NIGHT IN MELBOURNE LANES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 117, 12 July 1873, Page 2

NIGHT IN MELBOURNE LANES.

[Melbotjenb Ag-e.] As the shades of evening begin to fall, an extraordinary activity takes possession of the inhabitants of the lanes, Loud is the laugh of the knots of larrikins that crowds the footpaths, as they concoct their plan of operations for the coming night. Furtively the male population, in twos and threes, slouch out of their dwellings, and, seeking the broad streets of the city, are soon lost in the stream of peaceable citizens whom pleasure or occupation calls abroad. The women, whose evening toilette consists of the addition of a hat great in gaudy flowers, or a shawl thrown hastily over the head, fortified with a spirituous stimulant, commence the night's campaign. As darkness increases, the traffic through the lanes grows greater ; drunken men, who make night hideous with their bacchanalian sonnets, and

guided by staggering female companions, reel down the narrow streets and enter the sordid dwellings in order to prolong their orgies at their, ease. The faint flicker of a tallow dip, supported in a bottle, can be seen through many a dim uncvrcaiwed window, and the smoky lurid flame of cheap kerosene illumines groups of unsightly male and female humanity indulging in potations long and deep. The snatch of a song is rudely broken by the shrill notes of dispute, followed by loud imprecations, a smash of crockery, and the downfall of furniture, above the din of which is heard a feeble cry for the police. The bullies are in their element now; crash goes a door, and out flies the stranger who has been acting the part of entertainer, hatless and coatless, bruised and bleeding, and falls senseless in the gutter, while perhaps the trio of loafers who have in their possession the contents of the pockets turned inside out, coolly share their illgotten gains and depart to spend the proceeds of their dastardly attack in some favorite haunt. Two stalwart ruffians are having a set-to in the street, a ring having been formed by a circle of admiring women and envious youths, who cheer the combatants and shriek with delight as their features become obliterated by the streamlets of blood which, dammed by the encrustations of dirt, spread in a clotting mass, and form a gory mask more hideous than ever conceived by the most expert propertyman for a Christmas pantomime. An appalling cry for mercy reaches the ear, almost drowned by obscene vituperations. In the middle of the lane a brute in a pea jacket and moleskin trousers, with a woollen muffler round his hirsute throat, holds in his firm grasp a trembling creature who, by her fragile and unset form, and by her dark hair, seems but a child, but looks half a century old by the death discs of her eyes. Down comes the brawny fist upon the pallid cheek, where it leaves in unmistaken characters the sign manual of cowardice and fiendish brutality. The girl's eyes close, her limp form is only upheld by the herculean grasp of her tormentor, who, seeing that his cruelty is about to be stopped, withdraws the support of his hold, and administering a parting kick with a foot encased in a hob-nailed boot, turns and seeks safety in flight. Still on the ground lies his insensible victim, her long tresses washed by the nauseous liquid that flows down the channel. The crowd of females whom the noise of strife has attracted to the spot gaze on the inanimate form of their associate / in misery in utter helplessness, and it is only when the poor bruised body is lifted by a couple of policemen, to be borne to the hospital, they show that a last flickering spark of womanhood dwells within their breasts, by the manner in which they arrange the disordered garments of the unconscious girl into something like an approach to decency. With a rush like a whirlwind comes a youth of some fifteen years down the narrow lane, and as he passes an acquaintance, pants out " The traps are after me," pushes into the outstretched hand of the other the purse just filched from the pocket of a pedestrian, and hurries on in his flight until he is lost in the darkness of the night. At the door of one hovel, during the whole of the turmoil which has been going on, a woman is seated, her face buried in her hands, a very statue of quiescence. On being asked what is the matter, she looks up in astonishment, no doubt at being addressed in language other than that of command or abuse. By the light of a neighboring lamp it is easy to see that her features are pinched and her eyes are swollen with weeping, and as she sits and looks, that her emaciated fingers clutch convulsively the threadbare shawl that hangs about her drooping shoulders. Once or twice she essays to speak, but articulation is impeded by the choking sobs that rise to her throat; at last, with a desperate effort, and in a tone of anguish, she whispers, " For God's sake give me something for my child in there to eat —he took everything I had, and we have not broken our fast for nearly two days. With selfish eagerness the hand closes on the preferred coin, and, without waiting to bestow one word of thanks, the woman hurries to procure nourishment for her starving babe. Still the noise goes on —imprecations float upon the air, ribald

jests are wafted to the ear, and sounds of drunken clamor and passionate invective are only broken by the measured tread and official tones of the guardian of the night, as he pays his periodical visits When the grey streak of dawn appears in the east, the noise and eonfusion gradually cease, lights are extinguished, muddled guests are ejected into the street, doors are shut, and only opened at intervals to admit the last of the night birds under their sheltering roof; and then quiet reigns in the lanes while the denizens snatch a few hours of unholy sleep before once more resuming those courses of crime and profligacy, the stepping stones to the prison or to the gallows—the sure forerunner of a life of lingering misery or of premature death.