An Autumn Evening in Whitechapel (Source: 3 November 1888, Littell's Living Age) From the Daily News Whitechapel and

Spitalfields are always interesting neighborhoods, and recent events have made them decidedly more interesting. They have afforded startling illustrations of the dreadful possibilities of life down in the unfathomable depths of these vast human warrens. At all times one who strolls through this quarter of town, especially by night, must feel that below his ken are the awful deeps of an ocean teeming with life, but enshrouded in impenetrable mystery. As he catches here and thre a glimpse of a face under the flickering, uncertain light of a lamp - the face perhaps of some woman, bloated by drink and distorted by passion - he may get a momentary shuddering sense of what humanity may sink to when life is lived apart from the sweet, health-giving influences of fields and flowers, of art and music and books and travel, of the stimulus of interesting enterprise, the gentle amenities of happy hours and intercourse with the educated and the cultured. A momentary sense of what human nature may become may here and there flash in upon one as he gazes out upon the dark waters, but it is only when the human monster actually rises for a moment to the surface and disappears again, leaving a victim dead and disembowelled, that one quite realizes that that momentary scene is a dread reality. Just for a few days the mass of the people of Spitalfields and Whitechapel themselves seemed to be realizing the awful possibilities of the nature that belonged to them. Thousands of them were really shocked and sobered, by the last tragedy especially. One could see in the people's faces, and could detect in their tones and answers, an indefinable something which told plainly that they had been horrified by a revelation. Mr. George Holland, whose remarkable work has been going on for so very many years in premises occupying an obscure position in George Yard, Whitechapel - where it will be remembered one of these unfortunate women was found with thirty or forty stabs - says that the sensation has affected his institution very greatly. He has some hundreds of young women connected with his place, and many of them have been afraid to stir out after dark. He is under some anxiety, too, lest ladies who have been wont to come down there on winter evenings to teach and entertain his young people, should be deterred by this latest addition to the evil reputation of Whitechapel, and he is earnestly pushing on alterations in his premises which will give him a frontage out in the main road. On the other hand, Mr. Charrington, whose great place stands out boldly on the Mile End highway a blaze

of light and cheerfulness, thinks that people have more than ever thronged out of the dark and silent byways and back lanes into the broad pavement and into the glare of light thrown upon it by shops and public-houses and entertainments, and the innumerable hawkers and salesmen of one sort and another who line the “waste” along the Mile End Road. since these outrages the dark places of Whitechapel and Spitalfields have undoubtedly been a little darker and stiller, and more depressing. Some streets have presented, even to those familiar with them, quite a desolate and deserted appearance after nightfall. But the nine-days’ wonder has passed, the effect of the shock has visibly subsided, and people are beginning to move freely again. Turn down this side street out of the main Whitechapel Road. It may be well to tuck out of view any bit of jewellery that may be glittering about; the sight of means to do ill-deeds makes ill-deeds done. The street is oppressively dark, though at present the gloom is relieved somewhat by feebly lighted shopfronts. Men are lounging at the doors of the shops, smoking evil-smelling pipes. Women with bare heads and with arms under their aprons are sauntering about in twos and threes, or are seated gossiping on steps leading into passages dark as Erebus. Now round the corner into another still gloomier passage, for there are no shops here to speak of. This is the notorious Wentworth Street. The police used to make a point of going through this only in couples, and possibly may do so still when they go there at all. Just now there are none met with. It is getting on into the night, but gutters, and doorways, and passages, and staircases appear to be teeming with children. See there in that doorway of a house without a glimmer of light about it. It looks to be a baby in long clothes laid on the floor of the passage, and seemingly exhausted with crying. Listen for a moment at this next house. There is a scuffle going on upon the staircase - all in the densest darkness - and before you have passed a dozen yards there is a rush down-stairs and an outsurging into the street with fighting and screaming, and an outpouring of such horrible blackguardism that it makes you shudder as you look at those curly-headed preternaturally sharp-witted children who leave their play to gather around the mêlée. God help the little mortals! How can they become anything but savages, “pests of society,” the “dangerous classes,” and so on? How black and unutterably gloomy all the houses look! How infinitely all the moral and physical wretchedness of such localities as these is intensified by the darkness of the streets and the houses. It is wise and astute of Mr. Barnett to give emphatic expression to the cry that has so often been raised for “more light” for lower London. If in this one matter of light alone, the streets and houses of the West End were reduced to the condition of the

