[-149-]
NIGHT-HOUSES.
PLUTARCH begins one of those biographies which in all times have been the
charm of childhood and age, by remarking that, "If things are implicated in
a dependence upon definite numbers, it is a necessity that the same things must
often happen, being effected by the same means." Thus is it, life in all
its broad aspects is everywhere the same. All over the globe there is a
wonderful uniformity in human habits. Men who work hard - as a rule - rise
early, and go to bed early. Night is the time for rest. So far at least there is
harmony between God's law and man's. The men and women who transgress are for
the most part waif's and strays. Such are the denizens of our streets by night -
such are they who crowd, not alone the night public-houses, but night
coffee-houses of our metropolis.
Here in London these houses are of all kinds. For
instance, let us enter one in the Haymarket. [-150-] The
rooms are as smart as gilding and ornamented paper and plate-glass can make
them. The waiters are got up regardless of expense. The coffee is good, but
dear. The men and women are of the kind usually met with in this locality during
the small hours. The greater part are fools enough to think it worth while to
buy a little worldly wisdom at a price - it may be at the loss of their bodies
and souls - none but madmen would think of paying. In such places as these you
are as sure to be injured as if you sat all night carousing in a public-house.
These women with forced smiles on their painted cheeks are the veritable
Harpies. Theirs is the true sardonic laugh. Do you remember one way in which
that ancient phrase is accounted for? Sardinia, it was said, was noted for a
bitter herb which contracted the features of those who tasted it. Pausanias says
it is a plant like parsley, which grows near springs, and causes people who eat
it to laugh till they die; and these women, have they not eaten a bitter plant,
and do they not laugh and die? Beware of the women. Beware of the men. See how
their cunning eyes glisten if you change a sovereign. If they can get you into a
neigh-[-151-]bouring public-house and rob you, they
will be rather pleased than otherwise. Look at that tall dark fellow watching
us. It was only the other day he met a man here, as he might you or I, and
decoyed him into a public-house close by, where his confederates were waiting,
and robbed him of forty pounds when they thought their victim was sufficiently
"fuddled" with champagne. He and such as he are not particular who
they rob. They do not spare the women, I assure you.
Let us now turn towards Covent-garden. The debauchery of
Covent-garden is not what it was. Obscenity is banished from the Cave of
Harmony, and better hours are kept; but there are night coffee-houses about
here, dirty, shabby places, patronised by dirty, shabby people. how weary and
wayworn are the women! They have been walking the streets for hours - they have
been dancing in neighbouring saloons - they have paraded their meretricious
charms, and, here they sit, hungry, tired, sleepy, and 't is three o'clock in
the morning. No home have they to go to but some wretched room for which they
pay a sum equal to the entire rent of the house. There is little gaiety here;
the [-152-] poor comic nigger, with his banjo and
his double entendre playing with all his might, in the hope that some gent will
stand a cup of coffee and a muffin, can scarce raise a laugh. Timidly one asks,
"Will you treat me to a cup of coffee, sir?" Yes, forlorn one. If your
sin is great, so is your punishment; once you might have been a dainty little
wife, and now what are you? I say it sorrowfully, the scum of the streets,
garbage for drunken lust.
Let us go a little further on, not into that house, there are
only thieves and pickpockets there, and we might be bullied, which is not
pleasant. Ah, here's the house we are looking for; it has done a good trade this
many a year, for is there not a cab-stand opposite, and cabby knows the value of
a cup of coffee on a cold winter's night. Never mind the smell; as business is
carried on uninterruptedly during the twenty-four hours, and as the company
belongs to that part of the population not guilty of an inordinate attachment to
soap and water, and to whom cheap baths are a myth, it cannot be matter of
surprise if there be about the place "an ancient and fish-like smell."
But here comes the landlord. "Good morning, gents;"
[-153-] in an under voice, "you had better mind your pocket; them
are some strange characters here. A cup of coffee? Yes, sir. Now then, sir, you
had better wake up, it is time for you to be off. You've had a good hour's
sleep." "Why not let him sleep?" "Why, you see, sir, such
fellows would stay here all night and fill up the house, and not spend a penny;
and business is business." A curious medley is here of sleepy, half-tipsy,
sickly unfortunates. Yet even here the line is drawn; the door opens, and we
dimly discern a mass of rags; so does our landlord, as he rushes to exclude the
would-be customer. "What, you are trying it on again, are you? you know you
can't come here. Why, you see, sir, if we let such fellows in, the place would
swarm with ---," (the reader must supply the blank). But we take the hint,
and not unreluctantly depart.
The night public-house has, I confess, and I am glad to do
so, - lost somewhat of its popularity in latter years. At one time it was common
everywhere; now it is in only a few streets that it exists and pollutes the
atmosphere. In the strand, in the Haymarket, in Oxford-street, night-houses were
numerous; but the one to which I more immediately refer was situated in
[-154-] the neighbourhood of Tottenham-court-road. Since then, Mr.
Spurgeon has been preaching in that locality, but I dare say the night-house
exists nevertheless.
