear overnight ;
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 Hockington, a likely
lad at a Canning Town boxing-ring ; and, later,
Frederick Hockington, seaman, and, later still,
Police-constable Hockington. To-day he is
Mister Hockington, licensee of the " Cuckoo's

208 THE LONDON SPY
Nest." His bar deportment is exquisite— a
mixture of the lamb and the lion. He can be
lazily humorous, and 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 ob
streperous fellow in the four-ale bar ever waits
to be put out. Mister Hockington has only to
lift an arm towards the counter-flap, 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 finish are warned
off." " Obscene language forbidden. The
guv' nor can do it better than you."

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 209
His life has been a sequence of thwarted am
bitions. As a youth the ring attracted him, and
he saw himself with the light-weight champion
ship and plenty of backers. A few k.o.'s put
an end to that, and the sea called him. He saw
himself with a master'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 Hocking
ton how he came to lose the Iris.) His inte
grity, 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
provincial 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 references, were years of bitter
exile. Sorrow ate into his bonny frame, and
withered his cheerio countenance, and the at
mosphere of the provincial second-hand —which,
indeed, must be the Avernusof 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
o 1

2ro THE LONDON SPY
have met Cockneys at lone farmsteads in the
Cotswolds, and did not know them from the
thick-spoken and gun-footed shepherds until
they acknowledged themselves in bitter words
against the stark countryside. 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 Cheltenham
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 nimble graces of the town never
nurses a secret yearn for Rochdale or Chester
field or Runcorn or the farm at Chorlton-cum-
Hardy ; not he. One of our public choristers
put his finger well on it when he lately asked :
How yeh gonna keep 'em down on the farm,
After they've seen Paree ?
He wants to be taken for a Cockney, and never
succeeds ; while the poor Cockney, against his
will, assimilates provincial mannerisms until he
is unrecognisable, though, throughout exile, his
heart is in the Strand among the bananas.
Sometimes he comes back, usually penniless ;
but more often he develops into " our worthy
fellow-townsman," and is named in the local
paper. Hockington was getting like that. He
was beginning to be somebody in his ward ; but,
though there are many poor folk who would
rather be Somebody among the little than

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 211
Nobody among the great, he was not one of
them. And at last he came back, by no means
penniless. " 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 a 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 pot
man ? " Towards his wife he is heavily facet
ious, 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. She speaks of him as " that old
fool," with a whimsical tolerance on the noun.
The tolerance is justified. She knows him
through and through, and, to his faults, of which
he has many, she winks the other eye. She told

212 THE LONDON SPY
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
personal friends, having done well at the dinner,
decided to carry on the good work, and make a
night of it. It appeared from his confession in
the morning that they went here and went there,
and in Oxford Street they picked up company,
and drove to a " place " where women 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, uncomfortably sure that the old fool
had got into a mess again. At four in the mor
ning a hammering on the door. Mrs. 'Ock
descended, and there on the doorstep sat a
foot-sore 'Ock, half-asleep.
He didn't move.
" Come upstairs, silly great thing, you ! "
" Shan't ! "
" Don't be silly, Fred. You come upstairs
with me at once."
Then 'Ock looked at his wife, and said the
beautiful 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 upstairs. I god doo 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 around 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

STREETS OF GOOD COMPANY 213
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 " old
'Ockington."

In the Street called Queer
The police-court is the living cinematograph of
the town's life. There, in swift flashes, human
ity 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 disguise 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
drinking ; that Mr. Wumble is a pathological
case ; that Mrs. Widley is a shop-lifter (we often
wondered how she got those furs — and her hus
band 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-lifters, or
crouching like poisoners. Elegant clothes be
come shabby. Easy manners become ludicrous.
Agreeable voices become hoarse and uneven.
214

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 2r5
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
chambers. The procedure of one court is very much that
of the others. First are heard, before the public
is admitted, the applicants for advice and sum
monses. Then, the plain drunks. Then, the
drunk-and-disorderlies and assaults on the pol
ice. Then, the motorist 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 care
taker), one or two policemen to keep order,
solicitors representing the offenders, the usual
pressmen 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 some
times a woman, and in big courts a man and a
woman. He is a sort of liaison officer between
the offender and the law. His duties are mani
fold, 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 mis-

216 THE LONDON SPY
sionary 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 police
man'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 quarrels, to placate landlord and lodger,
to get work for the first offender who has been
" driven to it " by unemployment, to admonish
naughty boys and girls, to keep in touch with
offenders released on probation, 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
missionaries of to-day to say that the best of
them was that rare character, Thomas Holmes,
once missionary to the North London Court at
Dalston,- and later secretary to the Howard
Society. He wrote three volumes of his ex
periences 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

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 217
many of them treated his efforts towards re
claiming 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 fearless1 ; 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 regarding 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.
For most of the respectable poor the
police-court, in prospect, holds many terrors,
but in the metropolitan courts these terrors have
no real existence. The J. P. of the country
town is pretty much as he was when Smollett
portrayed him as Justice Gobble in "Lancelot
Greaves " but 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

218 THE LONDON SPY
job would turn most sweet believers into cynics.
Even when sentencing the old offender there
is a sort of twinkling cameraderie 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, ser
geant ? I'm 'appier in there. More 'omey-
like. But once I'm out — weU, you know what
boys are. ... Go on, Mister Cairns, get on
wiv it."
" Very well, then . . . Two months."
" '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 ?

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 219
Woddud you do, Mister Reynolds, if I was to
call you a bahstud ? "
" I think we'U leave speculative questions out
of it, and stick to facts. Now, you, sir, did you
caU 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.
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."
"All right, all right. Don't git excited.
I'm going. But I on'y 'ope someone calls you
a bahstud 'fore long. Then you'll 'ave sym
pathy with a man's feelings. We got our feel
ings same as what you 'ave, an . . . 'm . . .
'm." And there is the bewildered first offender, who
knows that the magistrate has some title of

220 THE LONDON SPY
honour, but does not know the term, and ad
dresses him variously as " My Lord," " Your
Grace," "Your Worship," <,fYour Honour,"
" Judge " and " My Worship."
Each court has its own atmosphere. Marl
borough Street and Marylebone share the West
End offenders. Bow Street and Mansion House
are often sensational with " big " cases — fraud
and murder. North London has its pitiful
tale of squalor and wreckage. West Ham has
its riots, assaults, and domestic squabbles ; and
Thames, the chief court for dockland, is the
richest of them all in the bizarre and the un
expected. In the past, Marlborough Street and
Marylebone were centres of interest ; for then
there was a daily procession of offenders, rich
and poor, 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

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 221
harsh. Their physical appeal to young men
could have been small. But these new amateurs
are more 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
hke 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
expected. This class was always about, but it is now a
growing class. It came in during the war, when
the professionals 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 course 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 un
pleasant 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 people. That was all. She talked
with graceful accent, and showed sense and

222 THE LONDON SPY
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 ap
proaches. 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 trouble they immediately
swing round in disgust and charge the man with
interfering with them. That 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 to imprison him in the
heart is folly. Vice has become respectable and
discreet ; and never is vice so abominable 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 misdemeanour ; a succession of glimpses
into dark corners of the heart. It stands in
Arbour Square, Stepney — a horrid travesty of
the squares of Mayfair. The court is a low
squat building of unkind countenance. You
pass through the public entry, and take your
place at the back with a company of unemployed,
niggers, brown men, Chinks, wasters, blowsy

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 223
women in variegated costumes ; some of them
idle lookers-on, others friends or enemies of the
accused. 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 misfortunes of your neighbours. All
pohce-courts have a smell — the smell of poverty ;
but Thames has a rich and varied succession of
smells ; the smells peculiar 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 good day. The first appearances
are the Saturday-night cases, and these are of
every type — the tough, the pugilist, the respect
able workman fallen from grace, a shopkeeper,
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 newspapers, 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 produce evidence that he has
been previously convicted of keeping a gaming
house, and has been harbouring white girls.
Here Quong Foo speaks, and the interpreter

