A WET NIGHT IN LONDON.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 7223, 11 April 1885, Page 2 (Supplement)

A WET NIGHT IN LONDON.

(Pall 11)11 Gazette.)

Opaque from rain drawn in slant streaks by wind and tspoed acrosß the pane, tho window of the railway carriage lets nothing be Been but stiay flashea of red lights—the eignala rapidly paseed. Wrapped in thick overcoat, collar turned up to biß ears, warm gloves on his hands, and a rug across his knees, tho traveller may well wonder how those red signals and the points are worked out in the oloima of wintry London, Rain blown in guet.s through the misty atmosphere, gas and smoke Lideu, deepens tbe darkness; the howl of ths blaat humming in tha tolegraph-wires, hurtling round the chimneypots on a level with the line, rushing up from the archways; steam from tho hugiuei, ruitr and whittle, shntkng brakes and griudiug wheels—how is the traffic worked at niglit iu safety over, the intxtricablo windings -M.-..hH irun mads -into tha aity-7- - _

Ac London Bridge tho door is opened by 6omooue who gets out, and the cold air comes iu; there is a tush of people in damp coats, with dripping umbrellas, and time enough to notice the arohffiologically interesting wooden baaniß which support tbo roof of the SouthEastern station. Antique bourns they are, good old Norman oak, Buch as you may sometimes find in very old country churches that have not been restored, such as yet exist in Westminster Hall, temp. Rutus or Stephen, or so, Genuiue old woodwork, worth your while io go and see. Take a sketch-book and mako much of the ties, and angles, and bolts; ask Whistler or Macbeth, oi1 someone to etch them ; get tbe Royal Antiquarian Society to pay u visit and issue a pamphlet; gaze at them reverently and earnestly, for they are not easily to bo matched in London. Iron girders and gpaciousj roofs are the modem fashion ; hero we havo the Middle Ages well preserved— slam I The door is banged to, onwards, over tho invisible river, more red signals and rain, and finally the terminus. Five hundred welldresse i and civilised savages, wet, cross, weary, ail anxiouß to get in—eager for home and diuner ; 500 stiffened aud cramped folk equally eager to get out—mix on a narrow platform, with a train runiiiug off onu side, and a detached engina gliding gently after it. Push, wriggle, wiad iu and out, bumps from portmantoaus, and so at last out into the street.

Now bow are you goinß to get into an omnibus ? The street ia " up," the traffic cnntined to half a narrow thoroughfare, tha litllo space available at the side crowded with newsvendors whose contents-bills are eputced and blotted with wet; crowded, too, with young girls, bonnetless, with aprons over their beads, whose object is simply to do nothing—jiut to stand in the rain and chaff; the uewsveudors yell their news in your ears— than, finding you don't purchase, they "Yah !" at you; an aged crone begs you to buy "lights"; a miserable young crone, with pinchbd faoe, offers arSifidul flowers—oh, Naples! Bush comes the rain, and the gaslumps aro dimmed ; whoooo comes the wind like a auiack ; cold drops get in the ears and eyes; clean wristbanda are splotched; greasy mud splashed over shining boots; Boiuunne knocks the umbrella round, and the blaat all hut turns it. "Wake tip!" —"Now theu—stop hero all night?" — ''Gone to Bleep?" They shout, they curße, they put thoir hands to their mouths trumpetwise aud bellow at each other, these cabbies, vaninen, 'buemen—all angry at the block in tho narrow way. The 'busdriyer, with London stout, and plenty of it, polishing his round cheeks like the brasswork of a locomotive, his nock well wound and buttressed with thick comforter and collar, heedetb. not, but goes on his round, now fast, now alow, always stolid and rubicund, the raiu running harmlessly from him as if h8 were oiled. Tho conductor, parched like the showman's monkey behind, hops and twists, and turns now on one foot and now on tho other as it the plate were red-hot; now holds on with one hand, and now dexterously shifts bia grasp; now snouts to the crowd and waves his hands toward tho pavement, and again looks round the edge of thn 'bus forwards and curses somebody vehemently. " Near Bide up ! Look alive ! Full inside "—curses, curses, cursea; rain, rain, rain, and no one can tell which is most plentiful. The cab-horsa'a head comes nearly inside the 'bus, the 'bus-polo threatens to puke the hansom in front; the brougham would be careful, for varnish Bake, buc is wedged and mu>t take its chance ; van-wheels c.itch omnibus hubs ; hurry, scurry/whip, and drive; slip, slide, jump, rattle, jar, jiatle, an endless stream clattering on, in, out, and round. - On, on—"Stanley, on" — the first and last words of cabby's life : on, on, the one law of existence in a London street drive on, atumble or stand, drive on— strain sinews, crack, splinter — drive on ; what a sight to watch as you wait amid the newsveudora and the bonnetless girls for the 'mia that will not come !Ia it real ? It seems like a draam —those nightmare dreams in which you know that you must run, and do ruu, and yet cannot lilt the legs that are heavy as lead, with the demon behind pursuing, the demon of "Drive on." Move, or cease to be— pasß out of Time or be stirring quickly; if you stand you must suffer even here on the pave. menfc, splashed with greaßy mud, shoved by coarae ruffianism, however good your intentions—just dare to stand still! Ideas here for moralising, bat I can't preach with the roar and the din and the wet in my ears, and the flickering street-lamps flaring. That's the bus. No; the tarpaulin hangs down and obscures tho inscription—yes. Hi! No heed; how could you be so confiding as to imagine conductor or driver would deign to see a signalling paseoager; the game i* to drive on- A gentleman makes a desperate rush and grabs the hand-rail; his foot blips on the asphalt or wood, which is liko oil, ha slides, his hat totters; happily he recovers himself and gets in. In the block the 'bus is stayed a moment, and somehow we follow, and are landed—" somehow" advisedly. For how do we get into a 'bua ? After the pavement even this hard Beat would be nearly an easy-chair, were it not for the damp smell of soaked overcoats, the ceaseless rumble, and the knockings overhead outside. The noise is immensely worse than the shaking or the steamy atmosphere, the noiee ground into' the ears and wearing the miud to a state of drowsy narcotism—you become chloroformed through the Bente of hearing, a condition of dreary resignation and uncomloitab'e case. The illuminated shops Benin to pass liko an endless window with out division of dooro; there are groupa of people staring in at them in spite of the rain; ill-clad, half-starving people for the mo»t part; the well drouaed hurry onwards; they have homes. A dull feeling of satisfaction creeps over you that you are at least in shelter; tbe rumble is a littlo better than the wind ani the rain and the puddles. If ths Greek sculptors were to come to life astain and cut us out in bas-]:e)i9i for Pftttheppn, tjss.7 would havo to ropreeeufc ua e'uuf&kig along, hbsca