East, what would life become there? Oh, for a great installation of the electric light, with which, as the sun goes down, to deluge the streets and lanes, the dark alleys and passages, the staircases and rooms of this nether world. Homes would become cleaner, and more cheerful and attractive; life would become healthier, whole masses of crime would die out like toadstools under sunlight, and what remained would be more easily dealt with. The Cimmerian darkness of lower London indoors and out constitutes no small part of its wretchedness, and the brilliant lighting of the public-house gives it much of its attraction. Even the repute of many of these shady localities is due in great measure to their impenetrable gloom after nightfall. There are many of these doorways and staircases into which a stranger might venture with perfect impunity, and many of the people are harmless, well-meaning sort of folk, but they are all enshrouded in that murky obscurity which in the apprehension of adventurers from more favored regions converts them all into possible assassins and thieves. It is a relief to get out of this vile little slum and to work one’s way back into the life and light of the great highway, with its flaunting shops, its piles of glowing fruit, its glittering jewellery, its steaming cook-shops, its flaring gin-palaces and noisy shows, and clubs and assembly rooms, and churches and mission halls, its cheap jacks and shooting galleries, its streaming naphtha lights and roar and rattle, and hurrying throngs and noisy groups, and little assemblies gathered together under the stars and the street-lamps to listen to some expounder of the mysteries of the universe or of the peculiar merits of a new patent pill. Here are the newspaper contents-bill spread out at large with some of the newsvendor’s own additions and amplifications, telling of new murders or further details of the old ones. The young man with a bundle of papers under his arm is evidently on the friendliest of terms with the neighboring shoeblack. One or the other of them has picked up half a cigar, and the two are getting alternate pulls at it with evident enjoyment. Up in a retired corner there is a little mob gathered round an almost inanimate-looking figure beating out with a couple of quills what he takes apparently to be music from a sort of home-made dulcimer. A few yards farther on, a boy without any legs is the object of attention; and next comes a group thronging curiously round a four-wheel cab. Nothing can be seen, but as the vehicle drives off towards the hospital and the mob disperses it is generally understood that “she has been knocked about.” The only question about which there seems to be any uncertainty is as to whether she is nearly dead or only very drunk. Nobody appears to be greatly concerned, and the people turn from this mild sensation to listen for a moment to a eulogy on the everlasting qualities of new trousers at

nine and sixpence a pair. A hundred people at least are clustered round the salesman, who descants hoarsely on the unrivalled qualities of his goods, and winds up by flinging a pair out into the crowd for closer inspection. A few yards further on there is a waxwork show with some horrible pictorial representations of the recent murders, and all the dreadful details are being blated out into the night, and women with children in their arms are pushing their way to the front with their pennies to see the ghastly objects within. Next door is a show, in which ghosts and devils and skeletons appear to be the chief attractions; and near at hand is a flaring picture of a modern Hercules performing within. Then comes a gathering of some fifty or sixty people around a preacher, who is evidently desperately in earnest, but who somehow manages at every step to ruffle up the feelings of his congregation. He is what cabby would call a harbitrary gent, and he comes it over his listeners just a little too strongly. “Never heard nobody go on like ‘im in all my days,” said a little dame on the fringe of the crowd. “There ain’t nobody right but ‘im and he’s al’ays the same, a-pitchin’ into everbody. I declare their ain’t no chance for none of us.” Certainly the people round were sparring and fencing with him on all hands, and the controversy at one point ran so high that it looked as though the preacher would have to take off his coat and turn up his sleeves. Not fifty yards off was Mr. Charrington’s great assemblyroom, where Mr. Henry Varley, who looked to be mounted on a bank of flowers reaching half-way up the fine organ, was quietly haranguing some hundreds of people, the whole place looking bright and attractive, and the audience very attentive. Out again into the great thoroughfare, back a little way past the roaring salesman and the hideous waxwork, and round the corner. This opening here, where the public-house, the bar of which looks to be full of mothers with children in their arms, blazes at the corner, leads down to Buck’s Row. Nobody about here seems at all conscious of the recent tragedy, the only suggestion of which is a bill in the public-house window, offering, on behalf of an enterprising newspaper, a reward of a hundred pounds for the conviction of the criminal. A little way down out of the public-house glare, and Buck’s Row looks to be a singularly desolate, out-of-the-way region. But there is a piano-organ grinding out the “Men of Harlech” over the spot where the murdered woman was found; women and girls are freely coming and going through the darkness, and the rattle of sewing-machines, and the rushing of railway trains, and the noisy horseplay of a gang of boys, all seem to be combining with the organ-grinder to drown recollection and to banish all unpleasant reflection. “There seems to be little apprehension of further mischief by this assassin at large,” was an observation addressed