Let us suppose it is about two in the morning, and with the
exception of one or two amiable garotters, a few sleepy police, and some three
or. four women, the regular population of the neighbourhood may be safely
considered to have been long in bed. The gas-lamps shine almost exclusively on
yourself. You look up at the windows and you see no lights save where, perhaps,
poverty may be stitching for bread, or where Death may have come an unbidden
guest and borne away the fairest and the best beloved. At this hour the young
bride in all her beauty may be struck down in mortal agony, or the wee pet lamb,
whose little silver laugh had so often dispelled the dark cloud that gathered
round the home, or the grey-haired man, having just reached the goal, and
achieved an independence, may find himself left in this bleak, dark, wide world
alone.
"Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north
wind's breath,
And stars to set ; but all-
Thou hast all seasons for thine own,
O Death."
[-155-] And now let us forget
all this, and knock at this door, above which streams a mellow light, and from
which we hear sounds of boisterous gaiety. Is it not open yet? Then give another
rap. Ah, it is all right now. "Take care of your pockets," says
Cerberus, in a low voice,- "there are some rum blokes here." We will,
my friend.
Yes, they must be rum blokes who come here into this filthy,
stinking shop, and amongst this filthy, ragged, swearing crew of reprobates. If
you wish to see a set of fellows whose mere looks would hang them, I think they
arc about us flow. Even the landlord seems uncomfortable in their presence, and
wisely allows as little as possible of temptation in his house or on his person,
He knows, I believe, they would as soon rob him as any one else, and his small
ferrety eyes are evidently wide awake. Indeed, none of the party look as if they
had much honest sleep, aTud4n the daylight, I imagine, would present a somewhat
seedy appearance. We generally think cabmen not scrupulously honest, but perhaps
these cabmen, with ancient great coats and well muffled up, are the honestest
fellows here. Then of course there is an Irish "widder," with [-156-]
melancholy face and a string of ballads, such as "Mary Blane,"
"The Red, White, and Blue," "Cheer, boys, cheer," all of
which she is willing to dispose of on the most reasonable terms. A decayed
swell, probably a railway director in the great year of bubbles, with
extraordinary sponges - an article I should have thought quite as unsaleable as
soap to the habitués, - and a jockey-like looking person with
knives with most wonderful and unaccountable blades, or with some fancy
work-boxes or other articles equally ingenious and useless. Women are here, of
course, in the last stage of their profligate career, driven out of decent
houses, unfit to associate with the well-dressed and the young- wrinkled,
repulsive, red. As you see them drink, quarrelling, screaming, and cursing, as
they always do till turned out to go God knows where, can you imagine that the
difference between them and your own mother is merely that of circumstance, and
education, and habit? - perhaps merely the difference produced by drink. I can
tell you that little hag was once a rich man's leman, and robed herself in silk
and satin, and quaffed her costly wine; and now hark how piteously she begs a
drop of gin, ere she staggers [-157-] to her
wretched garret and straw to dream of a youth and gaiety now no longer hers.
Here she has warmth, light, and society, and the night-house exists for such as
she; and if, as is quite as likely as not, she is in league with some of the men
around us, here she brings her victim, and then, stupified by drink, she has
only to decoy him down some dark passage, and he becomes an easy prey to the
sneaking thief who comes skulking up behind. But let us listen-
"Me and my pal we was a-going along the Hedgware-road,
and we sor" -
"Hold your tongue," is the courteous reply.
"What do you mean by making all this row?" cries
the landlord, with a horrid oath.
"Now; then, old buffer, another quartern of gin."
"And a screw of tobacco, master, if you please."
"Well, old gal, what'll you drink?"
"Well, I don't mind, what'll you stand?"
"Suppose we has arf and arf."
"Ay, to be sure."
And so the hours pass, and the place gets hotter, and stinks
more and more every hour, for the men and women have not a very pleasant [-158-]
effluvium, and the hubbub becomes more intense. You tell me you would
rather not stay here long. Well, I am quite of your opinion, for a couple of
gentlemen with pale faces have been eyeing us most attentively ever since we
have been here, and I confess their appearance is not prepossessing. Their short
hair seems to indicate an acquaintance with one of the public establishments of
the metropolis, with whose inmates it is not well to be too familiar. They are
dressed in fustian, with thick boots well studded with nails, a kick from which
on the head when a man is down would soon settle his business; and with their
close-fitting caps, Belcher handkerchiefs, and heavy animal faces, are certainly
not very pleasant-looking young men. I should be sorry to intimate my suspicions
to them, as they may be noblemen in disguise, and might feel hurt at my want of
charity. In the mean while, as the door is being opened and the coast is clear,
I avail myself of the opportunity, and leaving the night-house, am soon dreaming
in my feverish slumber that I have just been garotted and left for dead at the
door of my domestic establishment, to the intense agony of my wife and
children,-of course, by the two amiable young [-159-] people
aforesaid, - and I feel for some days after as if I had suffered terribly from a
species of night-mare. So hideous is the life, so degraded the company, so
revolting are the scenes, at these night-houses, I know not why the law permits
them to be open. I am sure they can answer no good or moral end. Mr Norton, a
few days since, said, in deciding a case at the Lambeth police-office, he hoped
a law would soon be passed to close night-houses. On this head the police
magistrates are unanimous.