CHAPTER VII.

THE RATCLIFF HIGHWAY.

SOME months had elapsed since the regiment landed in Ireland, when one of those inscrutable ways of Providence gave another opportunity of renewing one’s London experiences, and obtaining a month’s leave in the height of the drill season for the purpose of visiting the Exhibition of ’62. The temptation so gratuitously offered was altogether too much for me, and, in conjunction with the rest of the Army in Ireland, I gratefully seized the opportunity of “studying” the various exhibits of foreign countries, and applied for leave for that specific purpose.

Limmer’s, where a select band took up its quarters, was at this time one of the chief resorts of young bloods and subalterns, for the most part of the cavalry, who revelled in sanded floors and eating off the most massive of silver.

Entering the coffee room on the afternoon of our arrival, I was greeted by a cheery voice, and descried Hastings lingering over his breakfast. Truth to say, his lordship had not a robust appetite. The mackerel bone fried in gin, and the caviare on devilled toast remained apparently untouched, whilst a _hors-d’œuvre_, known as “Fixed Bayonets”—of which the recipe is happily lost—failed to assist his jaded appetite; alongside him stood a huge tankard of “cup,” and pouring out a gobletful for his newly-found chum, and gulping down a pint by way of introduction, he gasped: “By Gad, old man, I’m d— glad to see you! To begin with, you must dine with me at 8—here. I’ve asked Prince Hohenlohe and Baron Spaum, and young Beust and Count Adelberg, and if you’ll swear on a sack of bibles not to repeat it, I expect two live Ambassadors—it’s always as well” (he continued in a confidential tone) “to have a sacred person or two handy in case of a row with the police. First we go to Endell Street—to Faultless’s pit. I’ve got a match for a monkey with Hamilton to beat his champion bird, The Sweep, and after that I’ve arranged with a detective to take us the rounds in the Ratcliff Highway. No dressing, old man; the kit you came over in is the ticket, and a sovereign or two in silver distributed amongst your pockets; you’re bound to have a fist in every wrinkle of your person—why, if you’re dancing with a beauty she’ll be going over you all the time. I often used to laugh and shout out, ‘Go it, I’m not a bit ticklish!’—still, what the h— does it matter?” And his lordship sucked down another libation to the gods.

“I suppose you can speak French or German; if not you can try Irish—not that it matters, for I expect Fred Granville and Chuckle Saunders, and Hamilton is sure to bring a mob, so I think we may count on having the best of it if it comes to a row. How long are you up for? A month, eh? Oh, well, then we’re right for the Derby, and I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go down the evening before—the night before the big race amongst the booths is the nearest approach to hell vouchsafed to unhappy mortals.”

Punctually to time our party assembled, and it would have been difficult for the unenlightened to have realised that the gaitered, flannel-shirted, monkey-jacketed assembly embraced diplomats, peers, and obscure Army men who have since made their mark in history. Here might have been seen Charlie Norton, the youngest and handsomest major in the service, who years after developed into a Pasha amid the Turkish gendarmerie; Ned Cunyinghame, in the zenith of his fortune, dilating (with the dessert) on the superior attributes of Nova Scotia baronets, and how an ancestor had once told the Regent “it was a title he could neither give nor take away;” Count Kilmanseg, the best whist player that ever came out of Hanover; Prince Hohenlohe, a charming attaché just beginning his career; Baron Spaum, the best of the best, now Commander-in-Chief of the Austrian Navy, and president of the recent Anglo-Russian Arbitration in Paris; Count Adelberg, a genial Muscovite, who considered _menus_ superfluous, and once shocked a very correct hostess by exclaiming “_Je prends tout_,” and a host of others unnecessary to enumerate. Presiding at the head of the table was the genial young Hastings—not yet a married man—faced, as vice-president, by Freddy Granville, whose wavy hair, gentle manners, and frank and English appearance were boring their way into the hearts of the best women and men in Society, except, perhaps, the strict Exeter Hall school.