224 THE LONDON SPY
tells the court that Quong didn't want the girls :
they came to him and refused to go away.
Fined £10, and recommended for deportation.
Quong pays up and goes quietly away.
Jack Ramshu Boona, Malay, charged with
stabbing a compatriot. Boona has much to
say — too much — and says it at some length.
Another interpreter 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. Magistrates 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 confer with Mrs. O'Flaherty.
George Gattring, stevedore, charged with
assaulting gate-keeper at docks. Gate-keeper
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 enquired at Gattring's

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 225
home, and found his story correct. Magistrate
very sympathetic, but assault proved. Seven
days. Missionary asked to render assistance at
home. George Washington Grant Lincoln Jones,
coloured gentleman, charged with shooting at
landlord of " Formosa Lily," and with being in
possession of a revolver without a licence.
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 whirlwind of
screams and limbs and clothes. Screams ringing
through court long after she has disappeared.
Everybody uncomfortable. 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 solid asseveration and vehement p

226 THE LONDON SPY
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 administer pure law, but
to guide, to counsel, to befriend, and , sorrow
fully, to punish.
Punishments vary in the magistrate's dis
cretion. There are some who are noted for the
extreme sentence that the law permits ; others,
who seldom use their full power. The main
idea is that the punishment should fit the crime,
but surely this is wrong. The aim of punish
ment 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 cheer
fully 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 comfortably do a month
than pay up forty shillings. Some tough
cases, sentenced to a long term, have even asked
that some of it may be docked, and the " cat "

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 227
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 im
prisonment for an old hand and a month's
imprisonment for a quiet suburban clerk may
sound the same thing, but they are widely
different. For precisely similar offences, one
man might be adequately punished by the
public exposure, 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 sensi
tive seven days at Wandsworth is as affrighting
as a stretch at Portland.
When the lighter cases are dismissed, the more
serious cases, remand cases, come on. It is
instructive to hear a detective give evidence.
In flat, grey tones he recites what the prisoner
said on being arrested. One can visualise the
scene — the shock, the fright, the hoarse tones,
the exclamatory appeals, the whine, the out
burst. But nothing of this atmosphere is re
produced by the detective. Keeping his eyes
on his notes, he intones from them without the
slightest inflection to mark one word from an
other, so that the prisoner shall not be in any
way prejudiced by any stress or lighting-up of
possibly damaging words.
"I told the prisoner that I held a warrant for
her arrest, and that she would be charged with

228 THE LONDON SPY
the manslaughter 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:
" O-my-God-that-Sal-has-put-me-away-she-is - a
nice-one- what-shall-I-do-I- will-never - help - any-
body-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. I have gathered his story from him,
at odd occasions, piecemeal. Here it is :
He was a young man, and his father, a retired
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, employed his
allowance in becoming one of the lads. The
other lads would drink or not drink, as business
required ; but Ernie was a dipsomaniac, on the
mat when they opened, and thrown out at
closing-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

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 229
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-bruiser, who
introduced him to the bunch. Until then he had
been a lonely youth, wandering aimlessly about
the streets, and allaying his boredom by after
noon 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 com
pany 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. . . . And they asked him what he was
having, with gestures expressive of making him
a present of the complete pub.
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 darling confidences. As
he laconically put it, after a 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'aving, ole man ? No — I arst 'im first."

230 THE LONDON SPY
They left uproariously at half -past ten, bub
bling 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 ren
dezvous, 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 adven
tures, 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'emian, and a pal's
a pal, whether 'e goes orf the rails or not."
And, while father went about looking for suit
able businesses 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

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 231
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 had 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 profile. Charlie's face,
now he came to look at it, was one of the hand
somest 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 always he
was crying — " Now come on, boys ! With me ! "
After four more, a change took place in the
nature of things. The corners of the room
bulged and shifted. The room kept no shape
for long. The ceiling spun. The floor rocked.
Nausea hovered about him. Silly tunes sang in
his head. Things grew to monstrous heights yet
seemed to be fading away. Bar seemed to be
bigger than usual. Everybody 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.
Charlie 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.

232 THE LONDON SPY
He got up from the lounge, and swayed to
wards them, opening the circle with a lurch.
There were strident protests of "'Ere I say I"
and cackles of laughter. He ignored them and
fixed Levinsky.
" Levinsky — 'swun thing I've alwis wonnid
say chew. Levinsky — you're dam sonofabitoh.
'Ad's what yew are. See ? Jus' thought I'd
tell yer. See ? 'M, 'M." He swayed. Levinsky
swayed with him. Then he linked his arm in
Ernie's. " Ah, there y'are, Ernie. 'Squite ri' what
chew said. I am. And proud of it. 'Ere
me and you understand one another. You an'
me'U sit together. 'Ave quiet li'l drink.
Leave these ignorant 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 moves! into the
next stage of well-being7 He began to recognise
now that he wasn't himself, but he was quite
content. He was somebody much better. A
new man, in fact. The evening was only just
beginning. He had two more with Levinsky. . . .
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.
Siddown. Lessavanother. 'Smy turn."
" 'Ere — who's going to see this dam fool 'ome.
Who knows where 'e lives ? "

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 233
" '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
home, 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 pro
bable end, and the argument ended in a spasm
of severity. Cash allowance was cut off from
that day. Without 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 tasting again the
convivial life. But for weeks he could think of
nothing. Between meal-times he mooned
miserably about the streets, smoking the cheap
cigarettes bought with the sixpence a day that
his father aUowed him. Soon he came to accept
a drink from anybody who offered it. And when
a lad does that . . .
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

234 THE LONDON SPY
passed a hand across his mouth, as one wiping
away an offensive 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 smelliest
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 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
acquaintances 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 stood two or
three men whom he knew. He took his glass
and went 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. In a drunken sleep that followed he had
a dream. . . .
In the morning he went back to Inspector

IN THE STREET CALLED QUEER 235
Territon, sick and remorseful, and offered him
the remains 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 had
betrayed a man in a garden to his enemies.

In the Streets ot 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 considered ; 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 1 had known
the streets about its walls from childhood. It
is a little town by itself. Every commodity
that is brought into England has its warehouse
here, and every job that men can do has its
" shop " here. There are the carpenter'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 warehouse, the grain warehouse, the wool
warehouse, the spice warehouse, the ivory and
hides warehouse, the drug warehouse, the tobacco
236

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 237
warehouse, and the chilled meat warehouse.
It is the stomach of London.
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 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 the breeze, dazed
with plenitude and the sight of too much of
everything. London Docks are London in little and trade in

238 THE LONDON SPY
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 moun
tainous 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 found peace. It was like a Chopin
nocturne after a railway accident. There is no
riot or clamour in the wine-vaults ; all is sub
dued. 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 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

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 239
every point to those in use at these very vaults
a hundred years ago. You will see them de
picted in an old colour-print by Robert Cruik-
shank 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 Burgundy, of Champagne, of Xeres,
of Moselle, of Holland, of Lombardy, of Tokay,
of Canary, of the glens of Scotland and the val
leys 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 drooped to our feet.
No light came from them above the curve of the
barrel, but in the gloom that wine shone and
gave off light. With proper gesture George
handed the glass to Monk, and filled two others.
We 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 elegance, of
gaiety and wisdom. We drank it in full re-

240 THE LONDON SPY
cognition 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 ver
mouth, but a VERMOUTH. Aha ! No solem
nity about that. Never, he said, was there such
vermouth in such condition as this vermouth.
We must taste it. We made ourselves agree
able, and certainly the vermouth was unlike any
other that I had tasted. Nor have I ever found
any like it outside those vaults. To whom they
belonged, whose barrels we were breaking 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 Amontillado 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 place wrought upon me — the dark
ness and the damp and the silence. The barrels
were so many monsters, 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 passage,
following George. I wished I hadn't had that
vermouth. Or perhaps it was the sherry. An
hour passed, and we were stiU following George.

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 241
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. Keep
behind me. Never mind the rats ; they won't
fly at yeh. 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 out into
Pennington Street, and so to Commercial Road.
There we agreed to take a bus ride to Canning
Town, on pretence of looking up old friends, but
really to clear our heads.

