A TRAMP IN THE BY-WAYS.
GREAT as London may believe itself to be in works of benevolence and
philanthropy, there are spots in that mighty city which no one should
visit without an officer of the law in his company, to warn him from
the pitfalls and dangers which will beset his pathway.
One evening, feeling rather dispirited and uncomfortable, while
sitting in the coffee-room of the Langham Hotel, a thought struck me
that I might find amusement or novelty in some way by taking a tour
through the city, and accordingly I called a cabman from the stand, in
Upper Regent street, and, determining to make an effort to dissipate
the blues, I jumped into the "hansom" and told the driver, an old
weather-beaten looking fellow, with a buttoned-up coat and dirty
neck-cloth, and wearing a black silk hat, which had once been quite
respectable, but was now utterly wrecked--to "drive me anywhere in
London--I don't care where as long as I can see something to interest
me."
The driver, a well known character, who bore the title of "Old Smudge"
among his brethren on the cab stand, and who was always in trouble with
the police, replied:
"Where shall I take you, Sir? Would you like to take a look at the
river? Or, mayhap you might wish to see a dog fight, or a ratting
match--the Americans are partial to ratting matches--I know some on 'em
are!"
[Sidenote: THE LONDON CABBIES.]
"Take me anywhere," said I from the recesses of the cab in which I had
ensconsced myself.
These London Cabbies are, as a general thing, the most provoking and
abusive fellows in the world, but their usefulness cannot be denied by
any person who has experienced the delight of having a cab to hail when
attacked suddenly by the often recurring rain storms, which serve to
keep the atmosphere of Great Britain's capital in a state of perpetual
moisture. There are two kinds of Cabs--the "hansom," a two wheeled
vehicle, which falls back on its wheels, and is drawn by a single
horse, the cabman sitting over your head with the reins elevated in his
hands, and stretching through a metal ring in the roof to the collar of
the horse. Then there are folding doors which can be closed to keep mud
and dust from entering the cab, and a movable window fastened to the
interior of the roof that can be hoisted or let down at will, and is
most serviceable in case of rain or other inclement weather.
[Illustration: "OLD SMUDGE"--THE CABBY.]
Then there is the "four wheeler," as it is called, a cab which is also
drawn by one horse, but is built something after the fashion of the
American coupe or brougham. This vehicle has four wheels, and is more
comfortable and roomy than the "Hansom." The rates for transportation
are higher, however, and the four-wheelers are used by a better
class of people. There are six thousand one-horse cabs registered in
London, of which number 2,352 are "six day" cabs, whose proprietors
do not allow of their use on Sundays; and of "seven day" cabs, which
are constantly traversing the streets, there are as many as 3,366.
These cabs are all licensed, and their owners pay, annually, into the
Municipal Treasury as large a sum as £10,000. The legal rate of fare in
a "hansom," is sixpence a mile, and for a "four-wheeler," one shilling
per mile, but the cabbies charge strangers any fare they can get.
[Illustration: "A HANSOM CAB."]
"Leave me alone, Sir, and I'll show you some of the sights of Lunnon
town," said "Old Smudge," in a hoarse voice from the top of the cab in
reply to my anxious enquiry as to where we were traveling. We were then
some distance from the West End of the City, and from the noises which
every few minutes attracted our attention, I fancied that the cab was
being driven in the direction of the Thames. I saw, dimly, the masts of
the shipping and the Docks, with their adamantine fronts frowning down
upon me.
The cab was stopped suddenly, and the horse was brought up on its
hind legs by a jerk of the reins from "Old Smudge," who was already in
conversation at the door of a beer shop, which was illuminated, and
had a large number of rough-mannered customers standing around its
entrance. They were a sufficiently hard looking set to make a stranger
think of his safety.
"This is 'Jack Barley's "Convivial Pup,"' Sir," said the cabman to
me as I climbed out of the "hansom." "This is the finest rat-pit in
Lunnon, Sir."
[Sidenote: A SOIREE AT A RAT PIT.]
