A WET NIGHT IN LONDON.

Timaru Herald, Volume XLI, Issue 3276, 27 March 1885, Page 3

A WET NIGHT IN LONDON.

(Pall Mall Gazette.) Opaque from rain drawn m slant streaks by wind and speed across the pane, tho window of the railway carriage lets nothing be seen but stray flashes of red lights — the signals rapidly passed. Wrapped m thick overcoat, collar turned up to his ears, warm gloves on hi 3 hands, and a rug across his knees, the traveller may well wonder how those red signals and the points are worked out m the storms of wintry London. JJRain blown m gusts through the misty atmosphere, gas and smoke-laden, deepens the darkness ; the howl of the blast humming m the telegraph wires, hurtling round the chimney-pots on a level with the line, rushing up from the archways ; steam from the engines, roar, and whistle, shrieking brakes, and grinding wheels — how is the traffic worked at night iv safety over the inextricable windings of the iron roads into the City ? At London Bridge the door is opened by some one who gets out, and the cold air comes m ; there is a rush of people m damp coats, with dripping umbrellas, and time enough to notice the archieologically interesting wooden beams which support the roof of the South-Eastern station. Antique beams they are, good old Norman oak, such as you may sometimes find m very old* country churches that have not been restored, such as yet exist m Westminster HaU, temp. JRufus or Stephen, or so. Genuine old woodwork, worth your while to go aud see. Take a sketch-book and make much of the ties and angles and bolts ; ask Whistler or Macbeth, or some one to etch them, get the Royal Antiquarian Society to pay a visit and issue a pamphlet ; gaze at them reverently and earnestly, for they are not easily to be matched m London. Iron girders and spacious roofs are the modern fashion ; here we have the Middle Ages well preserved — slam ! the door is banged-to, onwards, over the invisible river, more red signals and rain, and finally the terminus. Five hundred well-dressed and civilised savages, wet, cross, weary, all anxious to get in— eager for home and dinner , five hundred stiffened and cramped folk equally eager to get out — mix on a narrow platform, with a train running off one side, and a detached engine gliding gently after it. Push, wriggle, wind m and out, bumps from portmanteaus, and so at last out into the ' street. Now, how are you going to get into an omnibus? The street is "up," the \ tranic confined to half a narrow thoroughfare, the little space available at the side crowded with newsvendors whose contents bills are spotted and blotted with wet, crowded, too, with young girls, bonnetless, with aprons over their heads, whose object is simply to do nothing — just to stand m the rain and chaff ; the newsvendors yell their news m your ears, then, finding you don't purchase, they " Yah !" afc you ; an aged crone begs you to buy "lights"; a miserable young crone, with pinched face, offers artificial flowers— oh, Naples ! Rush comes the rain, and the gas lamps are dimmed ; whoo-oo comes the wind like a smack ; cold drops get m fche ears and eyes ; clean wristbands are splotched ; greasy mud splashed over shining boots ; some one knocks the umbrella round, and the blast all but turns it. " Wake up !"— " Now then— stop here all night ?" — "Gone to sleep]" They shout, they curse, they put their hands to their mouths trumpetwise and bellow at each other,, these, cabbies, vanmen, busmen, all angry at the block m the narrow way. The bus-driver, with London stout, and plenty of it, polishing his round cheeks like the brasswork of a locomotive, his neck well wound and buttressed with thick comforter and collar, heedeth not, ' but goes on his round, now fast, now slow, always stolid and rubicund, the rain running harmlessly from him as if he were oiled. The conductor, perched like the showman's monkey behind, hops and twists, and turns now on one foot and now on the other as if the plate were red-hot ; now holds on with one hand, and now dexterously shifts his grasp ; now shouts to the crowd and waves his hands towards the pavement, and again looks round the edge of the 'bus forwards and curses somebody vehemently. " Near side up ! Look alive ! Full inside " — curses, curses, curses ; rain, rain, rain, and no one can tell which is most plentiful. The cab-horse's head comes nearly inside the 'bus, the 'bus-pole threatens to poke the hansom m front ; tbe brougham would be careful, for varnish sake, but is wedged and must take its chance ; van- wheels catch omnibus-hubs ; hurry, scurry, whip, and drive ; slip, slide, bump, rattle, jar, jostle, an endless stream clattering on, m, out, aud round. On, on — "Stanley, on ! " — the first and last words of cabby's life ; on,, on, the ono law of existence m a London street — drive on, stumble or stand, drive on— strain sinews, crack, splinter — drive on; what a sight to watch as you wait amid the newsvendors and the bonnetless girls for the 'bus that will not come ! Is it real ? It seems like a dream, those nightj mare dreams m which yon know that you , must run, and do run, and yet cannot I lift the legs that are heavy as lead, with [ tho demon behind pursuing, the demon . of "Drive on." Move, or cease to be \ — pass out of Time or be stirring , quickly ; if you stand you must suffer , even here on the pavement, splashed with greasy mud, shoved by coarse ruffianism, however good your intentions — just dare to stand still ! Ideas here for moralizing, but I can't preach with the roar and the din and the wet m my ears, and the flickering street lamps flaring. That's the 'bus— no ; the tarpaulin hangs down and ' obscures the inscription ; yes. Hi ! No heed ; how could you be so confiding as to imagine conductor or driver would deign to see a signalling passenger ; the game is to drive on. A gentleman makes a desperate rush and grabs the hand-rail ; his foot slips on the asphalt or wood, which is like oil, he slides, hi» hat totters ; happily he recovers himself and gets m. Jn the block the 'bus is Btayed a moment, and somehow we follow, and are landed-^" somehow " advisedly. For how do we get into a 'bus ? After the pavement even this.hard seat would be nearly an easy chair, were ifc nofc for fche damp smell of soaked ( overcoats, the ceaseless rumble, and | the knookings overhead outside. ( The noise is immensely worse than the shaking or the steamy atmosphere, , the noise ground into the ears and wearing the mind to a state of drowsy narcotism— you become chloro- , formed through the sense of hearing, a condition of dreary resignation and uncomfortable ease. The illuminated shops seem to pasß like an endless window witn-