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 Can
ning Town is an apt pendant to the wine. But
days seldom permit themselves to be governed
by an arbitrary aesthetic. To Canning Town we
went, and perhaps the very incongruity of it
mated not disagreeably with the early 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
Q

242 THE LONDON SPY
reached the Iron Bridge we were ready for any
thing. Canning Town is good East End. Its pulse
and temper are deep and wayward. It drums
barbarically to the rhythms of Alsatia. Here is
a bit of the 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 surrendered to them. Respect
ability 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 disordered
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 footfalls are keenly heard and his footmarks
sharply seen. From the Bridge you look across
a grotesque allotment of toil, breathing and
smoking and rumbling, 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

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 243
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 by-ways. There are
queer houses in these by-ways, and queer shops.
They hark back. They sell foods that have long
ceased to be popular in other parts. They sell
those shocking musical instruments — the ac
cordion, the melodion, the ocarina and the Jew's
harp — now supplanted, in all weJl-conducted
homes, by the gramophone. You will find, too,
second-hand batches of the old penny dreadfuls,
these also supplanted by the less dreadful and
perhaps less subversive publications of the big
syndicates. You wiU find here the old Edwin
Brett journals, and ghastly periodicals from
obscure presses. I acquired a bob's worth of
these, and good ding-dong reading they make
for midwinter evenings by the chimney corner.
The very titles give a prickle to the skin —
" The Black Monk's Curse " " The Boy Bandit,"
"Blueskin," "The Vampire's Bride," "The
Wild Boys of London," " The Skeleton Crew,"
" Tyburn Dick," " Starlight Nell," " The Moon
light 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 es
sential ingredient of hot-footed devilry is missing.
The heroes are tepid and morally punctilious.
They stand for law and order, and defeat the

244 THE LONDON SPY
cunning and the lawless with manly virtues,
where the older heroes were against the law and
the villains were of Bow Street. Deplorable
ethics, I know, but what's a penny dreadful if it
isn't dreadful ? 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 representa
tions of women with asses' heads or padlocked
lips and other deformities. With these atro
cious missives the youth of the district work off
old scores against unfriendly 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
believe, 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 made a
note or two, and sat watching him collect the

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 245
doings. Fred is by profession a journeyman
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
skittles, 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 discloses a companionableness that
immediately attracts. There's no nonsense
about Fred. He puts up no defence. Unlike
our company promoters, he knows that stealing
is wrong and he knows that he is not as good as
other men. He'll tell you with engaging can
dour how he did somebody down the other day,
and half an hour later he will do you down
in exactly the same way, and then call you a
fool. " Well, wodyeh grumblin' abaet ? I warned
yeh, di'n I ? Yeh can't saey 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 everywhere. 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
httle in him that offends. He was then the

246 THE LONDON SPY
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, certainly, but not craven
or shifty. He knows he is a Bad Man, as other
men know that they are clerks or bus-conduct
ors ; and that is all there is to it. His 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 ra 'bus, mate ? You won' git one
now. They all gorn."

il

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 247
Oh ? " I said. " That's nasty. Looks like
a nice long tramp."
" Got far to go ? "
" North London "
" Cuh — 'at'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 mood myself, I encouraged him. We
talked of getting stranded in out-of-the-way
places, of the annoyances of things, and of this
and of that. He seemed by his figure an over
grown 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 notable men. I once knew a

248 THE LONDON SPY
man of this type who committed a murder. He
did not Gommit murder with the motive of
advertisement ; it was a deliberate crime of
revenge. But, after the first shock of the event,
he realised that he was now a person of import
ance 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 re
mained 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 teU yeh somethink. It's
me they're looking for. I 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 inconse
quent talk, just such another — thin and lack
lustre. His walk was a long-legged shamble.
He assumed the casual air with too much dili
gence. He threw off a too-large air of world-
knowledge. His wide uncertain mouth gaped
indecently. He wasn't drunk, and I think he

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 249
wasn't quite sober. His talk was rational, but
— it left you puzzled. There seemed to be
something struggling underneath it. His
manner, too, was furtive, with odd dashes of
boldness and man-to-mannishness. 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 1 cared
about it. I hesitated. I wasn't at all sure
about him ; but he interested 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 ham and bread came out. Where he took
me then, I don't know, for it was dark then and
dark when I left to get the workmen's tram.
But we walked through a grove of by-ways, and
as we walked I was kept puzzled as to his charac
ter. 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
the late hour, 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

250 THE LONDON SPY
people. But 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 bread,
squirmed and giggled at me with wide toothy
mouth. Hanging on the wall, by either side of
the fireplace were, at a random 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'
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. " But what
the devil — how  "
He grinned again and opened the packet of
ham, cut the bread and made two sandwiches ;
then pointed to a wicker chair. He seemed not
at all abashed at letting a stranger into his
secret. In this room he was happy and at
ease. He had now no pose, no reserve, no
hesitation. He was quietly nimself.
His most notable trait was a sort of private
suppressed glee which would burst from the
corners of his eyes and lips in the fleeting mo-

STREETS OF THE FAR EAST 251
ments when he cast a glance at his " collection."
Outside that room he would have passed any
where as the amiable gawk I had thought him.
Inside . . . When he had finished both of the
sandwiches, he began to talk, not haltingly,
as before, but in gushes of confidence and con
fession. 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 coUectors will do.
" 'At one cors' me somethink — 'em yeller
curls wi' the blue ribbon. I di'n' 'arf 'ave a job
gittin' them. I see 'er in Victoria Park, an'
followed 'er two hours, an' on'y got me chance on
a bus at Beffnal Green. An' 'at black one —
I spent I d'no 'ow long in a pitcher-palace gittin'
that. . . . 'Sa risky gaeme, y'know. I neely
bin copp' sometimes."
He giggled, and went to the wall and took
down the tresses, and ran them through his
fingers. Slowly, with face bent, his hooded eyes
half lit, he passed them through his fingers and
across the back of his hand ; and 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 un
folded itself before me in coils, and put things
into my own mind — faint vapours from mid
night forests ; the ecstasy of the goat. . . .
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 drooping attitudes
and slow gestures uttered the unutterable.

252 THE LONDON SPY
From time to time he ejaculated a toneless,
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 continued to eat, 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.

In the Street of Beautiful Children
I was ever of opinion that the children of the
East End are more beautiful and more buoyant
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 fea
tured they are and of elegant carriage, but re
pressed, lustreless ; all zest refined out of them ;
consciously sitting for their portraits. They
have that dull distinction that goes with fitness
and breeding. One appreciates, but does not
admire. They are products of intensive culture,
like pedigree puppies. They have the air of the
colts of thoroughbreds, sleek and sound. But
beauty is wanting. For beauty cannot be bred ;
it happens, and visits seldom by invitation.
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
253

254 THE LONDON SPY
or caught secretly in tense moments of applica
tion. Here are the proud, the sly, 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 streets 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 children. The spirit of
Spring irradiates every page. There are little
bare legs, and sweet-curved stockinged legs,
flower-like limbs and fat dimpled limbs. There
are faces carrying in such profusion that
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 Sunday Best. It is a golden
treasury of childhood, and my favourites are
the beautiful figures of the children of the poor
streets.