I had often heard of Mr. Barley before, and now I saw him face to face,
a most villainous and repulsive looking beast with a scarcely healed
cicatrice in his jaw, and a couple of bleary holes under his black
brows, miscalled eyes. Mr. Barley was famous in his way, and enjoyed
distinction among a certain class. None could tell the breed of a
dog, the age of a spaniel, the pluck of a terrier, or the gouging and
milling abilities of a middle weight bruiser, with Professor Barley.
In such matters his judgment was final and conclusive along the Thames
bank for some distance.
The proprietor escorted us through a small bar, which was ornamented
with the usual sporting emblems found in low London tap rooms, and
after descending a stone stairs, I found myself in a room beneath the
ground floor, with small circular benches ranged in a cramped fashion
to the ceiling. On these seats about one hundred men, of all grades
in the sporting class, were seated. There were a few "gentlemen,"
God save the mark, a brace of attorney's clerks, an officer of some
line regiment, and the rest of the audience were of a miscellaneous
character.
There was a rat pit below the benches, a square enclosure with a board
fence about four feet high, enclosing it, the boards being whitewashed,
and the flooring of the pit having sawdust scattered over it.
The only light in this dreary and subterraneous den came from six
greasy, unvarnished tin lanterns, in which half a dozen of cheap tallow
candles were fixed, and these flickered and sputtered with great
malevolence on the rascally faces of the men who swarmed around the
pit.
I heard a squealing noise, and I saw a lad bring in a long and huge
flat wire cage, which was swarming with gray, black, and brown rats.
Way was made for the youth to enter the pit with his cage of live
rodents. Jumping in he opened the cage, and thrusting his forearm
fearlessly through the door he drew forth, one by one, over fifty large
and ferocious rats and threw them in a heap in the pit. These animals
ran about in a confused way for a few minutes, and looked with an
almost human and beseeching look into the murderous faces which were
gathered around the pit. Then another cage was handed to the young man,
and the same ceremony was performed again until there were one hundred
and five rats in the centre of the pit.
[Illustration: "ONE HUNDRED RATS IN NINE MINUTES."]
There was to be a match for fifty pounds, the proprietor of the pit
having matched his dog "Skid," a wiry and ferret-eyed little terrier,
to kill one hundred rats in nine minutes. Bets were now made against
and for the dog, that he would or would not kill the rats in the time
named, and the excitement ran high as the little venomous dog was
placed in the pit carefully by his master amid considerable applause
from the roughs.
[Sidenote: "SKID'S" BATTLE WITH THE RATS.]
It was simply disgusting to witness that dreadful little terrier run
at each rat, shake him for a second or two in the air and then drop
him quite dead on the floor of the pit, while the roughs encouraged
him to his work with shouts when the rat was destroyed quickly, but
occasionally when a big and ferocious rat was attacked and showed fight
in return, and when the terrier seemed to hang back for a moment,
a perfect storm of curses and obscene epithets were rained on the
unfortunate canine. Before five minutes had elapsed the whitewashed
board sides and flooring of the Rat Pit were daubed with splashes of
blood, and the little terrier was foaming at the lips, and his glossy
hide was flecked with dark smudgy stains. When eight minutes and forty
seconds had elapsed, "Skid" snapped the neck of the last rat, and now
there was nothing left in the pit but a large pool of blood on which
sawdust was quickly heaped, and a bleeding mass of heaving and dying
rats.
Great cheering rewarded the efforts of "Skid," who was taken up
tenderly, almost lovingly by his master; and now being very sick at the
stomach from the disgusting sight I left the place and took the cab,
cogitating the while on what I had seen.
Disgusting as the sight of the rat butchery had proved, I afterwards
learned that some two hundred men earn a living in London, and its
suburbs, in catching rats alive for the use of the rat-pits. Of this
number a great many, however, are paid extra by persons who wish to
drive the vermin from their dwellings, and have no means of doing so
but by calling in professional rat-catchers.
Some fifteen or twenty of these professional rat-catchers pursue their
dangerous calling in the London sewers, preferring to catch those found
in drains to the house rats, who are not as ferocious as the former.
