NOTES BY A NEW CHUM.

Thames Star, Volume XVIII, Issue 5396, 13 May 1886, Page 2

NOTES BY A NEW CHUM.

[BY OUB TRAVELLING COFEESPONDENT.]

ROUND ABOUT LONDON.

' I d^jight to wander about this vast; city. There" is something invigorating in the bustling throng which crowds the footways, something exciting the dash across the street, through the maze of cabs, hansoms, busses, and carts, something fascinating in the novelty of the surroundings, and always something interesting in the ever-changing stream of life and activity. I glory in discovering some hitherto unknown short-cut, in exploring the alleys and courts off Fleet street, dirty and smoky, but ever dear from the association of Johnston, Oliver Goldsmith, and other names famous in the annals of history; nothing pleases me better than, while threading the mazes of dingy lanes, or among the grand thoroughfares of the West End, to suddenly come upon a spot I have heard about, read about, and talked aboat. I have lit upon Johnston's Court, and imaged the corpulent form of the old doctor entering the door of the room he used to rent; another turn or two and "Goldsmith street, E.G." reminds me that it was here that talented but unfortunate author pined and suffered; and down in Eastcheap. the " Boar's Head," and " Flagstaff Restaurant." Philpot Lane, carry me back to the days when the gay young prince and bis boon companions used to walk these very streets, albeit they are a trifle altered since then. A Londoner who has been half-a century from his native city would, I am told, scarcely recognise it again, so extensive are the improvements which have been carried out in that time. But here and there may still be seen genuine bits of "Old London." Fronting Holbourn Viaduct stand two houses which braved the great fire of 1660; queer old places they are, with high gables, projecting eaves, and the upper storey leaning far over the footpath. Dickens took the description of the houses in one of his books, I forget which just now, from these buildings, but their days are numbered, and they will soon have to give piece to structures more suitable to the require* ments of the age. In Fetter Lane, close by* there are also one or two types of the style of a century or two back. But to get an idea of " the London of years ago," you must go "slumming." Not to the East End ; goodness knows, the slums are bad enough there, but they are coin* parati rely modern slums; filthy habits, poverty, and insanifation have chiefly to answer for their condition. But visit the neighborhood of Whitechapel, and in going down Petticoat Lane, you will surely be reminded of poor little; Oliver Twist and the miserable object in human shape into whose clutches he fell; you will see both here, for it is a regular Jews' colouy ; or explore the mysteries of that region lying between the Strand and Oxford street, and Chancery Lane and Segent Street, and embracing the well known localities of Drury Lane, St. Giles, and Seven Dials. Much has been done: to improve this eyesore, and a new street has only just been completed cutting light through the heart of it, but enough remains to give the venturesome visitor a good taste of " low life." rJ here are alleys here where but one vehicle at a time can move, courts and lanes which I would rather be excused from entering even in broad daylight, and dens of filth which may aptly be termed human pigsties. The air is foggy and smoky, and an overpowering odour (nay, thct is too unexpressive a word—" stench" better describes it) of smoked fish, decaying vegetables, and stagnant drainage pervades the whole place. The shops are mostly devoted to the sale of eatables (I suppose hanger is the sauce, certainly pure air is not), firing, old clothes, and general odds and ends There are bird fanciers too, and dog fanciers, and, I doubt not, rat and ferret fanciers also. As for the inhabitants: that they are dirty goes without saying; to judge by appearances some of them have not washed since last summer at least. That they often go without a regular meal, poor wretches, is told only too plainly in their pinched features. Their clothes are, like themselves, sadly in need of a dose of clean water and soapsuds, and a trifle of darning just here and there, or maybe a patch or two would certainly be by most voted an improvement. Children, the prototypes of their parents, but generally more scantily clad, are pluying around the doorsteps, whereon, with arms akimbo, their mothers stand gosnipping. We will suppose it to be daytime, and the men are mostly absent, gone out on a foraging expedition. Here is the home of the costermonger, the apples»apenny-a pound man, the laces-only-a penny-a-pair men, the flower-girl, the seller of a-penny-each <• French -actress-photographs man, the thief and the vagabond, and a lively time they have of it too, occasionally. The inhabitants and the houses fit each other like hand and glove. The people are dirty, so are the houses; and the holes in the clothing find a counterpart in. loaky roofs, broken windows, aed creaky, illSiting doors. ! . Amid jqst sneh a scene as this the other day I came across an interesting historic, or rather " novelistic" relic. I wanted to get to Lincoln's Inn Fields, took a wrong turning, and in half a minute found myself in the midst of dens of squalor and degra* dation such as I could give, but a poor conception of; and there, standing close to the Fields, wan " THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP." Tea, the genuine article. I read the in* scription, "The old curiosity shop, immortalized by Chas. Dickens." A little two-storey place, with overhanging front and red tiles. The bottom AW is rather below the pavement, but judging by the height of tie window above the door, a tall man would have some trouble to stand upright in either storey, so low are the ceilings; a cramped, poky place, but as if asserting its superior reputation, it watt a shade cleaner than its neighbor?. The old grandfather was not to be seen, Little Nell fouad no place araoag the waifs play*