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 255
Often I have wandered in those streets, and
wondered whether Shoreditch or Poplar, Homer-
ton or Wapping held the palm for lovely children,
whether this or that Council School could out
shine the others, and whether the beauty was
concentrated or scattered 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 Monday
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 light
ly 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 per
form it. Even the tact and urbanity and com
mand of Lord Curzon would be severely tested
by its occasions. The good rent-collector needs
to be swiftly adaptable. He 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

256 THE LONDON SPY
Mrs. B shall be sternly admonished and threat
ened with immediate procedure.
Apart from the difficulties of the job itself,
its circumstamces are deeply disagreeable. A
tour of the back streets of Stepney on a wet
Monday morning 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 Eastfield 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 usual
hot grumble, and then broke into the usual long
dry laughter. " Can't 'elp seeing the funny side
o' things, 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. Ceil
ings had given way ; beds were damp ; bed
rooms were dripping with water ; basements
were flooded ; and in them stood querulous
people, angry for their rights, yet only pleading
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 of the

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 257
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 that state, he
cannot raise the rent ; but then he is already
doing very weU 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 hus
band, being 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 con
demned by the R.S.P.C.A. as stables. Water
was coming in through paneless windows, under
the doors, through window-mouldings and else
where. 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
shillings a room. Furnished. A broken bed,
a mattress, blanket and pillow, a lame chair, a
table and a washstand. 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 picture could
convey any idea of their confused desolation.
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. Every- R

258 THE LONDON SPY
thing 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 ideals 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 I saw a sick man, reclining half-
naked on the bed and making dismal noises.
In another, whose opposite walls I could touch
with extended arms, the husband, black from
work, was bolting his midday meal of porridge
and potatoes. In the other, three children,
home from school, were having dinner — bread-
and-margarine 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 washing-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

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 259
the families were just back from hopping.
'Opping ain't what it uster be, as anyone will
tell you, but the skiUed 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 work
ing-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
hurrying to their doors with their greasy books
and their fishy money and their arms covered
with scales, and stood awaiting me. Most of
the street doors were wide open, and through
them I stepped straight into the front parlour.
Where there were babies, the doorways were
wedged with a protecting board, about two feet
high, and over the top of the board peered
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 mother or father.
" 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 'usband's, she says. But we ain't seen no
'usband. Married at the bed-rail, if you ask
me. Not that I'm one to makejnischief, Gawd
knows, but that sorter thing makes a street so
low."

260 THE LONDON SPY
Among the old couples there were no def ault-
ters. 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. Their homes, being free of
children, were better kept than the others, 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 cosiness in these parts.
After all, what's the use of opening your win
dows when your stale air is only replaced by the
stinks of the streets ? Better to put up with the
close food-and-bed smell. Every parlour was
crowded with ornaments ; hundreds, I would
say. Mantelshelves were loaded with poor
bric-a-brac. Sideboards were cluttered with
souvenirs 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 discordant 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, cheerless
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

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 26r
suddenly into the street of youth and bountiful
beauty, all my depression vanished, and my
heart leapt up. There before 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 midday 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, assertive 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 assoilment that so
often overlies it. But it is there — a loveliness
that shines under the dirt hke 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
breakfasts to the streets, and their teas ; and
those for whom mother has not been able to
contrive a " sit-down " midday meal, take their
dinners there.
It is an unlovely street, of blunt outlines ; as
straight and bare as a sword. The road is asphalte,
and the houses are brick cubes, without garnish

262 THE LONDON SPY
or decorative 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 battered 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 barracks.
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 efferves
cent 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. Barelegged and barefooted
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
midday " arrants " for mother. The forgotten
game of diabolo is still popular here, and its
urgent attitudes gladden the street with swift
figures, in the felicitous poise between movement
and repose.
Such an accumulation of beauty at once

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 263
delights and saddens. But for their voices and
manners you would say they were dream-chil
dren ; and any childless person, looking down
this street, would, I think, wish to seize one of
these fragments of childhood and adopt it, and
soften the voice 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 wiUlead 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 delighting
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 environment that should be altered. It is
the cramped spaces of the home that so quickly
kiU all beauty of heart and face. In such sur
roundings the struggle to preserve the decencies
is hopeless ; and soon vitality is lowered and
self-respect corroded, and beauty fades. That
is why I want to take the children away — not
from their families to which they are ornament
and delight ; not even from Stepney ; but from
the wretched rabbit-hutches of Stepney. And
those chUdren in whose homes the best is
not made of things, who have careless mothers

264 THE LONDON SPY
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 system, 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 are than in a Charity
Home. " 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.
The daily pageant of the city streets is hourly
broken by many ugly incidents, flashes of dis
tress, and shocks to civic pride ; but the very
ugliest spectacle 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 touching sight !
What a splendid thing these Homes are for the
children !
And yet. . . . Childhood implies fresh
ness, 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

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 265
the wild grace of young animals. The weU-
nurtured and carefully-tended child of Kensing
ton 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 fresh
ness is already tarnished. They are socially
branded ; the Charity Children. They are so
many parading grotesques, advertising the al
truism of their protectors. Study their faces,
and you will see that, although chubby, they are
blank and witless. The eyes are clear, but with
out zest ; the lips unused to laughter. The
features are heavy with thick food and enforced
hebetude. They march like prisoners, and you
may see that they look upon the people and the
other children in the streets with bewilderment,
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 independ
ence. They know nothing of it, and, if un-
guided, +hey move with faces like baffled sheep.
f-. Pity the children of the poor !
f • 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 barracks. I have had bitter
familiarity with these Homes for Orphans,
contumehously named Rescue Schools, Waifs
and Strays, Industrial Schools, Pauper Schools,
Working Schools, etc., and I do not suffer any

266 THE LONDON SPY
glow of complacence when I see children dragged
from the Street of Beautiful Children and carried
into them. I know the exacerbation of distress
which they will suffer from their hideous garb
and rule-of-thumb routine, and their futile
agony against the callous machinery of philan
thropy which will blindly bruise them ; and I
know what the child thinks of his " rescuers."
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 believe that
these gaunt people can mean to hold him within
their grip for a term of years which is eternity to
him. He is stunned, then hotly rebellious.
But quickly he is given " special attention,"
and soon he is without capacity for anger, in
capable of independent thought, submissive ;
too apathetic even to think of running away from
his captors. He becomes a part of the Home —
a mere organism. 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 somewhere, and it is better to
try them upon those who have no influential
parents or friends to raise misleading outcries
in the press. So long as the public sees official
statistics and the spectacle of physically healthy

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 267
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 (I think
the term is justified) claim that they have snat
ched them from evil surroundings and conditions
of neglect and ill-treatment, and have given them
a Good Home, where comfort and sound train
ing 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, Philan
thropy, 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 cares
ses, or sweet foolish words, or the hearty cuff
and personal admonishment 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

268 THE LONDON SPY
children, they would much rather suffer the
rough treatment of an alcohohc father or a
neglectful 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 careless and kickful parents, are
points of personal contact, of intimacy. They
carry a rough, rude cheer, and, even if life in the
hovel is explosive and indecent, the child
develops himself more rightly there 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 pictur
esque : only rich. I wonder, does the reason for
the savage suppression of the colour and move
ment of the poor lie there ? Is this why the
rich, unable themselves to achieve colour, are so
rigorous in " putting it down," in seizing the
young poor and re-forming them to a pattern,
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. Initiative 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

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 269
training and a sort of aloof kindness — every
thing to fit him effectually for service — robs him
of his most precious possession, individual
character. It claim 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. He is trained not to
develop himself to his highest pitch for the
betterment of the world and the enjoyment 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 team-work
— 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 surrenders — not material
surrender to an invincible enemy, but moral
surrender to weak friends : surrender of charac
ter 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 children in these
places are trained for that very end — to give up
all the beauty, character, power and unique
quality that is their power for the benefit of the
fools, that they may not o'ertop their fellows.
Never yet did a great man make one of a team.
He may have led a team, but always he was
himself, moving along his own lines, never sink
ing himself to the level of the laggards ; and if

270 THE LONDON SPY
the crowd called him to order they called in vain.
No character of worth can ever efface itself, or, if
it does, it commits the unspeakable sin. That
sin, soldiers, and children of the Homes, are
trained daily to commit — to deny their own gifts
for the sake of the crowd. You see it in Par
liament, in the Army, in Trades Unions, in the
athletic field, in the public school, but specially
in the Charity Refuge. There is one great law
in this country which is well supported by the
established caste : you must not be 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 machi
nery 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 direct 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 children 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-assured that they are Doing Good. The
children could present them with a different