Beside, the sewer rat will fight a terrier longer and more savagely
than a house rat, and as this affords good sport, the sewer rat is at a
premium in the market.
[Illustration: THE RAT CATCHER.]
These rat-catchers traverse the sewers by night, and carry lanterns
and a long wire basket with lids and a handle of the same material.
They use ointment which they rub on their hands and with this same
composition they cover their arms, which is very distasteful to the
rats, who will not bite at any human flesh that is anointed with this
preparation. These men wear large slouch hats, and pursue their calling
in all seasons, to make a living. Often they have terrible battles with
the enraged colonies of rats, and not a few of the rat-catchers have
been over-powered in the sewers when attacked, and their bones whiten
many of the brick beds and slimy crevices of these dark and dismal
underground passages.
[Sidenote: "PADDY'S GOOSE," RATCLIFFE HIGHWAY.]
The cab driver now desired to know if I would like to visit "Paddy's
Goose," a den in "Ratcliffe Highway," one of the worst of the bad
districts of London. This place is frequented by sailors of all
nations, who visit the spot to dance with the abandoned women, that
are hired by the proprietors of these resorts to entice the foolish
seafaring men just discharged from their vessels, with more money than
they are able to take care of.
[Illustration: "PADDY'S GOOSE."]
"Paddy's Goose," or the "White Swan," as it is called by its owner, is
perhaps the most frightful hell-hole in London. The very sublimity of
vice and degradation is here attained, and the noisy scraping of wheezy
fiddles, and the brawls of intoxicated sailors are the only sounds
heard within its walls. It is an ordinary dance house, with a bar and
glasses, and a dirty floor on which scores of women of all countries
and shades of color may be found dancing with Danes, Americans,
Swedes, Spaniards, Russians, Negroes, Chinese, Malays, Italians, and
Portuguese, in one wild hell-medley of abomination.
The proprietor of this den is undoubtedly the most desperate villain
I ever saw outside of a prison gate, a man whose face is scarred and
corrugated by the foot-prints of the Devil, whose servant he has
been for many years, and yet I was informed that this scoundrel was
tolerated, nay, encouraged by the government, from the fact that he
had great influence among English seamen. This man during the Crimean
War hired steamers, with bands of music, and served the Admiralty as a
"crimp" for enlisting sailors, or rather for trapping them by drugging
them first and then "burking" them off to the men-of-war, which needed
fresh complements of seamen.
I did not stay long in this Devil's-Tavern, and I am sure my readers
will excuse me from going into particular mention of the beastliness
and orgies I saw there.
[Illustration: "WAITING FOR THE TIDE."]
Dismissing "Old Smudge" with a fee that seemed to meet his approbation,
I turned my steps in the direction of the river, not doubting for a
moment but that I should find further food for reflection. I came upon
the Thames suddenly as a vision, and saw it stretching out in all its
dark and terrible beauty, just above Shadwell. I had taken my seat on
an old dismasted hulk that lay some distance off in the river, and
which I had reached with considerable difficulty by clambering from
bowsprit to bowsprit among the silent shipping, on whose masts and
canvas God's silent stars shone brightly down.
[Sidenote: WAITING FOR THE TIDE.]
I had not been sitting long there when a clumsy-looking and
broad-bottomed boat passed me, directly below the hulk, one man pulling
in the boat while another leaned over and seemed to support something,
dark and bulky in shape, from the stern of the wherry.
A chill came over me, and in a faint voice I asked the man what he had
in the skiff?
"Oh, yer honor, we were Waiting for the Tide below Bridge. We goes out
every night, me and Tim, to look for bodies--we gets twenty shillings
a-piece for them, and all we can find, and Tim's got a dead 'un now,
and 'praps he's got a good haul, for there's a sparkling ring on Its
finger,--mayhap yer honor would like to buy it."
Trailing slowly in the water was a lifeless corpse, and the boatman was
tearing a bright object from its stiff forefinger.
Hastily I rose and turned my face away from the River which had given
up its dead in this startling manner.
I went home thoroughly cured of the blues, and saw no more "sights"
that night.
[Illustration]