Part 3

I am guarded so carefully that many times I am hurried away from a scene more quickly than I wish, the officers fearing that our presence may create a disturbance among these reckless characters. We enter a low saloon in a cellar dimly lighted by an old oil lamp: the atmosphere is gruesome, and one of the detectives warns me that the men who frequent this haunt are desperate fellows who would not hesitate to stab me for the sake of my clothing. Old and grizzled habitues line reeking walls, with depravity written upon every countenance, and I fully realize that my life would not be worth a moment's purchase here should my attendants forsake me.

Now we are in a long narrow alley, as black as Erebus, which gives one the feeling of being in a subterranean passage upon some mysterious mission. In a few minutes a light appears ahead--a dull glimmering bluish light, like that which is supposed to hover above graveyards--and we pause in front of a small frame house of two stories. A knock upon the door brings to the threshold a little dried up, wizened Chinaman, made feeble by long dissipation, who in his broken language makes us welcome. The place is "Chinese Johnson's" opium den. How can I describe the scene that is before me? In this room are many small dirty cots filled with unconscious human beings, willing victims of the pernicious drug--a loathsome spectacle--and here on a small couch sits the proprietor of the establishment. This is his throne of state, and here he can smoke with impunity the deadly drug, which has no perceptible effect upon his depraved body. We are glad to end this experience and banish from our minds the unattractive picture of the Chinaman in his elysian fields.

We are not the only ones who have the privilege of viewing these scenes. Any one who desires and possesses the necessary courage may invade the haunts and dens of the lower world, and be profited by the lessons here learned; but he must exercise great caution. The studies are not only for the brush and camera: they are food for the thoughtful mind which can apply the wisdom thus gained, and seek in these conditions for the solution of knotty problems. One can better appreciate, by reason of this contrast, the blessings of his own life; of purity, honesty and contentment as opposed to ignorance, poverty and vice.

This evening, fatigued in mind and body by my experience in the slums of 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.

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.

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.

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?"