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 271
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 pre
cepts 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 character.
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 deliber
ate unkindness 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 beauti
ful 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
brutal boots, and the flying limbs are curbed.
His system is a degradation of childhood, a de
nial of beauty, a blasphemy, a patronage of the
helpless. He even permits doctors to make
experiments upon the children's bodies. This
I know : but I have not heard even a rumour
that Eton boys are subject to inoculation ex
periments. To all critics he replies, in the large
manner, " Pooh ! Sentimental nonsense ! " I
am no sentimentalist, and would rather see the
children left to fight a.nd. frolic and go hungry

272 THE LONDON SPY
and ragged 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. In many Homes the
children are not let out until they have com
pleted their training, which means that they
live for eight or nine years like performing
animals, under a system formulated and calcu
lated 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.
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

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 273
away from it. Indeed, 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 successful escapes
from Homes and Reformatories.
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 all the apparatus of Re
form. They exist for the purpose of reclaiming
" bad " children and restoring to them their
self-respect. ActuaUy, they are factories for
the production of determined criminals, shorn
of every shred of self-love or self-respect. They
are run on methods of malevolence ; they manu
facture hate. Let a boy be sent to one of these
places, for offences which, in a student or under
graduate, are expiated by apologies and money-
payments, and he is a law-breaker 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 tor
tured in the name of the True Faith. Glimpses
of life in these places have lately been vouch
safed to the public through coroners' inquests ;
but what drawn-out agony it is that can drive
a high-spirited youth of seventeen to murder or
suicide, God and the officials only know, for they
are caged, these children, without communica
tion with the world. Visiting justices ? Tra
velling inspectors ? Yes, but are they wholly
disinterested ? Are they picked from the public
as jurymen are picked ? And do they bring to
the boys the sympathy they give to their own
class ? s

274 THE LONDON SPY
The girls' reformatories, if not so harsh in
degree, are equally harsh in principle. The
breaking-in and bruising are the same. The
forms of punishment are equally obscene, 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 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 ruling 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, " Over
drawn ! Exaggerated ! Such things don't hap
pen in this England of ours ! " And they
would say the same if they were permitted to
know the blasting details of life on a training-
ship. But those who are so satisfied with this
England of ours would do well to make some
investigation into the methods of authority
towards the helpless, and learn " how men their

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 275
brothers maim " and how women torture their
young sisters. Only this year, 33 young Borstal
girls were put in irons — yes, irons.
Charles Reade is read to-day only for his
" story," and " De Profundis " as a piece of
hterature. Few people are concerned to know
whether conditions are so very much improved.
In any case, it would be 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 amuse
ment of the curious. Only the children could
teU 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
heart's misery, since they are always, as a result
of the system, bewildered by questions and sus
picious of the kindly stranger, when not inarti
culate. Many 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 institutions — but what do these
Reports convey ? " During the month of March
six boys attempted escape. All 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

276 THE LONDON SPY
flogger. It is not intended that you should see
these things. Charity does not love the candid
light of the sun. Charity and rescue move
mysteriously, with the padded feet of midnight
murder. 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 punishment, and I think you might
then feel that the treatment of the delinquent
has not advanced far beyond the eighteenth
century, and that these Homes are not entirely
the pleasant 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 matron,
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 has merited this
torment ? Murder, tyranny, secret poisoning,
swindling the public, high treason, cruelty to
children, fraudulent company-promoting, send
ing rotten ships to sea ? No. Running away
from a good home. And for this work of
reclamation, you pay.
There is one who remembers too clearly
those monstrous moments when he first wit
nessed an orphanage flogging. He will always
remember them. Two boys had attempted to
run away. Miserably for them, they failed, and,
after one day out, were dragged back by the
neck. 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

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 277
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 headmaster, the school doctor, the
bailiff (carrying a frightful thing under his arm)
and the two little culprits, their faces grey,
without light or glow. The headmaster spoke :
rehearsed the facts of their crime, and an
nounced their punishment — six strokes of the
birch. A ripple ran through the assembled
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 to these
children. The men held themselves casually.
The grey, thick-lipped City stockbroker, 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,
and was chatting with the headmaster. The
bailiff wasn't interested ; he stood twiddling the
instrument 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 two
boys, with the stiff movement of sleep-walkers,
obeyed, and stood before their comrades in
abasement. One was called forward. He
shuffled to the spot indicated. The thick lips
dropped another order, and he was made to
crouch in a posture that annihilated all
decency, honour, and boyhood.
The headmaster took the thing from the
bailiff, posed himself, and lifted his arm . . .

278 THE LONDON SPY
At the hiss of the instrument and the scream
of the victim, the School shuddered and gasped.
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-mate
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 boy : " Over again ! "
The second stroke fell. The boy staggered be
fore he screamed ; then screamed in long wails.
" 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 white
washed hall grew dim — a little circle of a
waving instrument and a leaping figure, shot
through with screams ; and, at the back of the
platform, the second culprit, awaiting his tor
ture with the eyes of a dead fish and a paper
face. ... At the third stroke, the boy,
screaming for mercy, turned from one to the
other on the platform — a mass of disordered
clothes. He tried to run, but his trousers at
his feet were effectual chains. He achieved
only a grotesque shamble, before 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 . . ."

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 279
But there was none to hear him. And the
torment went on.
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-reformatory 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 subconscious memory. They
have seen something of horror. They know
too much and too early of shame and despair.
The child's individuality is a precious possession
and the indignities and obscenities which are
heaved 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 biting of the lips under the solitary punish
ment, when, like maniacs, they were hand
cuffed and bound within 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
moment of life and 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 evidence.

280 THE LONDON SPY
Here you may say : " Yes, this is all very
well, but what about it ? Crime must be pun
ished, 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 undergraduate or
rich man's son or daughter is to be found there.
The University yahoo may destroy college
gates, and knock old men's eyes out, and
break shop windows, and hold up traffic,
and assault policemen, but his offences are
" rags," outbursts of " high-spirited youth."
The children who are " in " our reformatories
are " in " for much milder offences than these.
The working boy in Shoreditch, at a loose end
on Sunday, lets his " high spirits " get the better
of him and indulges in a small, mild rag 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 win
dows, 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 is sent to a Home and

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 281
kept good by punishments 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, al
ways will win. The sadists can always fling
at the humane man the jeer of " flabby sen
timentalist," and under the cloak of rough
manliness, and, by euphemising an obscenity in
the cheery phrase, " a jolly good hiding," can
secure public sanction for their lewdness. " Our
treatment makes a man of the boy." What
sort of man ?
The foulness and shame of corporal punish
ment are bad enough when it is practised on
grown ruffians, 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 dis
grace 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 a body of people
anxious to promote corporal punishment of
boys and girls, and actually publishing leaflets
teaching methods of child-torture. It calls
itself a League, and makes eloquent and lubri-
cious appeal for the whipping, nursery fashion,
of disobedient sons and daughters ; especially it
recommends it for daughters. One of their
productions states that " whipping, to be effec
tive, should be a science." Then follow elabor
ately minute directions, written with obvious

282 THE LONDON SPY
relish, which I will not offend you by transcrib
ing, how to go about this business ; how to
undress 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 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
literature that is produced by back-street pub
lishers 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 allowed 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 be
hind walls and to be crushed by a system.
Figure yourself, charged with having no rear-
light on your car, sentenced, by some monstrous
mis-reading of law, to two years' hard labour,
while similar offenders are fined twenty shillings;
put in convict dress, cut off from decent inter
course, and, if, in your first bitterness, you
disobey, punished with demeaning punishments.
In that same spirit of bitterness against in
justice, ninety reformatory children out of the
hundred live their four or five years of incarcera
tion. The other ten are perhaps menaces to
society ; but society, instead of concerning itself
individually with their reclamation, delegates
the task to " committees," " bodies," " institu-

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 283
tions," and their staffs. A sight of the type that
composes the staffs should be sufficient to
awaken disgust without more intimate detail.
Hard-faced, cold, pedagogic — that is the type ;
creatures that once were men, lip-licking crea
tures 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-gratu-
lation. I wonder if they know what they are
doing when they send a young girl to a reforma
tory, 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. Gradgrind
have, happily, almost disappeared from public
life, but they are still secretly active behind the
walls of our Charities. Mr. Barlow is there, "too,
superintending with his sleek admonishments,
driving his dusty platitudes through the green
territory of youth, and presiding with ponderous
levity at Annual Festivals. 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 be
stowed 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 thinned by the

284 THE LONDON SPY
deplorable spirit of the day ; and the boys are trained
for the 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 weU-doing parades mincingly and
self-consciously with the brotherly love of St.
Paul and the knowledge of love and 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. The
signing of a cheque for an orphanage is but a
cheap and scamping evasion of responsibility.
You may give ten thousand pounds to a charit
able institution, but, if you have not love, your
two minutes' labour will be as barren as State
aid. Even if your money were beautifully
used for beautiful ends, there is little grace in
your lazy gifts. 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 systems,
find for yourself some child or person in need
(there are many in the Street of Beautiful
Children) and succour that need by direct
action. Make that child's food, clothing, and

STREET OF BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN 285
education your personal affair. It means trou
ble, I know ; a lot of trouble, spread over some
period ; whereas the cheque relieves you im
mediately 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. If people thought less of the
nation's children, and more of the individual
child, there would be a better nation and thou
sands of happier children.

