THE "ARGYLE," "BARNES'S," AND "CASINO."
IT is a quarter past eleven o'clock and the Haymarket is full of
people--men and women jostling each other, many of both sexes being
intoxicated; and beggars solicit us at every crossing, doffing their
greasy caps and thrusting their dirty paws under our noses in their
persistency. The cafes are overflowing with Gauls from across the
channel, and when the crowds become too thick to leave the sidewalks
passable, the policemen, who are in great numbers here, have to
interfere to quell rows every few minutes. They clear the streets in a
mild, civil way, very different from the manner of the New York police
in like contingencies.
A stranger cannot help being astonished at the vast, almost
incalculable, number of unfortunate women who haunt the London streets
in this quarter as the hour of midnight approaches. There must be a
great rottenness in Denmark where such a state of things can exist, and
exist without any surprise on the part of those who witness such scenes
nightly. I paid a shilling to enter the Argyle Rooms, and received a
tin check, which was given up at the door, as in the Alhambra. The
Argyle has not such high architectural pretensions as the Alhambra, but
the class of visitors are better in the sense of dress and position.
I entered through a side door, and found myself in a carpeted room,
handsomely and tastefully furnished and decorated.
[Sidenote: THE "ARGYLE ROOMS."]
The saloon is nearly as large as Irving Hall, in New York, but lit up
in a splendid manner with handsome chandeliers, which depend from the
lofty ceiling, the gas jets burning in a deep glow through the shining
metal stalactites that ornament the chandeliers. A splendid band of
fifty instruments is stationed in the gallery at the further end of
the room, and the music is of the best kind. The leader is attired in
full evening dress, as is also every fiddler in the band, and the wave
of the chef's baton is as graceful as that of Julien, when he was in
his prime. Women, dressed in costly silks and satins and velvets, the
majority of them wearing rich jewels and gold ornaments, are lounging
on the plush sofas in a free and easy way, conversing with men whose
dress betoken that they are in respectable society. A number of these
are in full evening dress, wearing their overcoats, and a few of them
have come from the clubs, a few from dinner parties, and a greater
number from the theatres or opera.
They are not ashamed to be seen here by their acquaintances--far from
it; they think this is a nice and clever thing to do, and, as no
virtuous woman ever enters this place, there is no danger of meeting
those who own a sisterly or still dearer tie, and who might cause a
blush to redden the cheeks of these charming young men. Across the
lower end of the room an iron railing is stretched, and this keeps the
vulgar herd from mingling with the elite of the abandoned women who
frequent the Argyle. Three-fourths of the ground space is devoted to
dancing, and inside this railing sets are formed at a signal from the
band above.
The charge for admission below, where I stand with the detective
surveying this strange scene, is but a shilling, while the entrance fee
to the gallery is two shillings, and this admits, as I am told by a
servant, to all the privileges of the place whatever they may be. Even
in vice the "horrid spirit of caste" prevails. It is chiefly clerks and
tradesmen who are dancing in the shilling place, and at the end of each
dance, be it waltz or quadrille, the man who has danced is expected
to refresh his partner with a copious draught of beer, or a glass of
plain gin. These women all take their gin without water, and smoke
cigarettes if some one will pay for them. Inside the railing it is
different.
The bars here are furnished with great splendor, and the calls for
champagne are incessant. The women call champagne "fizz," and ale
"swill." All around the room cushioned seats or benches are placed so
that those who have done dancing may rest themselves and drink. There
are liquor counters in every corner of the room, and a good business
is done, the bar-maids being kept actively employed all the time
while the music is playing. Upstairs there is another gallery and a
fine bar, and here the really fast women congregate, to look over the
balconies, but never condescending to mix among the vulgar dancers,
excepting when their reason is gone through intoxication. These women
all carry expensive fans, and their trains are as long as the train of
a Countess in a reception at St. James's. There is a handsomely fitted
up alcove to the right of the bar, and this alcove is ornamented with
panels, on which are painted such pictures as "Europa and the Bull,"
"Leda," "Bacchus and Silenus;" and here are a number of women and men
with Venetian goblets foaming full of champagne before them. Standing
at the entrance to the alcove, is a stout, florid-faced woman, vulgar
in appearance, with incipient moustachios at the corners of her lips.