ing about; even the character of the building has been altered, and it is now " a waste paper depot." Hitherto I have only dwelt on the seamy side of a London ramble. Suppose we now travel westwards, along Drury Lane, through Seven Dials, St. Martin's Lane, and Leicester Square, will bring us to Segent street, opposite the Criterion Theatre and the handsome London Pavilion, a music hall of the first water. Ah, the scene has changed now. Dirt and wretchedness are behind. us,, " oat of sight, out of mind," and we are in the region of wealth, beavty, and splendour. Far different is the magnificent Segent Circus, with the crowds of shoppers and idlers, and its establishments of jewellers and photographers, furriers and dressmakers, tailors and outfitters, wine merchants and salon-keepers to the scene we have just left. The one represents poverty, the other exemplifies riches. And it is the same as we traverse Oxford street and Bond street, turn into Piccadilly, and cross the Green Park to Buckingham Palace, or go still further west, along Grosvenor street, the edge of Hyde Park, and through Belgrave, Eaton, and other squares. Everywhere the abodes are those of luxury. The stately houses rite* four and five storeys fronting each side of the noble squares, the thoroughfares are , wide and beautifully kept; all gives token of wealth and comfort. This is the part of London the stranger should be taken to, in order that he may have a favorable idea of London's magnificence. Don't let him wander where we have been; land him at Dover or Brighton, speed him up to Hoi* born or Charing Cross in a first-class express, lodge him at the Grand Hotel, where he can look omt on Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery and Pall Mall, and see Whitehall and the Houses of Parliament to the left, show him Westminster Abbey and Parliament street, the Victoria and Prince's mansions (nine 1 ■■■ storeys high, with hydraulic lifts to the various flats), Hyde Park, and the Albert Memorial. Take him to Ihe Japanese village, or India in london, but don't let him go further east than Aldersgate, or cross the river into Lambeth, or along the main road, through the Elephant and Castle, Wai worth and Camberwell on a Saturday evening, or he will surely imbibe some strong notions that London haß two sides to its picture of life, and that while she is justly famed for her wealth, grandeur, and the beauty of her ' parks and gardens, she has the taint of immorality, the curse of drunkenness, and the grim .reality of poverty likewise .within her boundaries.

There is but one Strand in the world; it is unique. No doubt you saw some illustrations in the London weeklies a short time back, depicting the Strand at night, just as ail the theatres were discharging their crowds of votaries. They represented the thoroughfare completely blocked with people, while a couple of pickpockets in the foreground were taking advantage of the crush to ease a gentleman of his watch right under the nose of a policeman. 1 need hardly say the scene' was exaggerated, though it is a tremendous bustle about 11.30 p.m. Nearly all the principal theatres, you must know, are situated either in or. but a stonethrow to right or left of the Stratfd; within a space of half a mile you have choice of more than yon can number on your fingers —each well-filled nightly. Strand owes seme of its fame also to less reputable associations than those of the drama and burlesque. N,o sooner has night drawn her curtain'overhead, and the £at> ing gas-jet or the electric,spark takes the place of nature's beams, then it becomes a hotbed of immorality. It is astounding to see the number of these human harpies " street-walk ing," loitering at corners, standing in arches or doorways. In twos and threes, but more often alone, they puce the sidewalk; sometimes de« murely attired, they wander, apparently aimlessly, along, closely scanning the passers-by, and brazen enough to address the stranger if he happen to be alone. It is a disgrace to the civilization of Englrnd i that such a state of things is allowed. Cutting through an elbow in the Strand i» a ihroughfare known as Holy well, the recognised headquarters for the sale or circulation of indecent or immoral literature of all kinds, from "The Life of an Actress" to Emile Zola's "realistic" novels. The Government seem to accept it as an understood thing that there wUI always be a demand for this class of prurient reading, that in. come way the demand will be satisfied, and therefore < why alter the present state of things t and there it is, and is likely to-remain, a shame and a reproach to the boasted pro* gress and enlightenment of the nineteenth) century. But enough of this unsavory subject, which I have purposely sobered down.

A week ago to-day I found myself, with nothing particular to do, at the city end of London Bridge. Where shall I go P Billingsgate is clese handy; no, thank yon, that is a trifle too odoriferous for me - .this morning. Kasteheap, Leadenhall, the Bank ? No, I want to.be quiet for a minute. Ah, there's the Monument, just the thing. I'll go up there and hare a look down on London tiles, and up I go accordingly, being mulcted of three brownies en route. At last I reach the top and peer through the cage erected to prerent the poor wretches who are tired '' of this world from damaging the pave* ment below. What do I see, bri&e, stone, and mortar, tiles and slates, with smoke to form a back and foreground, also to temper the sun's rays overhead. Southward I look down on the river; with its barges and steamers, and on London Bridge, just now crowded with traffic Up»river a penny boat has just lowered her funaei to come under a railway bridge; down stream I catoh a glimpse of a forest of rigging which tells me > the docks are not very far distant. A railway., station appears just across the water, and beyond that is a dreary expanse of shop and warehouse and factory. Eastward, I torn, and the Tower, walled, turretted, and battle* mented, Beems to be almost under my feet. Westward and northward it is more bricks and mortar, with a few church steeples, and the dome of St. Paul'e standing far above even the highest of the immense warehouses. What wee thin™ the hone* look, and the men are mere pigmies. Even a four-storey seems dwarfed from my stand-point, and the . streets are narrow crooked lanes, soon becoming merged in the general characteristics of the outlook, and beta utterlr untraeeable amid the field ofehimtav' pots. Were it summer time, I mSht continue my ramble round the Parks or go and see the Zoo, wander throighV Eppmg Forest or St. John's Wood, or 'd?i! rei he mar?elß of Zew QwdensTbii as the thermometer is at fretting point and a biting "easier " i. blowingf PHf reserve them for • more witablfQwwSiJ.