In the Streets of Don't-care
Among the general public Bohemia seems to be
largely associated with artists and their Mollies ;
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 at the Athenaeum, than you will in these
other places. In the professional Bohemia
individuality has little play. At Art balls and
revels, at the Embassy Club and the Hambone
Club, everybody is alike ; all must conform to
the prevailing mood and taste, and be|gay or
eccentric according to the occasion.
Bohemia is in the streets, not in cafes ; in the
286

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 287
undistinguished clothes of workaday, 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 Cockney is, there is Bohemia, and, so
long as he exists, all plans for " brightening "
London are absurd redundances.
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 expressed 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 mani
fest only in a purification of certain of our main
streets. Drink and the prostitute 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 Provence is gone ; the Cafe de 1' Europe is
gone, and the Lounge is not itself. But what of
that ? Leicester Square is stiU 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 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, sceptical, with large capacity
for indignation and bright strokes of raihery ;

288 THE LONDON SPY
but withal tolerant, touched with saline hu
mours, 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 him
self seriously. He leaves solemnity to the
acquisitive Northerner. If these 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, waggon-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 im
migrants 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 en
tertainment. Artistic frivolity can never 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
grammar of it. How shall the elegant syllables
of " frivolity " mate happily with the thun
derous music of " London " ? They shall not.
London's delight comes in big and violent

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 289
gusts from the heart, and, while I have my
banana, the sensation seekers may have their
supper-and-dance clubs, where revue girls do
their night's work over again and caU it pleasure.
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 vola
tile 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 English
man, who cannot and never will dance, has one
idea of winter entertainment — dancing ; that
is, pottering about with a girl. It is to dancing
as cork lino to a Persian rug. If its excuse
is 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 ; it is more
fluently expressed by graceless girls round a
street organ. 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 triflers with sex.
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 accompanied them, bring happy
echoes to an ear surfeited with the machine- t

290 THE LONDON SPY
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," " Wind
sor Tarass," " Farise's Fear," " Lie Down,
Love," " Cherry Breasts," " SeUenger's Round,"
" Packington's Pound," " Cuckolds all A-row,"
"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 revues ;
between Bartholomew Fair and the seaside
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 micro
cosm of this vulgarity ; a galanty-show of
racing men, the rough stuff of the London

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 291
stage, publicans, third-rate artists, blazing kerb
stone stockbrokers, motors, cigars, and the
sumptuous " Juliets of the 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 sharrabang 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 yer ticklin', Jock ! "
Brighton is the Holy City of the Cheap- Rich.
When the obscure merchant has made money,
his first thought is an automobile ; his second —
a " fixture " 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 sub
ject of smirking 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.

292 THE LONDON SPY
It is a strident display of over-dressing,
over-eating, 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. The 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 success.
To the philosopher, it is a more painful
study than Spitalfields 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 group of " the boys," or a woman,
and the crowded precincts of big hotels and
restaurants. He has a certain greasy apprecia
tion of the fat things in life, but no zest in them.
His appetite needs the flick of the aperitif to
urge it to its functions. 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 frivolity, galvanised into a sem
blance of movement, arousM only disgust.

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 293
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,
judgment, 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 battle-field,
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 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 be
longs to no compact section. He is in Islington
and Westminster, in Stepney and Jermyn street,
in Canning Town and Hoxton and Camden
Town, and, if his accent and profanity are more
harsh and fluent in Lavender Hill than in
Piccadilly, the difference is only of degree ; for

294 THE LONDON SPY
Bohemianism is not matter of forms and fashions,
of art or music or intellectualism. It is a state
of mind. You have it — or not. Lord Leighton,
who looked and dressed like a dignitary 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
nothing to do with art. So don't look for it in
the student-world or in the intellectual cafes.
The minds of their people are far, far above the
real Bohemianism. Soho is as near as they get
to it. And Soho is done.
There was a time when it was a foreign quar
ter, but to-day it is as much London as the
Crystal Palace or Olympia. It has no lurking
nooks ; no inner circles. It was losing its charac
ter 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 restau
rants 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 dessert, you pass swaggering windows
filled with life-size photographs of wide-mouthed
mountebanks, pert, look-at-me schoolgirls, and
middle-aged matrons trying to represent aban
doned enchantresses. As for the cafes that still
remain, they are, if possible, even more com
mercial in spirit than the film-offices.
Once upon a time Greek Street, Frith Street,
Dean Street and Old Compton Street were happy

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 295
to serve the hard-up journalist, the small-part
actor and the chorus girl. You could then
ramble round its blithe by-ways, and carefully
choose your cafe and make experiments. Every
month or so a new place was opened ; sometimes
to close down hurriedly, sometimes 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
patrone. If you had dined there once, M'sieu'
or Madame, at the door, had a smile and a bow
for you the second time, and the third time the
waiter remembered whether you took the fish or
the omelette. They were pleased to see you, and
departed you with graceful wishes " to the re-
seeing." Now, nobody wants you. You cannot wan
der round and drift in at choice. The thing has
become regulated ; a function ; and tables are
now booked. Tables booked — in Soho ! The
soldiers on leave discovered 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 tactful regrets or discussion. If you at
tempted 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
atmosphere of Soho. The patron no longer

296 THE LONDON SPY
regards his restaurant as a pleasant place, an
achievement capping his long days of waiter-
hood, where he may sit and make friends with
his customers, and congratulate them and him
self 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 wide-spread in England during
the war, but in most quarters the armistice
brought gentler manners. Soho alone main
tains 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 teU 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 incom
petence. 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 expensive 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."

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 297
Instead of the good value of the shilling
lunch and the one-and-sixpenny dinner, we
have the badly-served, carelessly-cooked dinner
at three and four shillings ; and, instead of the
rough but decent " ordinaire," we have a
high-priced wine list of grocer's red and 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 recapture
its freshness than you can recover yesterday.
And that's what Soho has done. It has laid
itself out to attract corner-house custom,
and it has succeeded. To dine there to-day
is to dine among the suburbans who have come
there to see the artists who no longer go there.
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, New
man Street and Tottenham Street, new cafes
are arising at intervals, and old German cafes
reappearing under Swiss management. Oh
yes, and the lager is coming back, Pilsner and
Munchner, and the long glasses and the thin
German cigars, and the lidded beer mugs.