down and coat tails flying. Bplssh-splosh—a nation of timbrsilai*

Under a broai archway, eyly lighted, tb3 broad and bappy way to tlKtheate, fc'iere ia a small crowd waiting, and a.i.ong ttiem two ladies, with their b.toks to.the phot jgrapn's anri bills, looking out into thn streat. They stand aide .by side, evidently q^uite oblivious and inrliffjront to tho m-tiny folk abjut them, caatung and laugui.'g,' inking the wet;aud windy wwtoliedneos oi tha night aa a joko. Thay are both plump and rosy caeeked, dark eyes gleaming and red Jip3 parted j both decidedly good looking, much too rosy and full Ja6i)d, ton .well fijd nnd comfort ible to take ft prise from Bnrne Jonea, veiy worldly people in the roast-beef sense. Their faces glow in the bright light—merry sea coal-fire faces ) they have never turned thnir backs on the good things of thi3 life, " Never shut the door on good fortune," as Queen Isabella of Spain says. Wind and rain may howl and spla3b, but bore are two faces they never have touched—rags and battarod fihoos drift along the pavementno wet feet or cold necks here. Beat of all they glow with Rood Bpirits, they laugh, they chat; thay aro fail of enjoyment, clotted thickly with health and happiness, as their Bhoulders—good wido shoulders—are thickly wrapped in warmest furs. The 'bus goes on, and they are lost to view; if you come back in an hour you would find them still there with out doubt — still jolly, chatting, smiling, waiting perhaps for the stage, but anyhow far removed, like the goddeaßea on Olympus, from the splash and mißery of London. "Driv6 on." The head of a grey horse in a van drawn up by the pavement, the head and neck stand out and conquer the rain aud misty dinginess by abeer force of beauty, sheer strength of character. He turns hia head— hia neck forms a fine curve, bis face is full of intelligence, in Bpite of the' half dim light and the driving rain, of the thick atmosphere, and the black hollow of the covered van behind, his head and neck stand out, just aa in old portraits the face is still bright, though surrounded with crusted varnish. It Would ba a glory to any man to paint him, "Drive on 1" How strange the dim uncertain faces of tho crowd, half seen, seem in the hurry and rain I facts held downwards and mufllsd by tho darkneaa, not quite human in their eager and intensely concentrated haste. No ono thinks of or notices another —on, on — splash, shove, or scramble; an intense selfishnoes, so selfish aa not to be selfish, if that can be understood, so absorbed as to be pastobserv ing that anyone lives but themselves. Human bainga reduced to mere huirying machines, worked by wind and rain, and stern necessities of life; driven on; something very hard and unhappy in the thought of this. They seem reduced to the condition of the wooden cabs— the mere vehicles — pulled along by the irresistible horse Circumstance. They shut their oyes mentally, wrap tbetnselveß in the overcoat of indifference, and " drive on," "drive on."