to a respectable-looking elderly man within a few yards of the house in Hanbury Street, where the latest victim was found. “No; very little. People, most of ‘em, think he’s gone to Gateshead,” was the reply.

Whitechapel From "The Palace Journal" (April 24, 1889) A DOZEN graphically-written descriptions of Whitechapel, by people who have never seen the place, but have heard as much about it as most have, would probably be as amusing in the reading, to those acquainted with the district, as the most extravagant of the fables once so frequently quoted as articles of current French belief in the matter of English manners and customs ever were to the English people themselves. A horrible black labyrinth, think many people, reeking from end to end with the vilest exhalations; its streets, mere kennels of horrent putrefaction; its every wall, its every object, slimy with the indigenous ooze of the place; swarming with human vermin, whose trade is robbery, and whose recreation is murder; the catacombs of London darker, more tortuous, and more dangerous than those of Rome, and supersaturated with foul life. Others imagine Whitechapel in a pitiful aspect. Outcast London. Black and nasty still, a wilderness of crazy dens into which pallid wastrels crawl to die; where several families lie in each fetid room, and fathers, mothers, and children watch each other starve; where bony, blear-eyed wretches, with everything beautiful, brave, and worthy crushed out of them, and nothing of the glory and nobleness and jollity of this world within the range of their crippled senses, rasp away their puny lives in the sty of the sweater. Such spots as these there certainly are in Whitechapel, and in other places, but generalities are rarely true, and when applied to a district of London so large as that comprised under the name of Whitechapel, never. For Whitechapel, as understood colloquially, goes some distance beyond the bounds set by the parish authorities of St. Mary, and includes much of Aldgate and Spitalfields, besides a not inconsiderable fragment of Mile End. Any visitor with preconceived notions of the regulation pattern, traversing the whole length of this region by the main road, from Houndsditch and the Minories to the London Hospital, is apt to be surprised. The place might be Borough High Street, except that it is wider and airier and busier. In the stretch of road mentioned are four railway stations, and the road itself forms a crowded omnibus and tramcar route. On the right, as we leave the Minories, is the Aldgate Meat Market, a row of shops used by butchers from time immemorial. Says Ralph, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Knight of the Burning Pestle":- "Ancient, let your colours fly, but have a great care of the butchers' hooks at Whitechapel; they have been the death of many a fair ancient." Hundreds of carcases hang here in rows, and dozens of waggons loaded with hides stand in the roadway. Just along here, in the middle of the road, four days in the

