London, I enter the Holborn Restaurant, hoping to enjoy a good dinner,
and at the same time be entertained by the delightful music of skilled
musicians. I seat myself at a table on the second floor, and supposing
myself free from intrusion, yield myself up to the charming melody,
when a good-looking and well-dressed man approaches, and with many
apologies asks if the seat opposite me is engaged. I assure him that I
do not lay claim to ownership of any portion of the Holborn, and that I
can speak only of the chair upon which I am sitting. Upon this he takes
the opposite place and gives to the waiter an order for quite an
extravagant supply of the dainties enumerated on the bill of fare.
During the time intervening between the giving of the order and its
delivery, no conversation passes between us, but I have an unpleasant
consciousness of his presence, and occasionally feel his eyes resting
upon me. The appearance of the epicurean repast seems to impart the
confidence he requires, and he addresses me with the remark that I must
pardon him for staring at me so impolitely, but he is sure he has met me
before. Am I not an American? to which I assent. "Are you a New Yorker?"
is the next interrogation from this experienced catechiser. He can
readily perceive that I am an American by my foreign accent.
To the last question I also respond in the affirmative, and may heaven
forgive the falsehood. "Ah," he says, "do you frequent the races at
Sheepshead Bay?" "Yes, generally," I reply. (I have never seen the
place.) "It is there, then, that I have met you. Were you not there last
summer?" "Many times." (Another breach of truth.) "Will you kindly give
me your name?" follows as a matter of course. I reach my hand into my
pocket and draw out a card upon which is engraved simply my name, and
extending it toward him, remark: "My name is Charles M. Taylor, Jr., and
I am associated with Mr. ----, one of the chief detectives at Scotland
Yard. My present mission is to look up some 'Bunco' men from New York
who have headquarters in London. Here is my card." But the stranger does
not take the card. He glances hastily at his watch, and rising
hurriedly, says: "It is nine o'clock. I did not know it was so late. I
must be off, as I have an important engagement."
As he pushes back his chair, I quickly call a waiter, and tell him to
collect the money for this gentleman's order, as I do not wish to be
held responsible for it. He pays for the meal which he has not touched,
and in his haste to depart forgets his manners, for he does not wish me
"good-night."
Did he think I was a tender lamb? This hurts my pride somewhat. I am
sorry, however, that I was obliged to deceive him so.
One evening while discussing matters in general with an English friend,
born and bred in the city of London, we touch upon the order and
unswerving obedience of the soldiers, policemen and good citizens who
dwell under the dominion of her gracious Majesty, the Queen, in the
great metropolis; and my friend cites as an example, the guards who
patrol nightly the White Hall Horse Guards Barracks, as adhering so
strictly to their line of march that they will not turn out of their way
one inch for any person or obstacle in their direct course. I accept the
wager of a dinner at the Holborn to be given by me if I do not succeed
in inducing one of these guards to move out of his line of march.
Selecting a dark night for the one in which to make good my assertion, I
approach the barracks, and espy the guard with bayonet at "Carry arms,"
making a "bee line" toward me. I walk in his direction with head bent
low, and come so close that there would be a collision were it not for
the stern and firmly-uttered "Halt" that comes from his lips. I halt
face to face with this noble specimen of humanity, standing fully six
feet one in his boots, and as straight as "Jack's bean pole." "Sir," I
say, "you are in my way, will you please move out?" He makes no
response. "Will you please step aside and allow me to pass?" No
response. "Come, my good fellow," I continue in persuasive tones, "I
have made a wager that you will move out of line for me, and if you do I
will share the bet with you." No reply. But I see in the immovable
countenance an inflexible determination to do his duty which all the
bribes in Christendom will not be able to change. I feel that death only
can prevent his obedience to orders. "Well," I conclude, "you are a good
fellow, and the power you serve, be it queen, emperor, or president, is
to be envied for having such a faithful subject. I respect your
obedience to law and order. Good-night." No response. It is needless to
say that I pay the forfeit willingly, and my friend and I enjoy a good
dinner at the Holborn.