298 THE LONDON SPY
These places cherish the spirit of welcome and
personal acquaintance with their customers.
My favourite is one of the older group,
which I have named the " Fritto Misto."
It makes no attempt at decoration or table
display. Its note and its cuisine are bourgeois,
and I find the rough table-cloths and the open
pepper-cellars and the white metal forks an
agreeable change after the overloaded tables
of Soho. There you may get the exciting
minestrone, which is a meal in itself ; the
perfect omelette, the elegant and aptly-
grilled cutlet, ravioli, spaghetti, fritto misto,
the brisk salad, and all the cheeses in the
piquant moment of maturity. You get, too,
fresh materials, good cooking, deft service, and
the affable greeting on the threshold. And all
at prices less than the prices of the flaring and
sticky Corner Houses. There is no rush, no
scurry, no crowd ; no presentation of the bill
the moment your coffee cup is empty. De
jeuner spreads itself as dejeuner should. Out
of no ih-will to the proprietors, but for my own
gratification, I hope it and the other cafes
will never become popular, for then art and
suburbia will descend upon them and ruin them.
At present they are patronised mainly by elderly
scholars from the Museum Reading 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

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 299
library of the past, stands modestly the less
pretentious library of to-day of Mr. Mudie.
Where the patrons of literature once held their
levees, now a group of publishers — 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 ups
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 lodgings to an assorted
crowd of workers and students — " the ignobly
decent" — and characters ignoble without
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 rejuvenated. The decent houses of its
squares are entering their second period, some
as town houses, others as offices of dignified
businesses or learned and charitable societies.
Its dinge, melancholy, and resigned squalor,
which did exist, though not so densely as the
realists believed, are wholly gone. Belgravia
has fallen down, but Bloomsbury has " come
back." It is time for the novelist to correct
Gissing and 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

300 THE LONDON SPY
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 its traffic.
A wondrous renascence has come particularly
to Gower Street. In the early nineteenth
century it was a select residential district ;
but at the end of the nineteenth century it went
into a decline, and its reputation 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-respect ; 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 re
covery ! 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-made 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 Blooms
bury, 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

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 301
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, not is it in Leicester Square or in that cafe1
so 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 Bohemian
ism, 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 indignantly
repudiate the suggestion. He would affirm
his hatred of the unconventional 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 Boh erne." The gargoyle atti
tude to hfe, 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 most sluttish 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 spilhngs of beer. The waiters are slack and
dispirited and none too well kept ; the effect,
maybe, of a year's evenings among that company
and that talk. The place suggests a slut in a

302 THE LONDON SPY
fine evening robe and dirty finger-nails. The
latter is a distinguishing mark of much of the
company. Healthy animalism finds no expression here. .
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 trying to be " different,"
wearing the absurd trappings of Murger's
country, which existed only at the point of his
pen, and trying to invoke Russian awareness
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 here and there may be seen queer
creatures. There sits an hermaphroditic creature
with side-whiskers and painted eyelashes, prais
ing a soft-bearded youth for the exquisite mood
values of his " Hymn to a Buzz-Saw." There
are things in women's clothes that slide cunning
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 interest as a pathological mani
festation ; but it isn't. It is a thoroughly
respectable affair, conforming to every point of
the public code of order. The company has
neither the quick leap of fresh youth nor the
bold relish of the beast, but something between ;

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 303
something crawling and discreet ; something
epicene. And it is worse because it is intellec
tually 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 absence 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 MarveUous Boys isn't
Bohemia. Neither art nor eccentricity, neither
excess nor wit are necessary parts of the vaga
bond life. Bohemia lies everywhere about you,
except in studios, for these are serious work
shops ; 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 Kensington,
among the science men ; in certain houses in
Streatham and Tottenham and Ilford, where I
have at times seen things that would make Vine
Street sit up ; in Charing Cross Road and in
Knightsbridge. The four-ale bar is Bohemia.
The suburban monkeys' parade is Bohemia.
Hampstead Heath at night is Bohemia. Upper
Street, Islington, on Saturdays, is Bohemia. In
every corner of the great bazaar of London the

304 THE LONDON SPY
ardent shopper of humanity will find the staUs
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
quality, 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 cannot 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
trippers to London who never leave the station
of their arrival but spend their day there. Why
should they go outside ? Under that roof they
inhale essence of London ; and if they went
outside, though they might, in their 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 traveUing
without trains. In none does the lust of travel
burn more fiercely than in myself. I am a roam-
er, bold and gay — or would be if I had my
way. But, in my penurious days, travel was not

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 305
possible, except, on occasion, by the kind as
sistance of the National Sunday League ; so I
deceived myself by a passionate counterfeit.
When the desire came upon me to quit my Brix
ton lodging, and pitch my tent under the walls
of Teheran or Kabul, I assuaged the passion by
visiting Poplar and the Asiatics' 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 grati
fied by moving to Camden Town. I have had
homes in Clapham, Eltham, Balham, Blooms
bury, 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 cor
rections, promptings, and amplifications of his
own, he having made the tour year by year.
Finally, when Cobb's best description was inter
jected by a pointless correction, Cobb turned
upon the cosmopolitan : " 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 expensive, I still cannot find the money.
But I still travel. I keep Bradshaw and the
ABC on my desk, and I plan meetings at
Windermere, and book 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 pro
gramme : imagination, assisted by the printed u

306 THE LONDON SPY
page, is not sufficient to transport me into the
full air of these places, and lend me their smeU.
I must have material contact ; the senses must
be fed. And I feed them at the big stations.
By seeing the Continental trains off at Charing
Cross and Victoria, I am abroad. By taking a
drink in a httle bar in Drummond Street,
adjoining Euston, I travel to the North- West and
Scotland. Hither come old matrons, with infinite bag
gage and strange accent and behaviour, who
open each sentence with " Ey, dear " ; and at
these words I am in the horrid wastes of Lan
cashire, and the stinks that belong to it. I
meet Scottish travellers from Perth, smeUing
of dye-works, and black melancholy Irishmen,
booked for Holyhead. I overhear their plans
for the journey. I share their anticipated dis
comforts 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 Punkton Junction is hog-
wash, and that Preston serves a champion cup
of coffee. In this bar the heathery air of Scotch
hills, the crisp air of Yorkshire, and the soggy
air of the Midlands are to be absorbed in fancy.
If my desire is Cornwall or Somerset, I take a
bus to a little saloon in London Street, near
Paddington, where I am sure to find good com
pany in lounge suits cut from a good West of
England cloth which they wear without grace.
I meet Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, old Uncle Tom
Cobleigh and all, and they talk in sweet, rich

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 307
southern tones of the iniquities of London publi
cans 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 New
castle, via Peterboro', Lincoln, Doncaster, York
and Durham ; 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 homeward journey, and, as the
group included natives of each of those towns,
I was able to revisit them. We talked of
hotels, bars, local characters and local trades
men ; 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 filled with fresh joy in
London and the million amenities of its streets,
those streets that hold for each 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 Bohemian Clubs are somewhat de
pressing with their solemn heavy furniture and
their diligent boyishness. You cannot have
a Bohemia with money and an etiquette or a

308 THE LONDON SPY
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 profes
sional Bohemian than to shock a Y.M.C.A.
meeting. They profess to accept life in all
its nude manifestations ; but show them an
ugly corner of life and they are disturbed.
I once took, to a very advanced and rorty
night-club, that thought it was a Hell Fire Club,
a thorough rapscallion, whom I had picked up
in St. Luke's ; a lad who lived as he listed,
without code or standard of values for any
thing in life ; a bruiser, who had been as often
in prison as in the ring ; in short, a Bohemian ;
and I was asked not to bring him again. They
hinted 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 Newspaper Workers' Club,
chiefly for the printing section, 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 nourish
ing meals at prices that astonish. Well, you
can sup splendidly there for a shilling. Its

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 309
soup is as good as Mother makes, and its
atmosphere is an atmosphere of mateyness
and rich rude pleasantry. At about one in the
morning 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
another bar and two billiard tables, and Ted (I'm
not sure if it's still Ted) who commands affairs.
The appointments are simple and rough, but
this place has aU that a club should have in
social facilities and diversions. Many mid
night 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 biUiards table or
with the darts.
It has no motto, no " note," and its annual
subscription is about the price of a Strand
lunch. (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 themselves ; and if you are
told, as I have been told, that if you can't 
well play - — biUiards, why don't you 
well give up the  table to those that 
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.