She is covered with jewelry, and her fingers, fat, red, and unshapely,
glitter with diamonds.
This is the famous "Kate Hamilton," who was at one time the reigning
beauty of her class, and has now degenerated into a vile pander. She
is surrounded by a cluster of girls, and they are all in an animated
discussion with her. The detective introduces me to this famous, or
rather infamous, Messalina, and her first question is, "Will you stand
some 'Sham?'" The next is to make inquiry about a number of New York
politicians and sporting men who have patronized her den, somewhere in
the Haymarket, while doing the foreign tour. She is most business-like
and brief, this fetid old wretch, and has a speaking acquaintance with
every man in the saloon.
[Sidenote: THE HAYMARKET BY NIGHT.]
While we are standing looking at her and her friends, the room
is darkened, the gas being almost extinguished, and a chemical,
light-colored flame irradiates the room like a twilight at sea, and
the entire female population rush below to join in the last, wild,
mad shadow-dance of the night. Around and around they go in each
other's arms, whirling in the dim, uncertain, graveyard light, these
unclean things of the darkness, shouting and shrieking, totally lost
to shame--their gestures wanton as the movements of an Egyptian Almee
and mad as the capers of a dancing dervish. Then the hall is darkened,
the band ceases playing, the waiters finish the remains of the uncorked
champagne bottles, the women dash madly down the carpeted stairs and
into the streets with their male companions, and are whirled away with
the cabs, which wait in long rows before the entrance of the Argyle, to
the purlieus of Pimlico and the sensual shades of St. John's Wood, at
Brompton.
The night has closed, a full English moon floats silently in the
heavens, white snowy powder hangs over our heads like a film of
lace--the clock-tower at Westminster Palace booms out the hour of
midnight over the dark surface of the Thames, and we escape from the
bustle of that vile dancing hall with gladness.
"Now," said my conductor, "let's go down in the Haymarket to Barnes's,
and look at that for a few minutes, and then we will go to the Casino,
in the Holborn, for a finish, if you please, sir."
Down through Coventry street, past the cafés again, which are preparing
to close, and now we are in the Haymarket, one of the worst quarters of
London. This street is wide, beginning at Coventry street and running
down for a distance of about 1,400 feet to the "bottom," ending at the
line where Pall Mall begins. They always say the "bottom" or "top" of a
street in London, never "east" or "west." If there be a place in London
that is deserving of notice, it is the Haymarket. Hundreds of years
ago, the washerwomen of the village of Charing, just below us, and now
one of the great business centres of London, used to bring their dirty
linen here to cleanse it, and then dry it on the green fields in the
Haymarket.
The green fields of the Haymarket have long ago been covered over
with theatres, opera-houses and palatial shops, and now not all the
washerwomen in England could cleanse the immoral sewage that streams
through the Haymarket night after night--through the snows of winter,
the heated nights of July, and August, and the fragrance of May. Here,
at this chemist's door, formerly a tennis court, Charles II., his
brother, the Duke of York, Sedley, Rochester, and the rest of the wild,
reckless lot, used to come to play their favorite game; and here sat
Mistress Gwynne, Portsmouth, Mrs. Hyde, Louise de Queroailles, Frances
Stewart, and other dissolute beauties of the merry monarch's court,
applauding the feats of skill performed by their lovers. In the theatre
formerly standing on the site of the present Haymarket Theatre, and
opposite to Her Majesty's Opera House, with its long, drab colonnades
and dark shops imbedded in the arcades, Foote and glorious Garrick woke
the passions of all who were intellectual and noble in the Addisonian
age of England.
Here was the public house kept by Broughton, the champion of England,
who has been forever immortalized by Hogarth--just off Cockspur street;
and here was his swinging sign-board, having a portrait of himself,
battered and bruised, in a cocked hat and wig, with the legend on the
sign-board--
"Hic Victor Cæstus artemque repono."
Think of a modern prize buffer attempting to quote from the classics.
