Most of my London readers know Southend. It is as pretty a place, when
the tide is up and the weather is fine, as you can find anywhere near
London. Standing on the cliff on a clear day it is a lovely panorama
which greets your eye. At your feet rolls the noble river, to which
London owes its greatness, and on which sail up and down, night and day,
no matter how stormy the season may be, the commercial navies of the
world. On the other side is the mouth of the Medway, with its docks and
men-of-war; and farther still beyond rise those Kentish hills of which
Dickens was so fond, and on the top of one of which he lived and died.
Look to the right, and you see over the broad expanse of waters and the
marshy land, destined, perhaps, at some distant day to be formed into
docks and to be crowded with busy life. Look at your left, and the old
town, with its pier a mile and a quarter long, really looks charming in
the summer sun. Or you see the shingly beach, at one end of which—you
learn by report of artillery-firing and the cloud of blue smoke curling
to the sky—is Shoeburyness. Far away on the open sea, and on the other
side, the tall cliffs of the Isle of Sheppey loom in the distance.
Lie down on the grass and enjoy yourself. What ozone there is in the
atmosphere! What brightness in the scene! What joy seems all around!
Is it not pleasant, after the roar and bustle and smoke and dirt of
London, to come down here and watch the clouds casting their dark shadow
on the blue waters; or to follow the gulls, dipping and darting along
like so many white flies; or to see the feathery sails of yachts and
pleasure-boats, floating like flakes of snow; or to mark the dark track
from the funnel of yon steamer, on her way (possibly with a cargo of
emigrants, to whom fortune had been unfriendly at home) to some
Australian El Dorado—to which, if I only knew of it, I might probably go
myself—
Where every man is free,
And none can be in bonds for life
For want of £ s. d.
Well, you say, this is a fairy spot, a real Eden, where life is all
enjoyment, where health and happiness abound, if you could live but
always there. My dear sir, in a few hours such a change will come over
the spirit of the dream, such a diabolical transformation will be
effected, so foul will seem all that now is so bright and fair, that you
will flee the place, and, as you do so, I indignantly ask, What is the
use of British law? and wherein consists the virtue of British
civilisation? and of what avail is British Christianity, if in broad
daylight, in the principal thoroughfares of the town, your eyes and ears
are to be shocked by scenes of which I can only say that they would be
deemed disgraceful in a land of savages? Let us suppose it midday, and
the usual excursion trains and steamboats have landed some few thousand
men, women, and children, all dressed in their best, and determined, and
very properly, to enjoy themselves. What swarms you see everywhere! One
day actually, I am told, the railway brought as many as eleven thousand.
You say you are glad to see them; they have worked hard for a holiday;
and, shut up in the factories, and warehouses, and workshops of the
East-End, none have more of a right to, or more of a need of, the
enjoyment of a sea air. Dear sir, you are right; and for a little while
all goes on as you desire. The enjoyment is varied, and seems to consist
of wading up to the knees in the sea, in listening to Ethiopian
serenaders, in the consumption of oysters and apples, in donkey-riding,
in the purchase of useless ware at the nearest caravan or booth, in being
photographed, in taking a sail, or in strolling about the beach, and, as
regards the male part of the excursionists, smoking tobacco more or less
indifferent. But unfortunately the trains do not return before seven or
eight o’clock, and of course the excursionists must have a drop of beer
or spirits to pass away the time, many of them have no idea of a holiday,
and really and truly cannot enjoy themselves without; and the publicans
of Southend lay themselves out for the gratification of the excursionist
in this respect. They have monster taps and rooms in which the
excursionists sit and drink and make merry according to their custom. As
the day wears on the merriment becomes greater, and the noise a little
less harmonious. The fact is, all parties—men and women alike—have taken
a drop too much; the publican begins to feel a little anxious about his
property, especially as the two or three policemen belonging to the
place—wisely knowing what is coming, and their utter inability to cope
with a drunken mob, and the ridiculousness of their attempting to do
so—manage to get out of the way, and to hide their diminished heads in a
quieter and more respectable quarter of the town.
At length quarrels arise, oaths and coarse language are heard, and out in
the street rush angry men to curse, and swear, and fight. The women, it
must be confessed, are ofttimes as bad as the men, and I have seen many a
heavy blow fall to the lot even of the sucking babe! In the brief
madness of the hour, friends, brothers, relatives rush at each other like
so many wild beasts, much to the amusement of the throng of inebriated
pleasure-seekers around. No one tries to interfere, as most of the men
and cardrivers, who make up the aboriginal population of the place,
evidently enjoy the disgusting spectacle. Once I stopped four weeks in
this place, and I began to tremble at the very sight of an excursionist.
I knew that the chances were that before the day was over my little ones
would have to look on the worst of sights. I saw one powerful fellow in
three fights in the course of one day; in one he had kicked a man in a
way which made him shriek and howl for an hour afterwards; in another
case he had knocked a woman down; and I left him on the railway platform,
stripped, and offering to fight anyone. I begged a policeman to
interfere and take the brute into custody, and in reply was told that
their rule was never to take a man into custody unless they saw the
assault committed, a thing the Southend police very properly take care
never to do; and yet on the occasion to which I refer the landlord of one
of the best hotels in the place was in vain, for the sake of his
respectable guests, begging the police to put a stop to the scene which
he himself rightly described as pandemonium. I must admit the police are
not inactive. There was a crowd round the beershop, from which a man
hopelessly intoxicated was being ejected.