week the great hay market is held, and the neighbourhood is full of misplaced-looking countrymen. Nearly opposite Hill's (once Newton's) the old gabled public-house, which looks as little like a publichouse and much like an office or warehouse as possible, that realistic old deceiver, De Foe, tells us he lived during the Great Plague, and watched the terrified nobility making all haste from the City away from the infection into Essex. The line of stalls along the south side of the road is worth studying. A number of them are bookstalls in the proprietorship of misanthropic men of gloomy and grim appearance, who seem incessantly brooding over the decline in the book-stall trade of late years, since the second-hand booksellers who keep shops have increased in numbers and business shrewdness, and leave little saleable to the humble stalls. Now-a-days chances are considerably against one's finding unique first editions in the streets, and these lowly brothers of Quaritch are impelled to label "Blair's Sermons" and odd volumes of "Bell's Poets" as being "rare" and "curious," although inconsistently included in the batch marked, "all these 3d." But Whitechapel need not be ashamed of its bibliographical features, for further down the road, nearly opposite each other, are George's and Gladding's second-hand book shops, which most book-hunters know. Old Mr. Gladding's premises (old Mr. Gladding must be very old now) were specially built for the trade when people lived in Mile End who would be horrified at the suggestion of living anywhere near it now. Mr. George is known for his wholesale purchases. There are many other evidences of the commercial respectability of Whitechapel. One of its best known establishments must be by a long period the oldest business in London - probably in England. This is Mears and Stainbank's bell foundry, established in 1570. The several other business houses in the neighbourhood, whose ages run into three figures, retire into new-fledged juvenility by comparison with the hoary seniority of the concern with day-books for three hundred and eighteen years. The sweater and vamper in Whitechapel work side by side with houses of quiet, good old English uprightness and independence. If we were in want of any piece or pieces of cabinet-work of the very best quality and most conscientious workmanship possible, we would, rather than anywhere else, go to a certain unpretending and unproclaimed old firm in Whitechapel - not in the main street either.

Many parts of this main road seem fragments of the High Street in some busy, old-fashioned country market-town, and the presence on market-days of the hay wains and their attendants heightens the illusion. The row of gabled shops on the north side, opposite the obelisk, is the most noticeable of these parts. Down near the London Hospital, and opposite the Pavilion Theatre, is a terrace of shops called The Mount, so called for a very good and plain reason, but one that would scarcely be guessed. Indeed, some of the shopkeepers themselves might be astonished to know that upon the ground under their premises, as comparatively late as well into the last century, there stood a fort or redoubt, bearing the name of their terrace, and constructed for the defence of London. But let us get out of the main road. Turn back toward the stalls again, but before plunging into any dirty alley, look at this grinning Italian with a white rat. With the aid of a square bit of rag, the cultured rodent is rapidly made to, assume the successive characters of an old woman, a monk, and a stiff, pink-nosed corpse. Then he is stood on a board, covered up, and made to disappear altogether, turning up, upon investigation, in the cap of the most amazed boy among the onlookers. This having been accomplished without a word, but with a great exhibition of white teeth on the part of the impresario, an expeditious evaporation of the surrounding boys is the first indication that the hat is coming round, and almost before his hand can drag it from his head, poor Giuseppe is alone. Bless you, Giuseppe, take these coppers; not given in the sacred name of charity, but in the hope that they may induce you to keep your rat, and not, at this angry moment, resort to the aid of a barrel-organ to extort that which your unobtrusive performance fails to earn! [See "An East End vicar and his work" (1895) for another reference to the nuisance of barrel-organs.] Further along a female compatriot of Giuseppe - Marina, perhaps - very clean as to her white headgear, and very bedraggled as to her skirts, stands by a wire cage of lovebirds, and waits for the pennies that rarely come to procure the coloured paper "fortunes" lying in the little box inside the cage. Along the gutter from Giuseppe to Marina a dozen stalls contain the most surprisingly miscellaneous assemblage of celery and comic songs, hairbrushes and fish, ribbons and roastingjacks, door-keys and cabbages, trousers and tenpenny nails in existence.

