Church Alley, in which Mr. Loveday's second-hand bookshop was
situated, was not in the most squalid part of the East, wherein may be
found horrible patches, in comparison with which the haunts of
heathens in savage lands are a veritable paradise. It was, indeed, in
close contiguity to the most respectable part of it, lying to the
eastward of the famous butchers' mart, which, in the present day, is
shorn of its doubtful glories. The alley was a slit in the main
thoroughfare, running parallel with it, about sixty yards in length,
and containing thirty-four tenements, sixteen of which were private
dwellings and eighteen places of business. In the flourishing West it
would have been converted into an arcade, and dignified with an
imposing name drawn from royal or martial records; in the toiling East
it was simply what it professed to be--an alley, very narrow, very
shabby, and generally very dark. When winter fogs lay thick upon the
mighty city they reached perfection by the time they floated to Church
Alley and settled there. Then was the darkness truly Egyptian, and
there the gloom remained, as if in proud assertion of the fitness of
things, long after surrounding thoroughfares were bright. The sun rose
later there and set earlier, and in freezing time it was a very heaven
of slides days after surrounding space was thawing. The explanation of
these unusual phenomena may be found in the circumstance that when
"weather" got into Church Alley it could not easily get out. There was
no roadway for horses and carts; between the rows of houses ran a
footpath ten feet in width. The enterprising builder who purchased the
land and designed the estate had husbanded his inches with a shrewd
eye to the greatest possible number of rents to be squeezed out of
them, and it must be confessed that his efforts were crowned with
complete success.
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen," and this applies to
weeds as well as flowers. Persons not acquainted with the intricacies
of the neighborhood would have passed Church Alley without noticing
it, even without being aware that there was such a thoroughfare within
hail; it seemed, as it were, to shrink from notice, and to have been
formed with a view to the enjoyment of the pleasures of obscurity,
notwithstanding that it had at one end a public-house and a
pawnbroker's shop, and at the other end a pawnbroker's shop and a
public-house. These four establishments may be said to have been the
archways to the paradise of Church Alley, and from the commencement to
the end of the year, in rain or shine, in winter or summer, lost and
wretched Peris could always be seen there, lingering at the gates.
Public-houses and pawnbroker's shops are as the very breath of life in
the East of London, and are important and degrading elements in the
education of the dwellers therein. Children from their earliest days
are familiar with them, and grow into the knowledge (which fair minds
cannot dispute) that these institutions are planted there especially
for their behoof. Brewers and distillers grow fat upon vice, and go
smilingly through the world, conveniently blind to the fact that the
richer they grow the more crowded become the ranks of those wretched
ones from whose midst our prisons are filled, and whose lives are a
standing reproach to humanity and civilization. It is not the fair
use, but the gross abuse, of a system which is here deplored. The axe
should be laid to it, despite the Moloch called vested interests,
which is set up at the least remonstrance to frighten the timid. Let
there be beer-shops and public-houses within limits, but it is
infamous legislation which sanctions and encourages (as is to be
verified to-day in slices of the East) every fifth or sixth tenement
to be either one or the other. To contend, in respect of these
hot-beds of vice, that the law of supply follows the law of demand, is
an unblushing falsehood; they are distinctly forced upon the people by
the very men who fatten upon the degradation, and who are often to be
seen upon public platforms deploring the evils of which they are the
creators. The sermons these moralists preach--to win votes, or to
prove themselves qualified for public office, or to air their spurious
philanthropy--are the bitterest of mockeries.
Between the particular public-houses and pawnbrokers' shops which
flanked Church Alley were dotted other notable places of business.
To wit, Mr. Joseph Loveday's second-hand bookshop, to which we
have been already introduced, a sweet-stuff shop, a cook-shop, a
wardrobe-shop, and a printer's office, in which the master worked at
case and press as his own journeyman. To the small boys and girls in
the vicinity of Church Alley these shops were a great attraction, and
they patronized them generously. The wardrobe-shop, which, like the
bookshop, dealt only in second-hand goods, was as alluring to the
grown-up folk of the female sex as it was to the youngsters, and
longing were the eyes cast upon the faded silks and satins displayed
in the dingy window. A shrewd, wise woman was Mrs. Peeper, the keeper
thereof, a woman deeply and strangely versed in the desires and
temptations of the lowly female heart. A woman of attainments, too,
who might have won a name as a writer of fiction had her steps been
led in that direction. In her shop-window would be displayed a
much-worn and frayed satin dress, with a train so long as to set
female mouths watering, and to this dress would be attached the
legend, "From the wardrobe of her Royal Highness the P----ss of
W----s." The legend set afloat would go the rounds, and girls and
women would flock to gaze at the dress which had once adorned the
figure of a royal princess. At another time Mrs. Peeper would arrange
in her window several pairs of shoes, boots, and silk stockings, which
she would announce as "Direct from B----cking----m P----l----ce;" at
another time a flounced petticoat from a duchess; at other times hats,
feathers, gloves, trimmings, capes, and various items of vanity, which
she would cunningly bait with tempting legends to catch her fish. Mrs.