out division of doors ; there are groups of people staring m at thera m Bpite of the rain ; ill-clad, half-starving people for the most part ; the well-dressed hurry onwards ; they have homes. A dull feeling of satisfaction creeps over you that you are at least m shelter ; the rumble is a little better than the wind and the rain and the puddles. If the Greek sculptors were to come to life again and cut us out m bas-relief for another Parthenon, they would have to represent us shuffling along, heads down and coat-tails flying, splashsplosh — a nation of umbrellas. Under a broad archway, gaily lighted, the broad and happy way to the theatre, there is a small crowd waiting, nud among them two ladies, with their backs to the photographs and bills, looking out into the street. THey stand side by side, evidently quite oblivious and indifferent to the motley folk about them, chatting and laughing, taking the wet and windy wretchedness of the night as a joke. They are both plump and rosy-cheeked, dark eyes gleaming-and red lips parted ; both decidedly good-looking, much too rosy and full-faced, too well fed and comfortable to take a prize from Burne-Jones, very worldly people m the roast beef sense. Their faces glow m the bright light — merry sea coal - fire faces ; they have never turned their backs on the good things of this life. " Never shut the door on good fortune," as Queen Isabella of Spain says. Wind and rain may howl and splash, but here are two faces they never have touchedrags and battered shoes drift along the pavement — no wet feet or cold necks here. JBest of all they glow with good spirits, they laugh, they chat ; they are full of enjoyment, clothed thickly with health and happiness, as their shoulders — good wide shoulders — are thickly wrapped m warmest furs. The 'bus goes on, and they are lost to view ; if you come back m an hour you would find them still there without doubt — still jolly, chatting, smiling, waiting perhaps for the stage, but anyhow far removed, like the goddesses on Olympus, from the splash and misery of London. "Drive on. " The head of a great grey horse m a van drawn up by the pavement, the head and neck stand out and conquer the rain and misty dinginess by sheer force of beauty, sheer strength of character. He turns his head — his neck forms a fine curve, his face ib full of intelligence, m spite 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 as m old portraits the face is Btill bright, though surrounded with crusted varnish. It would be a glory to any man to paint hira. "Drive on." How strange the dim uncertain faces of the crowd, halfseen, seem m the hurry and rain ; faces held downwards and muffled by the darkness — not quite human m tlieir eager and intensely concentrated haste. No one thinks of or notices another — on, on — splash, shove, and scramble ; an intense selfishness, so selfish as not to be selfish, if that can be understood, so absorbed as to be past observing that any one lives but themselves. Human beings reduced to mere hurrying machines, worked by wind and rain, and stern necessities of life ; driven' on ; something very hard and unhappy m the thought of this. Theyßeem reduced to the condition of the wooden cabs — the more vehicles — pulled along by the irresistible horse Circumstance. They shut their eyes mentally, wrap themselves m the overcoat of indifference, and " drive, on," "drive on."