We make a small excursion into Mansell Street, which is quiet. All about here, and in Great Ailie Street, Tenter Street, and their vicinities, the houses are old, large, of the very shabbiest-genteel aspect, and with a great appearance of being snobbishly ashamed of the odd trades to which many of their rooms are devoted. Shirt-making in buried basements, packing-case, or, perhaps, cardboard box-making, on the ground-floor; and glimpses of very dirty bald heads, bending over cobbling, or the sorting of "old clo'," through the cracked and rag-stuffed upper windows. Jewish names - Isaacs, Levy, Israel, Jacobs, Rubinsky, Moses, Aaron - wherever names appear, and frequent inscriptions in the homologous letters of Hebrew. Many of these inscriptions are on the windows of eating-houses, whose interior mysteries arc hidden by muslin curtains; and we occasionally find a shop full of Hebrew books, and showing in its window remarkable little nick-nacks appertaining to synagogue worship, amid plaited tapers of various colours. Beyond these streets, toward the end of Leman Street, in Goodman's Fields - they were fields two hundred years ago, and old Stow, earlier still, used to buy three pints of fresh milk for a half-penny at Goodman's dairy - Goodman's Fields Theatre stood, in which Garrick made his first London appearance, and took the town by storm. "There are a dozen dukes of a night at Goodman's Fields sometimes," the poet Gray remarked in a letter to a friend describing the wonderful success which attended Garrick's early efforts. We are tired, perhaps, of all this respectability. Petticoat Lane is before us when, in returning, we regain the corner of Mansell Street, and along Petticoat Lane we disappointedly make our way. For Petticoat Lane isn't Petticoat Lane at all, but Middlesex Street, and, this afternoon, as the dusk comes, it is very quiet, and has actually most responsible-looking offices and warehouses all along the right-hand side of its clean and regular width. As Hog Lane, with its sunny hedgerows and one or two pleasant citizens' houses; as Petticoat Lane, with its thievery and squalor and old clothes; and as Middlesex Street, with its warehouses, this thoroughfare has lived through a chequered existence. Nowadays, we fear we must reluctantly confess the most enthusiastic slummer could scarcely achieve the memorable and once proverbial feat of entering Petticoat Lane with his pocket handkerchief safely in its appointed place, and, half-way through, observing it gracefully fluttering from the door-post of a clothes shop, with its marking neatly picked out, because, even if, with patience and perseverance, he succeeded in getting it stolen, there isn't a shop where

handkerchiefs of any kind hang at the door in all Petticoat Lane. But one may still enjoy the consolation of having something stolen in Petticoat Lane if a visit be made on Sunday, when the road and pavement is still put to its traditional uses. But long may Sandys Row remain for the benefit of the disappointed pilgrim to Petticoat Lane. Why the other end of Middlesex Street is called Sandys Row we cannot imagine, unless the sprouting respectability of the former disdains association with the humble grime of the latter. For where Middlesex Street dwindles into Sandys Row, the pavement is narrow and often encroached upon by the stock of the shops, and the intrepid explorer slips and staggers on the foul, greasy slime which carpets the irregular cobble-stones of the roadway. In the murky, dusty gloom of the old clothesshops, no patch of the walls can be seen, and all but a scant passage-way in each shop seems a solid conglomeration of unhealthy-looking stock. Jewesses of enormous circumference block these passage ways, and unclean Jews, of the very lowest class, with unkempt hair and rancid complexions, keep a sharp look-out over the articles which hang in heavy bunches in the street, occasionally smoothing or re-arranging them with their black-nailed paws. Old military stores and accoutrements, and reasty mildewed saddlery, form a large proportion of the things offered for sale, and who in the world buys them, and what they do with them when they get them, are mysteries we have never penetrated. Mangy busbies, battered lancers' helmets, and even the three-cornered hats Greenwich pensioners wore years ago - who can have any possible use for these? And there are wooden water-bottles in a state of defilement which would prevent a pig drinking from them, and odoriferous knapsacks and wallets over which no respectable slug would crawl. Then there are equally enigmatic bundles of rust-eaten bayonets, bundles of broken spurs, and hammerless pistols of the most useless character. Who in creation wants these things, and how do these shop keepers extract a living from them ? At the end we have Artillery Lane, Gun Street, and Raven Row. Dirt, ragshops, and small beerhouses. Some times a peep down a clogged grating, or over a permanent shutter, into the contaminated breath of a sweater's lair, where poisoned human lives are spun into the apparel which clothes the bodies of wholesome men. Through White's Row, or Dorset Street, with its hideous associations, into busy Commercial Street, with its traffic, its warehouses, its early lights, and the bright spot in this unpleasant neighbourhood, Toynbee Hall and Institute, and St. Jude's