Peeper might be accounted somewhat of a magician, for she filled the
minds of many females with fancies which played their parts in dreams,
changing charwomen into duchesses, young girls into princesses, and
garrets into palaces. Mrs. Peeper seldom failed to land her fish, and
the royal garments would be sold at singularly moderate prices, and,
moreover, payment taken at so much per week.
Then there was the printer, Mr. Edenborough. In his window were
displayed specimens of cheap printing, cards, billheads, handbills,
and what not, but there were clear spaces through which the children
could peep at the master printer at his work. His stock in trade
consisted of one frame, containing about a dozen cases of fancy type,
which, with three pairs of cases of small pica, comprised his
treasures in metal; there was also a rack of large wood letter for
display bills; also an old Albion press. The youngsters stared their
eyes out at him as he stood before the frame, composing-stick in hand,
picking up the types with that swaying motion of his body which the
spectators did not know was the sign of an inferior workman, for the
skilful and expert compositor, the one who has generally earned his
reputation as a "whip," keeps his body still as his hands travel over
the case; they stared the harder when they saw him lock up the chase
in which the card or handbill was inserted; and they stared the harder
still when he worked ink-roller and press, and pulled off the
impressions of the job in hand. He was rather proud of his audience,
and made no attempt to disperse them; their admiration was a tribute,
and it sweetened his labors.
Then there was the cook-shop, in which, at stated hours of the day,
hot dishes made their appearance, smoking. A great attraction, these;
tantalizing perhaps, but at all events the youngsters had the smell
for nothing. Sometimes a stray ha'penny from the juvenile throng found
its way into the cook-shop till. Thereafter would ensue, in some
convenient nook, such a feast as Caligula never enjoyed.
Then there was Mr. Sly, the proprietor of the sweet-stuff shop. Such
mysteries of sweetness, sticky or otherwise, but generally sticky,
were in his window, that the children, once they got there, had the
greatest difficulty in tearing themselves away. Ha'pence and
farthings--the latter largely predominating--burned holes in the
pockets of small breeches, and invariably, unless the plum-duff of the
cook-shop stopped the way, were swept into Mr. Sly's till. There was,
besides, in this man's establishment a strange and overwhelming
temptation which lured the children on, and filled them now with
visions of ineffable happiness, and now with visions of dark despair.
The exquisite feelings of Manfred were repeated again and again in
the breasts of these small morsels of mortality. In a little room at
the back of his shop Mr. Sly kept what was spoken of as a "dolly,"
which may be described as a species of roulette board, the ball--a
marble--being sent spinning down a corkscrew tower till it reached the
numbers, and finally settled in its resting-place. The rule of this
gambling game was the easiest imaginable, and will be understood by
the words "double or quits," a system which, in its results, was
painfully comprehensible to the young reprobates who patronized it. A
case in point occurred at the precise time that Mr. Loveday and
Timothy Chance were talking together, and what ensued may be accepted
as an illustration of Mr. Sly's method of conducting that part of his
business.
A juvenile of the male sex had come unexpectedly into possession of a
farthing. It had not been given to him "to be good;" he had picked it
up in Church Alley. He looked at it first in wonder and delight at his
good luck, then he flourished it triumphantly. Forthwith he was
surrounded, and far and wide the news spread that "Billy Forester had
picked up a farden." This caused the meeting to be a numerous one.
Before proceeding to discuss how it should be spent there was a
difficulty to smooth over.
"I cried, ''Arves!'" said little Bob Bracey.
"You didn't," said Billy Forester.
"I did!"
"You didn't!"
"Look 'ere; I'll fight you for it!"
"No, yer won't. It's mine, and I means to stick to it."
"What are you goin' to do with it?" was asked in a chorus.
"Spend it," said Billy.
"In course he is. The farden's Billy's, and he's goin' to spend it.
We'll all 'ave a lick."
Then ensued a discussion upon ways and means.
"I think," said Billy, "I'll spend it in burnt almonds."
This caused dismay. A farthing's worth of burnt almonds among so many,
Billy by right taking the lion's share, would go a very little way;
the majority of Billy's comrades would not get even a "lick."
"I tell yer wot to do, Billy," said a shrewd youngster. "'Ave a spin
at old Sly's dolly, and double it."
"Yes, do, Billy, and double it ag'in. Then we'll all 'ave a taste."
Why they called Mr. Sly "old Sly" cannot be explained, the vender of
sweet-stuff being comparatively a young man; but it is a way poor
children have.
Billy Forester was at heart a gambler.
"I'll do it," he said.
Away he marched, followed by the admiring crowd. Billy, having found a
farthing, was a hero.
"Now then," said Mr. Sly as they flocked into his shop, "not so many
of yer. Hallo, Billy, it's you. What do you want?"
Billy replied by crooking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction
of Mr. Sly's back room. That the gambling had to be carried on in
secrecy made it all the more tempting to the juveniles. It was
supposed by many that Mr. Sly would be beheaded if the government
caught him at it.
"All right," said Mr. Sly, "you and me, Billy. Now, clear out, every
one of yer, or I'll shut up shop. You can wait outside for Billy."