“Here, policeman,” said the beershop-keeper, “take this man away, he has
insulted me.” And the policeman complied with his request, and the poor
fellow, who was too drunk to stand upright, speedily embraces mother
earth. On another occasion a policeman displayed unusual activity. He
was after a man who had stolen actually an oyster, and for this the
policeman was on his track, and the man was to be conveyed at the expense
of the country to Rochford gaol. Let me draw a veil over the horrors of
the return home of an excursion train with its tipsy occupants, swearing
eternal friendship one moment while trying to tear each other’s eyes out
the next. It is bad enough to see the excursionists making their way
back to the railway station; here a couple of men will be holding up a
drunken mate, there are flushed boys and girls yelling and shrieking like
so many escaped lunatics. Now let us retrace our steps. You can tell by
the disorder and ruin all around where the excursionists have been, their
steps are as manifest to the observer as an invading army. Is there no
remedy for this state of things? Is a quiet watering-place, to which
people go to recover health and strength, to be at the mercy of any
drunken swarms who happen to have the half-crowns in their pockets
requisite for the purchase of an excursion ticket? Of course this is a
free country, and the right of a man to go to the devil his own way is a
right of which I would be the last to deprive my fellow citizens; but an
excursion train is a monster nuisance, of which our ancestors never
dreamed, and for which in their wisdom they made no provision. Of course
total abstinence is a remedy; but then the British workman is not a total
abstainer, and that is a question which I am not about to discuss. All I
want is to call attention to what is a daily scandal in the summer-time;
and to bid good people remember—while they are talking of heathenism
abroad—that heathenism at home, which, under the influence of strong
drink threatens to destroy all that is lovely and of good report in our
midst.
Lest it be said that I exaggerate, that I give an erroneous idea of the
drinking customs of the working classes, let me quote the following
confession of a working man, when examined before a coroner’s jury, as to
the way in which he had spent his holiday last Good Friday:
“We went for a walk, and had two pints of beer on the road. We got as
far as the Holloway Road Railway Station, and turned back. Deceased saw
me home, and then left me.”
“Did he again call on you?”
“Yes; at about twenty minutes to three o’clock.”
“By appointment?”
“Yes, to go to the Alexandra Palace. We left my place about a quarter to
three o’clock, and just had time for a drink at the public-house next
door to where I am living. We had two half-quarterns of whisky neat. I
there changed a sovereign. We then walked up the Holloway Road, and I
called on my father-in-law. He asked me to stop to tea, but I said I was
engaged to go to the Palace. Deceased and I then got as far as The Manor
House, where we had two glasses of bitter beer. We went on farther to
The Queen’s Head, which is the next public-house, and had some more
drink. From there we went to Hornsey, stopped at a public-house, and had
some whisky. We stopped again at The Nightingale, and had
half-a-quartern of whisky each. We could see the Palace from where we
then were, but did not know how to get there. We inquired the way, and
as we were going along we met the deceased’s younger brother, with a lot
of other boys, and we said a few words to them. Afterwards we went into
a public-house just opposite the Palace gates, and had either some brandy
or whisky, I don’t know which. We got chaffing with the man at the
pay-office, saying that he ought to let us in at half-price, as it was so
late, but he did not do so. We paid one shilling each to go in. We went
into the building and strolled about, looking at different things, and
had three pints of bitter ale at one of the stands. We then walked about
again, and afterwards had some brandy. We then began to get rather
stupefied, and after waiting about a little longer we had some more
brandy. I know we stopped at almost every buffet there was in the
Palace, and had something to drink at each of them. The lights were
being put out as we left the Palace. Deceased had hold of my arm, and we
went up to one of the buffets for the purpose of getting some cakes, or
something to eat, but the barmaid refused to serve us. Deceased said to
me, ‘I feel rather tidy, Joe,’ so I took hold of his arm, but in moving
away we both fell over some chairs. We left the Palace, and deceased
said to me, ‘Have you got any money?’ I said, ‘Yes; what I have got you
are welcome to.’ I then gave him a two-shilling piece, out of my purse,
which he put with the money he already had of his own. It must have been
very late then. We lost our way, but I think I said to the deceased,
‘This is the way we came in.’ Then we both fell down again. I don’t
remember getting away from there, or how I left deceased. I remember
nothing else that took place. I don’t know how we got on the steps of
the Grand Stand. I cannot remember seeing the boy Braybrook, nor how I
got out of the grounds, or to my own home.”
“You say that you were drunk?”
“Yes, we were both drunk, almost before we got to the Palace.”
“You say that the deceased was also drunk?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t remember leaving the deceased upon the ground?”
“No, I cannot remember how I got my hands cut, or the bruise on the back
of my head. I found my hat broken in the next morning, and my wife put
it right for me.”