To approach a cockpit, even in the long-ago sixties, required a certain amount of discretion, and so it came to pass that the sporting team broke up into twos and threes, and by a series of strategical advances by various routes, arrived within a few minutes of each other at the unpretentious portals in Endell Street. Descending into the very bowels of the earth, the party was considerably augmented by his Grace of Hamilton’s contingent, and within half an hour, the spurs having been adjusted and all preliminaries arranged, the two champions faced one another in the arena.

Ten minutes later it was a piteous sight to see the brave old champion Sweep attempting to crow, although he seemed aware he had received his quietus.

Suffice to say Hastings won the wager, and the party hurried eastward, leaving the brave old bird like a warrior taking his rest.

One of the most popular pastimes of the long-ago sixties was going the rounds of the dens of infamy in the East End and the rookeries that then abutted upon the Gray’s Inn Road. In this latter quarter, indeed, there was one narrow, tortuous passage that in broad daylight was literally impassable, and to escape with one’s life or one’s shirt was as much as the most sanguine could expect.

The Ratcliff Highway, now St. George’s Street East, alongside the Docks, was a place where crime stalked unmolested, and to thread its deadly length was a foolhardy act that might quail the stoutest heart.

Every square yard was occupied by motley groups; drunken sailors of every nationality in long sea-boots, and deadly knives at every girdle; drunken women with bloated faces, caressing their unsavoury admirers, and here and there constables in pairs by way of moral effect, but powerless—as they well knew—if outrage and free fights commenced in real earnest. Behind these outworks of lawlessness were dens of infamy beyond the power of description—sing-song caves and dancing-booths, wine bars and opium dens, where all day and all night Chinamen might be seen in every degree of insensibility from the noxious fumes.

The detective who was to be our cicerone was known to every evil-doer in the metropolis. Entering these dens when not in pursuit of quarry was to him a pilgrimage of absolute safety, and a friendly nod accompanied by “All right, lads, only some gents to stand you a drink” extended the protection to all who accompanied him. A freemasonry, indeed, appeared to exist between these conflicting members of society whereby, by some unwritten code, it was understood that when either side passed its word every one was on his parole to “play the game.”

The first place the explorers entered was a singsong in the vicinity of Nile Street, but it was evidently an “off night,” for, with the exception of a dozen half-drunken men and women, the place was practically empty. As we entered, however, a sign of vitality was apparent, and the chairman announced that a gent would oblige with a stave; but the cicerone with commendable promptitude called out, “Not necessary, thank you all the same,” and prompted his followers to lay five shillings on the desk. But the compliment was not to be denied, and a drunken refrain soon filled the air, which was absolutely inaudible, except:

“She turned up her nose at Bob Simmons and me.”

The next place was infinitely more interesting—the “Jolly Sailors,” in Ship Alley. “A dozen,” explained our cicerone as he tendered a coin, and our party awaited admission. “Keep your money, sergeant,” was the ominous reply. “Of course, I know you; but we’ve got a mangy lot here to-night; they won’t cotton to the gents. If they ask any of their women to dance it will be taken as an affront, and if they don’t ask them it will be taken as an affront; leave well alone, say I. Most nights it might do, but not to-night, sergeant; the drink’s got hold of most of them, and there’s a lot of scurvy Greeks about who will whip out their knives afore you can say what’s what.”

“Nonsense, man,” cut in Bobby, “we don’t want to have a row, we’ve come for a spree; there’s the money, we’ll take our chance.” The Baron also, who prided himself on his mastery of our vernacular, interposed with: “Posh, I snaps my finger at eem! Am I afraid of a tirty Greek? Posh! All our intent is larks; we want no rows. Posh!” And regardless of the friendly monition, our party trooped into the room. The scene that presented itself was not an encouraging one; perched on a rickety stool was a fiddler scraping with an energy only to be attained by incessant application to a mug of Hollands that stood at his elbow, and to which he appeared to resort frequently. Polkaing in every grotesque attitude were some twenty couples, the males attired for the most part in sea-boots and jerseys, their partners with dishevelled hair and bloated countenances, all more or less under the influence of gin or beer; here and there couples, apparently too overcome to continue the giddy joy, were propped against the wall gurgling out blasphemy and snatches of ribald song, whilst in alcoves or leaning over a trestle table were knots of men, smoking, cursing, swilling strong drinks, and casting wicked eyes at the intruders. “’Aven’t they a leg of mutton and currant dumplin’s at ’ome wi’out comin’ ’ere?” inquired a ferocious ruffian. “What for brings ’em a-messing about ’ere, I’d like to know?”