[Illustration: "White Hall Horse Guards' Barracks." (_See page 63._)]
Strolling one morning about London, with nothing better to do than to
take in "odd bits" that come in my way, I observe a large crowd of
citizens assembled opposite the entrance to Parliament, and going up to
a policeman, I ask what has happened, or is about to happen? But the
officer looks perfectly blank, and can give me no information whatever.
I bethink suddenly of my remissness and the rules governing information
sought from guards, cab-drivers, and omnibus whips in the city of
London, and straightway putting my hand in my pocket, I produce
several pennies which I give him for a mug of "Half and Half." A change
comes over his countenance, his vanished senses quickly return, and with
a courteous smile he remarks that Gladstone is expected to appear in
Parliament for the first time after an illness of some weeks. And this
obliging "cop" not only gives me the desired information, but escorts me
to a good position in the crowd, just in time to behold the "Grand Old
Man," who, holding his hat in his hand, bows smilingly in response to
the enthusiastic greetings which come from every side. He walks briskly
along, and as he comes close to me, moved by an irresistible impulse, I
step out from the throng, and extend my hand, saying: "I am an American,
who wishes to shake the hand of the man who has so bravely fought a hard
battle." The proud old face looks pleasantly into mine, his hand meets
mine with a cordial grasp, and replying that he is glad to meet an
American, Gladstone passes on to the scene of his many conflicts and
victories.
The tourist who is bent on seeing the various sections of a great city,
and especially those localities which are best observed by night, should
be very cautious in visiting the haunts of vice and poverty: such for
example as the old Seven Dials of London, as it used to be. I have had
many unpleasant and untold encounters, and been placed in situations,
not only trying, but extremely dangerous, while attempting to explore
these hidden regions unattended and alone. Experience has taught me that
it is best to go "well heeled," that is accompanied by the best informed
and most expert detectives, as what they may charge for their services
is cheap in comparison with a mutilated head or body. One's own ready
wit and shrewdness are all very well in some cases, but there are times
when these fail, and the man at the other end, drunken, brutal, and
excited, will make you wish you had "let sleeping dogs lie."
It is well for travellers and others to visit the slums of large cities
by night. Here is food for comparison and reflection, and from these may
perhaps arise a different feeling from that with which we are accustomed
to regard the poor wretches who have lacked the advantages of birth,
education and environment.
In company with four detectives, I visited the "Seven Dials" of London,
and the experience of those nights spent in scenes of horror, vice and
degradation would fill volumes. Picture to yourself a small narrow
street, with low wooden houses of two stories on either side. There are
dim glimmering lights at intervals of about fifty feet. The hour is two
o'clock in the morning, as one tourist attended by four officers wends
his way through an atmosphere filled with dread and horror. We enter
some of the houses which present scenes of indescribable squalor and
confusion. A perfect bedlam of tongues reigns here. Men and women hurl
abusive epithets at each other, from windows and doors, as well as from
one end of the street to the other. The entire neighborhood enters into
the quarrel, and the transition from words to blows is sudden and
fierce. The street is filled in an instant with ragged, and almost naked
beings, whom one can hardly call human, and the battle which ensues with
clubs, knives and fists is beyond imagination. Cut heads, broken limbs,
bruised bodies, bleeding countenances appear on every side, and it is
quite evident that many are scarred for life. The sight is loathsome,
yet it makes one's heart ache. Such scenes are of frequent occurrence in
the slums of nearly every large city, where drink and depravity count
their victims by thousands. In these vile abodes are the haunts of the
thief, the smuggler, the fallen, and the pictures once seen, are
indelibly impressed on the memory, with the long train of reflections
awakened by such sights, and the inevitable query: Why is not something
done to render such scenes impossible in this age of civilization?
At last the great Derby Day has arrived, and the whole atmosphere is
filled with the importance of the occasion. The sprinkling rain does not
dampen the ardor and enthusiasm of the true Englishman, for I am told
that the races have never been postponed on account of the weather.