Church, whose beautiful wall-mosaic of Time, Death, and Judgement has its own significance here, in the centre of the scattered spots which are the recent sites of satanic horrors. Fashion Street, Flower and Dean Street, Thrawl Street, Wentworth Street. Through which shall we go to Brick Lane? Black and noisome, the road sticky with slime, and palsied houses, rotten from chimney to cellar, leaning together, apparently by the mere coherence of their ingrained corruption. Dark, silent, uneasy shadows passing and crossing - human vermin in this reeking sink, like goblin exhalations from all that is noxious around. Women with sunken, black-rimmed eyes, whose pallid faces appear and vanish by the light of an occasional gas-lamp, and look so like illcovered skulls that we start at their stare. Horrible London? Yes. Brick Lane is a comparatively cheerful, although not a patrician, thoroughfare. The Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association is no longer here, and public-houses occupy the street corners. Here German-Hebrew provision shops display food of horrible aspect; greasy yellow sausages, unclean lumps of batter fried in grease; and gruesome polonies and other nondescript preparations repellant to look upon. Very pleasant, no doubt, for those who have been brought up on them, but not appetising to any person who has never enjoyed that advantage. Some years ago, it was fashionable to "slum" - to walk gingerly about in dirty streets, with great heroism, and go back West again, with a firm conviction that "something must be done." And something must. Children must not be left in these unscoured corners. Their fathers and mothers are hopeless, and must not be allowed to rear a numerous and equally hopeless race. Light the streets better, certainly; but what use in building better houses for these poor creatures to render as foul as those that stand? The inmates may ruin the cahracter of a house, but no house can alter the character of its inmates. by Arthur G. Morrison

The following is a transcription from a pamphlet titled "The Worst Street in London", published in the summer of 1901. Our thanks to Richard Jones for sharing this pamphlet with us. He recently discovered it while conducting research at the Tower Hamlets Archives. We'd also like to thank Nina Thomas for transcribing the full text.

THE WORST STREET IN LONDON. MR. JACK McCARTHY'S REPLY. AN ARTICLE appeared in the "The Daily Mail," of July 16th, describing Dorset Street, Spitalfields, as "The Worst Street in London," and mentioning that its inhabitants are Thieves, Murderers and Burglars. It also stated that the criminals of London, were trained in this street and that it was the home of Prostitutes and everything that was bad. This so enraged the inhabitants of Dorset Street and this adjoining neighbourhood, that Mr. Edwin Locock (one of the inhabitants) hastily convened a meeting, to protest against this false article published in the "Daily Mail," and signed F. A. Mackensie. This meeting took place on Wednesday, July 17th, but as the room was not large enough to accommodate all that attended, the gathering was adjourned until Monday, July 22nd. Meanwhile, the neighbourhood was posted with bills, stating that a meeting would be held, to protest against the article in the "Daily Mail," at the "Duke of Wellington," Shepherd Street. The only name on this bill was that of MR. JACK McCARTHY, a gentleman who holds a considerable amount of property in the neighbourhood and whose name was published to reply to what appeared in the "Daily Mail." The meeting was called 8:30 p.m. and by that time the large hall was packed, many being unable to gain admittance. Among those present were the following gentlemen - Mr. W. Crossingham, who owns considerable property in Dorset Street, Mr. A. Bull, who has a paper warehouse in Dorset Street, and employes a good many hands, the Rev. Mr. Davies, Rector of Spitalfields, Mr. Raymond of "The Brittania," Dorset Street, Mr. Clark, Mr. Turner, Mr. J. McCarthy sen., Mr. T. McCarthy, Mr. W. Maney, Mr. H. Goodson, Mr. W. Marr, a reverend gentleman whose name did not transpire, Mr. George Munro (George Yard Mission), Mr. Merick, Mr. Williams, Mr. Maguire, Mr. Sagar (East End Mission) and among others Mr. F. A. McKensie the writer of the article. EDWARD LOCOCK the chairman, explained that they had met there to protest against the scandalous article published in the "Daily Mail," of July 16th, and he described the article as a gross