Cibber wrote a show-bill for Broughton once, which I reproduce, as a
specimen of advertising skill:
"At The New Theatre
"In the Haymarket, on Wednesday. The 29th of This Instant April,
"The Beauty of the Science of Defence will be shown in a Trial of Skill
between the following Masters, viz., Whereas, there was a battle fought
on the 18th of March last, between Mr. Johnson, from Yorkshire, and
Mr. Sherlock, from Ireland, in which engagement they came so near as to
throw each other down. Since that rough battle the said Sherlock has
challenged Johnson to fight him, strapt down to the stage, for twenty
pounds; to which the said Johnson has agreed; and they are to meet at
the time and place above mentioned, and fight in the following manner,
viz., to have their left feet strapt down to the stage, within reach
of each other's right leg; and the most bleeding wounds to decide the
wager. N.B.--The undaunted young James, who is thought the bravest of
his age in the manly art of boxing, fights himself the stout-hearted
George Gray for ten pounds, who values himself for fighting at
Tottenham Court. Attendance to be _given at ten, and the Masters mount
at twelve_. Cudgel-playing and boxing to _divert_ the _gentlemen_ until
the battle begins.
"N.B.--Frenchmen are requested to bring smelling bottles."
Think only of these wigged nobles and their clients, the boxers, in
knee-breeches and wigs, going to a battle, and think of the Frenchmen
who were compelled to bring smelling-bottles to keep their stomachs in
order, and who will not say that even in prize-fighting the Nineteenth
century has brought progress, as in every other scientific matter?
[Sidenote: AT "BARNES'S."]
We are now at Barnes's, a famous night house, or, rather, an infamous
night house, in the Haymarket. When the dancing places and music-halls
of the metropolis close, this door remains open to catch all stray
night birds who can find no other resting place. The place is an
ordinary drinking saloon, with a confectionery and pastry counter, and
the attendants are five or six over-dressed young ladies, all of whom
have their hair dyed of a light color, and are very free and chatty in
their manner. These girls are well supplied with jewelry and lockets.
Their salary is not large enough to furnish them with the trinkets,
as they only get one pound five shillings a week; yet they manage to
dress expensively, and Champagne is so common to their palates that
they have become indifferent to it and it absolutely palls upon them.
Yet there is a percentage on every bottle that is consumed here, and
consequently they do their best to sell Moet & Chandon at ten shillings
a bottle to the customers--and will even drink with them.
[Illustration: IN THE HAYMARKET.]
This is a great place for rump-steaks and native oysters--late at
night, and a good business is done here in those articles of food. The
oysters are small, black, and have a bitter, copperish taste. A New
Yorker, used to Sounds and East Rivers, would leave them in disgust;
but Englishmen, whose throats are parched with the liquors they get
at the Argyle and in the Haymarket, prefer them to the most luscious
Saddle Rocks. There is a large screen in the center of the room, the
bar glitters with costly mirrors, and behind the screen are a number
of small boxes partitioned off, and having red plush seats. In these
are several noisy women, inflamed with liquor, eating and drinking and
hallooing at their male companions. One girl, in a black silk dress,
with her hair hanging down in disorder, is crying drunk at one of the
tables, and has just spilled a bottle of wine over her handsome dress.
She is cursing the waiter, who is also drunk, with much earnestness of
purpose, and as soon as she sees the detective she halloos at him in a
harsh voice:
[Sidenote: THE "HOLBORN CASINO."]
"I say, Bobby, you don't want me, do you?" I 'avent done nothink,
although I wos wonst in Newgate for taking a swell's watch, which he
guv to me for my wedding present, as was just four year ago, come
Micklemas Goose. I wish I could throw meself in the Thames, but I
'aven't got the 'art--
"'Hoh, my 'art is in the 'Ighlands
A follerin the vild roe.
My 'art is in the 'Ighlands,
Wheresomdever I--go--I go."
"Ah! that's a rum customer," said the policeman; "she's fly to
heverythink. Now, hif that gal ain't watched this night, she is jest as
likely to go to London Bridge and throw her blessed body hoff into the
dirty water as not. They always goes to Lunnun Bridge when they want to
make way with themselves--it's so lively like."