After breakfast we stroll to the street corner where stands our tally-ho
in readiness for the day's excursion. Having engaged our seats the
previous day, we take our places and start forth, drawn by four spirited
horses under the guidance of an experienced driver. The whip is cracked,
the horn sends forth its musical signal, and away we go amid the cheers
and applause of numerous spectators. Swiftly we roll over the well paved
streets, and the high spirits of the company, accompanied by the
frequent winding of the horn, render the ride extremely pleasant. The
race-course is about eighteen miles out of London, and our road is
through a beautiful portion of the country. Every lane and avenue is
thronged with people, walking, driving, or on bicycles, but all going to
the Derby. We stop for refreshment at the old Robin Hood Inn, an ancient
hostelry, established, we are told, in 1409. Here we have a beverage,
supposed to be soda water or milk, but which is in truth a stronger
concoction, to brace us for the mental and physical strain of this
exciting day. "All aboard," cries the coachman, and there is a general
scramble for places. At last we are all seated, and proceed on our way,
changing horses when half the distance is covered.
We take the main thoroughfare within three miles of the Epsom grounds,
and now a wonderful sight bursts upon us. Thousands of pedestrians of
both sexes and every age are flocking toward the race course: hundreds
of carriages, vans, dog carts, tally-hos, vehicles of every description
throng the road. Enormous trains are constantly arriving, bearing their
thousands to the Downs, now covered with a vast moving mass. London
empties itself on this all-important day, and proceeds to Epsom by every
possible means of locomotion. The grand stand, a handsome and commodious
structure, is quickly filled to overflowing. There are numerous other
stands. The appearance of the Downs, with the countless booths and the
waving multitude which cover it as far as the eye can reach, is a
spectacle that cannot fail to thrill the soul of the most phlegmatic. No
other event in England can concentrate such an amount of interest and
excitement as is found on the scene of the Derby. Every one is in high
spirits: young and old, men, women and children all seem merry and
happy, laughing, singing, dancing along on this one great day of the
year. Behold the party on our right. A large wagon contains ten or more
men and women, who are singing and laughing in great glee, and who
invite us to join them. Here a group of a half dozen men with musical
instruments at their sides are singing to their own accompaniment. The
dust rises in clouds, and we are covered from head to foot with it as
with a garment: we all wear veils pinned around our heads to protect our
eyes.
At last we reach Epsom Hill, and here we pay two guineas for the
admission of our party and conveyance. We are also entitled to a place
anywhere on the hill which overlooks the race-course. Our horses are
picketed after being taken from the wagon, and our two attendants spread
before us a most sumptuous repast. Coaches of every kind are so thickly
jumbled together that for a vast distance the hill seems covered with a
coat of dark paint.
[Illustration: "A short run of an hour." (_See page 83._)]
Thousands and thousands of men, women and children are assembled upon
this hillside, while tens of thousands fill the stands and encircle the
race-course. It is estimated that no less than from one hundred
thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand persons are massed together
at these races.
The race-course is not like those in the United States, but is a sodded
strip extending about half a mile in a straight line. The ringing of a
bell announces the commencement of the races, and the mass of humanity
surges to and fro in great excitement. Now is the book-maker's time, and
he passes hither and thither, shouting his offers to the enthusiastic
multitude, who accept or reject his propositions with eagerness or
scorn, corresponding with their knowledge or ignorance of the horses
ventured. Gambling and betting are at their height: vast sums of money
change hands at the conclusion of the races, and many inexperienced as
well as reckless ones leave the field at night ruined men. Meanwhile the
confusion is indescribable.
But these sounds drop away, and silence prevails as five slender
well-shaped racers appear, ridden by jockeys, but when the wild mad race
begins in which each endeavors to outdo the others, the excitement and
tumult know no bounds: shouts, groans, cheers fill the air, and every
eye is strained along the course: one could readily believe that a
whole world of mad spirits has been let loose to fill the air with
their hoarse discordant sounds.
As the winning horse reaches the goal, a placard of large dimensions, on
which his number is conspicuously painted, is raised within full view of
the swaying crowd. The shouts and cheers burst forth afresh, and jubilee
and pandemonium mingle their extremes in a scene to be imagined only by
those who have experienced it.
As the first excitement cools, bets are paid, and accounts squared.
Again the bell rings: another race, and a repetition of the previous
scene, and so it continues for several hours.