“Blast me if I wudn’t knife ’em; what say you, lads?” replied a stump-ended figure, stiffening himself.

“Bide a while, lads; let’s make ’em show their colours. What cheer, there?” shouted a huge Scandinavian, as a contingent detaching itself from the main body lurched towards the explorers.

“What cheer, my hearties?” sang back Hastings, and, with a diplomacy that might have done credit to a Richelieu, the entire party were fraternising within a minute.

“The Jolly Sailors” was admittedly the most dangerous of all the dens, even amid such hotbeds of iniquity as “The King of Prussia,” “The Prince Regent,” “The Old Mahogany Bar,” “The Old Gun,” “The Blue Anchor,” and “The Rose and Crown,” and had decoys in all directions to lure drunken sailors or foolish sightseers within its fatal portals. Situated at the extremity of Grace’s Alley, it led directly into Wellclose Square, a _cul de sac_ it was easier to enter than to leave; but sailors of all nationalities are admittedly the most impressionable of mortals, and happily in the present case the _sang-froid_, the unexpected rejoinder, the devil-may-care bearing, disarmed apparently their rugged hostile intentions, and within half an hour visitors and regular customers—Germans, English, Scandinavians, and nondescripts—were shouting:

“What’s old England coming to? Board of Trade ahoy!”

What any of us knew of the Board of Trade or the Mercantile Marine history does not say.

The opium dens in this delectable quarter were situated higher up at Shadwell, but the charms of the “Jolly Sailors” proving too much for our heroes, they elected to explore no further.

How different is the entire neighbourhood to-day! The very name Ratcliff Highway has disappeared, and been replaced by that of Saint George’s Street East; where constables once patrolled on the _qui vive_ in twos and threes a solitary embodiment of the law may now be seen, strolling along in a manner that once would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; where drunken sailors in sea-boots and knives at every girdle lurched against inoffensive pedestrians, unwashed women may now be seen at corners knitting stockings, whilst unsavoury tadpoles are constructing mud-pies in the gutter; here and there may still be seen an inebriated foreigner and rows of loafers—with a striking resemblance to the “unemployed” hanging about the public-houses, but the solitary specimen in blue seems to exercise a salutary hypnotising effect, all which (justice demands) shall be placed to the credit of these enlightened days. Not that this welcome change has been long arrived at; not four years ago a respectable tradesman, Abrahams, a naturalist, of 191, St. George’s Street East, was attacked at 2 p.m., within fifty yards of his own door, and succumbed to his injuries within twenty-four hours, and even to-day to ostentatiously show a watch chain passing certain corners, say Artichoke Lane, would not be without danger; but when all is said and done, there is much to interest the seeker after novelty by a visit to the Ratcliff Highway of to-day. Here at the “Brown Bear” may now be seen the rooms, once devoted to orgies, filled to their utmost capacity with canaries sending up songs to heaven purer far than those of the long-ago sixties. Continuing along St. George’s Street will be found Jamrach’s menagerie, whence filter most of the rarities that find their way to the Zoological Gardens; and the place is no ordinary bird shop, but a museum of information in more ways than one. Here one large room will be found stuffed with bronzes and curios from all parts of the world, which every American visiting London, who fancies he is a critic, does not fail to inspect; for Mr. Jamrach—like his father—is an authority, and a naturalist in the highest acceptation of the term.

Lovers of animals will not regret a pilgrimage to “the Highway,” a pilgrimage which, by the aid of the District Railway and broad, electric-lighted streets, is no longer attended with discomfort or danger.