"Now," said the policeman, "I would hadvise you to make the finish at
the 'Casino,' in the 'Olborn, afore you go to your hotel, sir, and
then you may say you've seen the best of the bad places of Lunnun. The
Casino is hopen till one o'clock to-night, I think, and we'll just be
in time for the best dance."
We took a cab again, which dashed up Coventry street, through
Cranbourne street, into Long acre, and up Drury Lane, past the old
theatre of that name, and in a few minutes we descended in the wide,
open space of the Holborn, before the entrance of the Casino, the
fashionable dance-house of London. The street was lined with cabs, and
policemen were thick in the vicinity of the entrance, ordering the men
and women just coming out to pass on, and keep the street clear, a duty
which gained for them a great deal of abuse from the intoxicated women,
who did not want to pass on by any means. The entrance to this place is
through a gaudy, gilded vestibule and down a descent of four or five
steps to a spacious marble floor, which was covered with dancers. The
whole interior was gilded, gold leaf and white predominating above all
other colors.
The band, as at the other places of evil resort, was placed in the
farthest end gallery, and was an excellent one. The leader wore white
kids and the musicians white vests, and the crash of the instruments
was almost deafening, filling the large space with a wild and not
unpleasing harmony. Attendants in evening dress were on the floor,
making up sets and soliciting the habitues of the place to dance
with the female partners, which were easily found for them. A high
balcony ran all round the hall, which is 100 feet by 75 in dimension,
and in the corners of the saloon, up and down stairs, were cafés and
refreshment bars, which were crowded with customers. The entrance to
this place is only one shilling, and the class of visitors is of a
superior kind to those who go to any other dance-house in London.
The saloon was really a magnificent one, rich and tasteful in its
decoration, and the women were well and neatly dressed, and very
quiet and well-behaved in their manner. Every woman wore nice gloves,
high-heeled boots, and all of them had the lace frill or ruff now
prevalent in London around their necks. They also wore charms and
lockets and gold watches, and every one was attended by a cavalier. The
men were smoking cigars and flirting, and a number of foreigners were
present and danced incessantly, just as they would at the Mabille or
any Continental garden. In fact, this is the only place in London, with
the exception of Cremorne Gardens, that in any way approaches the mad
gaiety of the Mabille.
Still, there is a certain English decorum observed here, and any girl
who would get drunk or lift her skirts too high would be expelled
instantly by the master of ceremonies, assisted by the policemen who
are to be found scattered all over the place. Some of the girls will
go up and ask for partners to dance with them, and then, if the latter
wish to give them liquor,--well and good, but they will not solicit
it, because these women affect the fashionable lady as much as their
limited resources will allow.
[Sidenote: GOOD NIGHT.]
They are generally the mistresses of men of leisure, and when the
season is at its height a great number of men about town may be
seen here, as spectators, who come from the clubs or the Houses of
Parliament, bored by the ennui of the reading rooms at one place, or
the prosy speeches of members of the other. Some of the men dance with
cigars in their mouths, and whirl around in such a wild manner as to
cause collision with the other couples. Occasionally you will see two
girls waltzing, and men who have sat too long at the dinner-table will,
once in an evening, get up together and dance a "stag dance." But this
is not encouraged by the master of ceremonies, as the dancing of a pair
of male bipeds is not calculated to help the business of the place, and
it is instantly suppressed, amid cheers and laughter.
The music strikes up for the last gallop, and there is a rush
for partners; the balconies and alcoves and luxurious seats and
marble tables are deserted, and in a moment everything is in a wild
hurly-burly and a confusion and uproar; men and women galloping and
bounding and yelling to the right, and to the left, and as the last
crash of the big drum beats on the ear the passages and doorways are
thronged with the dancers, every man crying for a cab to take himself
and partner somewhere, perhaps they care not where--it is no matter;
and now the place is in darkness, and the policemen having seen the
last of the women leave the doorway, begin their patrol duty, which
will last until day breaks and the stars fall from the London sky,
telling them that they are relieved from their night's watch.
The detective shakes hand with and leaves me, he to go eastward to
Temple Bar, and I to bed in a remote quarter of the great Babylon,
whose noises and turmoil are now hushed into silence, excepting where a
solitary street-walker, famishing from hunger, or a drunken pedestrian
bars the way, and makes the night resound with insane shouts.