But the racing is not the sole attraction, as is evidenced by the crowds
surrounding the refreshment booths and side tents, where for a small fee
one may see the Fat Woman, the Skeleton Man, or the Double-Headed Boy;
or listen to the colored minstrels who charm the soul with plantation
melodies; or have his fortune told in the gypsy tent by a dark-eyed maid
in gorgeous attire, who will tell of a wonderful future which is "sure
to come true." Or you may have your photograph taken on the spot, and
finished while you wait. Here is a phonograph representing a variety
entertainment, and the little group around it are laughing heartily at
the jokes of the "funny man," the ventriloquist, and the story-teller.
Here are fine bands of musicians, and dozens of oddities, and curious
tricksters: and the whole forms one grand panorama of human life, the
counterpart of which is to be seen nowhere else in the world.
At five o'clock, the horses are harnessed to our tally-ho, and with
smiling but dusty and sunburned faces we bid farewell to the scene of
gayety and start for home. Every road and byway in the surrounding
country is swarming with people, and the scale of pleasure,
disappointment, grief, hilarity and fatigue is reflected in the
countenances of riders and pedestrians. Here is a group, overheated,
weary, dejected, trudging slowly along the way, interchanging scarcely a
word with each other: here a merry party, filled with life, singing,
laughing, recounting the events of the day, as they wander on, arm in
arm. Now a little lame boy smiles in our faces from the tiny cart which
his sister pushes cheerily forward, and now a gay belle dashes by in a
carriage drawn by fast horses, holding the ribbons and whip in correct
style, while her companion leans back, indolently enjoying the
situation.
The countenances of the men tell various tales, as the triumphs or
failures of the day are expressed in their faces. Some few wear a
stolid, impassive air, while others talk, talk, talk, as though they
have never had an opportunity till now. As we ride along amid the
stupendous throngs, many thoughts are aroused, and many a picture is put
away in the recesses of memory to be brought forth and pondered over on
a future day.
With the shades of night the curtain falls upon a scene of such
magnitude that the brain is weary of contemplating it, and is glad to
find temporary forgetfulness in "tired nature's sweet restorer." And so
ends the great Derby Day.
[Illustration: "The chalky cliffs of Dover." (_See page 83._)]
Scenes in the Gay Capital.
_Scenes in the Gay Capital._
Dover to Calais--Paris--The Gay Capital by Night--Boulevards--Life in
the Streets--Champs Elysees--Place de la Concorde--Arc d'Etoile--Place
Vendome--Louvre--Opera House--Palais Royal--Church of the
Invalides--Versailles--Notre Dame--Jardin Mabille--The Madeleine--The
Pantheon--The Banks of the Seine--French Funeral Ceremonies--La
Morgue--Pere Lachaise.
We travel from London to Dover by train, thence by steamer to Calais.
The chalky cliffs of Dover with their high precipitous sides are a
pleasant and restful farewell picture of the shores of old England. A
short run of an hour or more lands us amid scenes so different from
those of the past few weeks that we feel that the magician's wand has
again been exercised and the "Presto, change," has transported us to a
region of maliciously disposed genii, who will not understand us, or
allow us to comprehend their mysterious utterances; and the
transformation scene is complete as we enter Paris, the home of the
light, the gay, the fantastic.
Let the lover of the bright, the gay, the jovial, visit the broad
boulevards of Paris by night, especially the Avenue des Champs Elysees,
which seems to be the favorite promenade of the populace. Upon both
sides are groves of trees, brilliantly illuminated by myriads of colored
lights, and here amid these bowers is to be found every variety of
entertainment for the people. Games of chance are played in the gay
booths, Punch and Judy shows attract crowds of children, wonderful feats
of horsemanship are performed, singers in aerial costumes draw many to
the Cafes Chantants, and the lights of innumerable cabs and carriages
flit to and fro in every direction like will-o'-the-wisps. Here is fine
military music, as well as exhibitions of skillful playing on almost
every known instrument.
The wide boulevards are long, straight and marvels of beauty, with their
lovely gardens, handsome houses, and fine shops.
There are strong contrasts in the lives of those one sees upon these
streets under the gaslight. I think Dante's three realms are pretty
clearly represented along the avenues of Paris, beneath the starry dome
of heaven, and within these gayly decorated booths and cafes. Here may
be seen the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the grave and the
gay, the innocent and the hardened in guilt, the adventurer and his
unsuspecting victim. And this heterogeneous throng, this careless
pleasure-loving crowd, may be seen drifting from one point to another
till the cock crows the warning of approaching dawn. The streets of
Paris by night afford abundant material for the artist, the
photographer, the poet, author and clergyman; as well as the adventurer.