310 THE LONDON SPY
I am only thinking that we have enough re
straint 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 ill.
But, oh dear ! — suppose you spoke your
mind in plain terms at the Studio Club, in
Regent Street (a very arty affair) or the Ham-
bone 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 you'd lose
much. Those concerts — they speak rather of
local talent in the Corn Exchange. I prefer
my little caf e 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 " com
ing " men, or successful artists. It is the
rendezvous of the Nobodies, and is happier
and more stimulating than any gathering-
place of the famous. It has no concerts, no
" art " frescoes, no dancing, no ham-bones.
But it has a warm, kindly atmosphere, and you
may there have ripe talk with sound inteUi-
gences. 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 lodging. 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

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 311
wiU be in rare company. Friendless and bat
tered, 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 another. In the achieving of success or
fame, men seem to shed something of person
ality and angles. In securing the bone, they
lose the enduring shadow. They are stamped
and marked like pieces of plate. 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, exempt from the world's
petty observances and reticences. They will
tell you the truth about themselves, or about
yourself, without suppression or demur ; and
if you offer them money they accept it openly
and casuaUy, with a nod.
In that eating-house, or in the adjacent saloon,
I have sat often among them, and heard great
argument. 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

312 THE LONDON SPY
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 lorry men. He recognises that they are
" out of the ordinary." He asked me once who
they were, and I said I thought they were
journalists. " Journalists — ah ! I thought they must be
something. 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 had entered one evening Drury Lane
tavern, and was studying 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-hand
kerchief. 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 . . . yes —
' 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 comphment, and

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 313
gave an order. Then, leaving his untouched, he
feU to discussing the state of the world to-day
and its trend, with allusions to Carlyle, Matthew
Arnold, Goethe, and Bergson. He fiUed a grimy
clay pipe with assorted shreds of tobacco which
he fished piecemeal from his coat-pocket, lit it,
and, between puffs, jerked out reflective sentences
on the Over-Soul. The four-ale bar was be
ginning to fiU. The crowd mumbled of football
and the spring-weights The barmaid simpered
or snapped, varying her manner to the customer :
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 de
nunciations 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 two 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."

314 THE LONDON SPY
It was a meeting of the Jolly Beggars — and
was the beginning of a casual acquaintance
which gave me much delight.
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. They are often unshaven, not from cult
or negligence, but because shaves cost money.
They would delight in a clean change every day,
in Savile Row clothes, and goodly restaurants,
and sound Burgundies and well-furnished homes,
in place of their shabbiness, their eating-houses,
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 ; and you will find it wherever you
find the casual gathering ; at fairs, circuses,
market-places, and ordinaries ; particularly at
fairs. One by one these are being abolished,
but, as one sport is suppressed or loses its spirit,
the Cockney invents another. He has not yet,
however, found a substitute for the fair. The
fair of the old style, which was a market with
amusements thrown in, is reappearing now in
a truncated and very workaday form — the Trade
Exhibition. Upon those floors where the glories
of the haute- icole were displayed ; where the
Bearded Lady, the Japanese Wrestler, the Glass-
Eating man, and the two-headed dwarf paraded
where stood the Boxing Booth with the champion
of Herzegovina, and the rifle-range, now stand
regiments of placid automobiles guarded by
placid and well-groomed agents. The Grocery
Exhibition now takes the place of the Fasting

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 315
Man and the Living Mermaid ; and even that is
degenerating ; it does not give samples so freely
as it did. When there was no fair on, you
could, as a lad, go to the Trade Exhibitions and
collect samples. I remember one youth who
went home from one exhibition with fourteen
samples of Globe Polish, obtained by fourteen
visits, at long intervals, to the Globe Polish stall.
Solemn affairs — these ; even the Electrical
Exhibition cannot revive for one moment the
spirit of Monte Cristo and Blondin and the one-
handed conjurer and the thick crowd and the
glitter ; the fine rage of trumpets and the clash
of Bacchic cymbals ; the rush and parade of
costume and colour ; the ecstasy of mixed
movement, stately, laggard, slow, swift, furious ;
and the whirl and wonder of it all and the be
clouding smell of paint and sawdust. Will you
believe that I came away from the Tobacco
Exhibition without one mouldy sample, let alone
a coco-nut ?
But I did better this year at Barnet Fair.
I spent a full day there, with darts and quoits
and roundabouts and happy scapegrace girls
and boys, playing truant from work. All the
old things were there and much of the old spirit.
The delight of one's first theatre can never be
recaptured, but last year's fair was fully as de
lightful as my first. It was one big party, and
you picked up with anybody, and anybody picked
up with you.
The sun blazed and the dust rose, and the
orange-peel made a carpet ; and there were
gingerbread and jellied eels and tripe and fried
fish and yellow lemonade and clove-stick and

316 THE LONDON SPY
tea-and-water-creases and ice cream and home
made, or rather publicly-made, toffee, and pease
pudding and chocolates and chip potatoes and
Banbury cakes and 
" And was the Fat Lady there ? "
" Yes, darling, and the man who eats broken
glass." " And the heavy-weight champion of Rut
landshire ? "
" Yes, and the two-headed pigmy."
" And boat-swings ? "
" Yes, and the sword-swallower, and  "
" And was there any roundabouts ? "
" Oh, more than twenty roundabouts, my
dear ; motor-car roundabouts, aeroplane round
abouts, go-cart roundabouts, horse roundabouts,
zebra roundabouts, dragon roundabouts  "
" And the Wild Man of the Woods ? "
" Yes, and the Siamese Twins and the con
tortionist and.  "
" And the clown ? "
Yes, and the lady who rides four horses at
once, and the thought-reader, and the tiger-
lady with the striped skin, and the living mer
maid, and coco-nut shies and darts, and houp-las
and rifle ranges,rattlers and confetti and laughter
and flushed faces and disordered ribbons. And
every roundabout and side-show had its own
organ braying out its own melody ; and the
whole afternoon was a chaos of music, a whirl
wind of motion, a blizzard of light and colour,
a maelstrom of odours, all stirred into one effer
vescent folly of festival.
And then " All clear out of the grounds ! "
I came away with six coco-nuts, which I lost

IN THE STREETS OF DON'T-CARE 3^
on the way home ; a wrist-watch, which I gave
away because two blue eyes coveted it ; a foun
tain pen, which wrote one line and then came to
pieces in my hand ; and two pink-and-blue-and-
green front-parlour vases, eighteen inches high.
These I left on the doorstep of a hardware mer
chant at Whetstone.
But, if the Fair is doomed, the spirit survives.
You will find it at the meetings of the East
Ham Cage-Bird Society, and on the sharrabang.
You will find it at the Annual Outing of the
Barnsbury Licensed Victuallers' Association.
You will find it at Alexandra Park, where, upon
occasions, the huskies and rough-necks of the
town gather around that corrugated asphalte
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 Antedi
luvian 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
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
meetings 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
expression."

318 THE LONDON SPY
" Siddown ! Siddown ! "
" If 'e says it again, 'e'U get my tankard in 'is
chops." " Siddown ! Lessave a song from Mis'r Bur
rows. Come on now, Mis'r Burrows ! "
" I bin in the business forty years now, and
'ain't goin ter be told that  "
" Siddown, yeh fool. Somebody pull 'is
coat-tails. Where's Mis'r Burrows ? Come on
now — The Tarpaulin Jacket ! "
" 'E ain't got no right to say  "
" Mis'r Gubbins— Will yeh SIDDOWN ! We
don't wancher. We want Mis'r Burrows ! "
" Not 'til 'e takes it back .! "
" Mis'r Chairman, I rise to 'pologise. I take
it back. Oughter known better than dispute
with a man old enough to be me farver."
" Old enough to be yer  "
" Nah, stop it, Mis'r Gubbins — you've 'ad yer
'pology." " 'E can stig 'is apology up  "
"Order ! Will yeh shudd up ? " Jus' 'ave a
smoke together and fergit it. We come 'ere fer
peace and quietness. Now, altogether, boys :
"There is a tavem in the town.
In the town ! "
And Mr. Gubbins and his offender see each
other home, in perfect amity, through the mid
night aUeys of Bohemia.

BRISTOL I BURLEIGH LTD., AT THE BURLEIGH PRESS

YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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