He hustled them out like a flock of sheep, and they clustered in the
alley in pleasurable expectation, waiting for Billy. Meanwhile Mr. Sly
conducted the hero to the little back room.
"'Ow much for, Billy?" asked Mr. Sly.
"A farden."
"Only a farden! Well, never mind; little fish is sweet. 'And it over."
Billy parted with his farthing.
"Will you go fust, Billy?"
"No, you," said Bill.
"'Ere goes, then." Down the screw turret went the marble, spinning
round and round, and when it landed Mr. Sly called, "Eight. Rather a
low number that, Billy."
Billy took the marble, spitting first in his hand for luck, and put it
in the hole at the top of the tower.
"Twelve," said Mr. Sly.
Billy, having won, was entitled to one half-penny's worth of
sweet-stuff for his farthing. He could choose, at liberty,
almond-rock, acid drops, peppermint-stick, barley-sugar, hard-bake,
toffee, treacle-rock, or any other sweet condiment he preferred. He
was debating what to do when the voice of Mephistopheles fell upon his
ear.
"You've got a ha'porth, Billy. Make it a penn'orth. Go in and win."
Billy remembered what one in the meeting had said, "and double it
ag'in." He would.
"I'll go fust this time, Mr. Sly," he said.
Down went the marble, and, with a long face, Mr. Sly called out
"Twenty-three. But it's to be beaten, Billy."
He did not beat it, however, his number being fourteen.
"That makes a penn'orth, Mr. Sly," said Billy, exultantly.
"That makes a penn'orth," said Mr. Sly, despondently. "Make it
tuppence or nothink. Yer sure to win."
"Am I?"
"Sure. You'll see."
Billy, in a kind of desperation, seized the fatal marble, and sent it
spinning down the corkscrew turret.
"The same number ag'in," he cried. "Twenty-three."
"A true bill," said Mr. Sly, his face darkening. "Down I go. Well, of
all the luck! Twenty-two."
"I've won," said Billy, trembling from excitement.
"I told yer yer would, and yer'll win ag'in if yer not chicken
'earted. Fourpence or nothink? What do yer say?"
"I say, yes," replied Billy, in a loud tone, he was tasting for the
first time the delirious excitement of gambling and winning largely,
and his blood was in a ferment. "Fourpence or nothink. 'Ere goes."
There did go the marble, and landed in twenty-one. Mr. Sly was not
more fortunate than before. His number was seven. His face grew darker
and darker.
"Fourpenn'orth!" cried Billy. "Hooray!"
"Try ag'in," urged Mephistopheles. "Eightpenn'orth or nothink! Why,
yer in sech luck that yer'd break the Bank of England. There's no
standing ag'in yer. I'm desperate, I am. I shouldn't wonder if yer was
to break me."
Flushed with victory, and dazzled with visions of armsful of
sweet-stuff, Billy for the fifth time sent the marble down, and for
the fifth time won. He screamed out the fact at the top of his voice.
"That's Billy cryin' out," said one of the throng outside. "He's
winnin'."
"He'll 'ave the 'ole bloomin' shop," said another.
"If I was Billy I'd stash it," remarked a clear-brained juvenile. "I
know 'ow it'll end. I've been there myself."
"Oh, you? you've got no pluck! Go in and win, Billy!"
This exhortation was shouted out, and it reached Billy's ears.
"There," said Mr. Sly, in a tone of suppressed excitement, and
striving hard to smother his resentment at Billy's good-fortune,
"d'yer 'ear wot they say? 'Go in and win.' Yer've got eightpenn'orth,
make it sixteenpenn'orth or nothink. There was a boy 'ere last
week"--and Mr. Sly gazed meditatively before him at the visionary boy
he was referring to--"who commenced with a farden, just like you, and
he won nine times runnin'. It's nothink much at fust---a farden, a
ha'penny, a penny. It's _now_ that it begins to mount up. Yes, nine
times running he won--ten shillings and eightpence, that's wot
he got the worth of. He went out loaded. Four pound of 'ard-bake, a
pound of burnt almonds, a pound of barley-sugar, three pound of
peppermint-rock, same of toffee, and I don't know what else. I didn't
mind a bit; it did me good. That's the way to make a forchen."
The recital of the catalogue of treasures was too much for Billy, and
the marble being insidiously slipped into his palm by the cunning
tradesman--who was quite aware that if you go on doubling or nothing
it must eventually come to nothing--Billy, with quivering nerves,
dropped it down the corkscrew turret.
"Three!" shouted Mr. Sly. "But I might git one or two. 'Ere goes.
Seventeen! Nothink."
Billy was sobered. Ruined and chapfallen he preceded Mr. Sly into the
shop, and thence emerged into the alley, where he related his
misfortune, while Mr. Sly, standing at the door, wiped his heated
brows, and called out:
"Never say die, Billy. Better luck next time."
But Billy was not to be consoled. His companions, disgusted with his
bad luck and disappointed in their expectations, fell off from him one
by one, and he was left quite alone. A few minutes ago he was a
personage, now he was nobody. He felt the fall.