Here indeed, if anywhere, one may
"read the human heart,
Its strange, mysterious depths explore.
What tongue could tell, or pen impart
The riches of its hidden lore?"
The Place de la Concorde is the most beautiful square in Paris. From its
centre are magnificent views of the grand boulevards and many of the
handsome public buildings, and here are the great bronze fountains
marking the historic spot upon which stood the guillotine during the
French Revolution. The lovely walks, the sparkling waters, and the
statues and monuments, the obelisk, the merry strollers, and picturesque
tableaux seen at every turn are positively enchanting. Up the broad
vista of the Champs Elysees the eye rests upon the wonderful Arc
d'Etoile, one of the most conspicuous monuments in Paris. It stands in
the Place d'Etoile, one of the most fashionable sections of the city,
and is surrounded by elegant residences and pleasant gardens. From this
point radiate twelve of the most beautiful avenues in Paris, and from
the summit of the arch one can see for miles down these grand
boulevards. The magnificent arch of triumph, commenced in 1806 by
Napoleon, was not finished until 1836. It is a vast structure, rising
one hundred and fifty feet from the ground. The great central arch is
ninety feet high and forty-five feet wide, and is crossed by a spacious
transverse arch. Upon the outside of the arch are groups of splendidly
executed statuary, representing scenes of conquest and allegorical
figures. A spiral staircase leads to the platform on top, where one
beholds this superb prospect which well deserves its world-wide
celebrity.
We come upon the Place Vendome through the Rue de la Paix, and here
stands the great historic column, erected by the first Napoleon in
commemoration of his victories over the Russians and Austrians. The
monument is constructed of twelve hundred pieces of cannon, captured in
the campaign of 1805. Upon the pedestal and around the shaft which is
one hundred and thirty-five feet high, are bas-reliefs representing
warlike implements and the history of the war from the departure of the
troops from Boulogne to its end on the famous field of Austerlitz.
In front of the central entrance to the court of the Tuileries, in the
Place du Carrousel, is the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, also erected by
Napoleon I., in 1806, in imitation of the triumphal arch of Severus at
Rome. In the garden of the Tuileries, with its old-time atmosphere, its
statues, fountains and pillars, its groves and terraces, its historic
ruins, its lovely flower-beds, we find a quaint and charming picture of
a past age; yet when these groves and paths resound with the hum of
human voices, when the many chairs and benches are filled with joyous
human beings, the link between the past and present is established, and
we are in one of the favorite resorts of the Parisians of to-day.
Between the Tuileries and the Louvre is Napoleon's triumphal Arc du
Carrousel--or rather between the courtyards of the two famous piles,
which now form one continuous structure of magnificent architectural
design, whose facade is adorned with Corinthian columns, elaborate
sculptures and lofty pavilions. Groups of statuary, representing the
most distinguished men of France, allegorical figures, floral designs
and other decorations on a vast scale ornament these magnificent
pavilions. The space enclosed by the old and new Louvres and the
Tuileries is about sixty acres.
Some of the most beautiful of the architectural designs of the Louvre
were completed by Napoleon I.,--to whom it owes much of its
restoration,--from the drawings of Perrault, the famous author of
Bluebeard, and the Sleeping Beauty.
We cross a square and quickly find ourselves in the garden of the Palais
Royal, once the Palais Cardinal, and the home of Richelieu. The ground
floor of the palace is occupied by shops. The garden which is enclosed
by the four sides of the square, is about a thousand feet long and
nearly four hundred feet wide. Here is a quadruple row of elms, also
long flower-beds, shrubbery, a fountain and some statues. A military
band plays here in the afternoon, but the garden presents the gayest
scene in the evening, when it is brilliantly illuminated, and the chairs
under the elms, as well as the long walks are filled with gay
pleasure-seekers.
There is a magnificent opera house near the Grand Hotel, whose vast
exterior is ornamented with beautiful statuary, medallions, gilding and
other rich decorations.