libel on everybody living in Dorset Street. After a few introductory remarks, he asked those present to listen to all that was said and called upon MR. ARTHUR BULL. Mr. Bull said that he had a business (a paper warehouse) in Dorset Street and that he was in the street from seven in the morning until seven or eight in the evening, very often later. He wished to say that there was not a particle of truth in the article published in the "Daily Mail," and he came there, as a respectable man, to enter his protest against the article in question, MR. JACK McCARTHY was then called upon and drawing the "Daily Mail" from his pocket addressed the meeting: "Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, I was very much surprised on reading the article in the "Daily Mail," and I may tell you that I immediately put it in the hands of an eminent council. Now, gentlemen, I intend to take this article, piece by piece, and prove to you that there is not a particle of truth in it from beginning to end. I hope, that in the course of my remarks, I shall not say anything to hurt the feelings of anybody present and I will confine myself solely and wholly to the article in question. I should like you to notice while reading this article, that every time Mr. Mackensie refers to the lodging houses in Dorset Street, he calls them dosshouses, but when speaking about Glascow or Lord Rowton he describes their lodging houses as admirable homes, although Lord Rowton's houses are simply common registered lodging houses the same as those in Dorset Street. The same medical officers, the same inspectors and the same superficial measure for every bed. Now, gentlemen, I had an idea that Mr. Mackensie, who wrote this article, who knows all about the rickerty tables, who knows everything about crime, etc. Would live in a very dismal place himself. After careful enquiry I found out that his business place was Toynbee Hall, and that all letters received there were sent on to his private address, 602, Birkbeck Bank Buildings, Chancery Lane. A friend and myself went last Saturday night to have a look at 602, Birkbeck Bank Buildings, Chancery Lane, facing the street there is a public house and a constable and the potman were persuading a man, who was rather unruly, to leave, of course, had this been in Dorset Street, it would have been said he was drunk and was chucked out, but round by Birkbeck Bank Buildings, it is said he was slightly inebriated and requested to leave. Gentlemen, the language this man used was worse than anything I ever heard and in fact, it was impossible to hear worse, even in Dorset Street. We went further on towards 602, Birkbeck Bank Buildings and at the side of a boarding, saw an officer pushing a lady and gentleman along, had they been near Dorset Street, of course, the lady would have been a prostitute, but they are not to be found near Birkbeck Bank Buildings, but I leave you

my friends to infer what they were doing in such a quiet spot. Dorset Street is better lighted than this spot, close to Birkbeck Bank Buildings and thus, "The Worse Street in London," is a credit to the Local Authorities. Gentlemen, the heading of this article is in very large type, "The Worse Street in London," and under that, also in large type, "Where our Criminals are Trained." (Cries of lies, lies, lies). Dorset Street, Spitalfields, has sprung into undesired notoriety; here we have a place which boasts of an attempt at murder once a month (a voice said, why, he ought to be smothered, of a murder in every house) (Lies, wicked lies) and one house a murder in every room (what lies he tells, surely he his the champion at telling 'em), as a rule, Policemen go down it in pairs, hunger walks prowling in its alleyways, and the criminals of to-morrow are being bred there to-day. (Cries of lies, lies, where does he get his information from). Now, gentlemen, is there an attempt? at murder once a month? (No, no, that there a'nt, does he take us for cannibals). Is there an attempt at murder in a year, or even two, three, four, five or ten years? (Cries of no, he knows there a'nt). Does it not compare favourably with any street in the world? (Of course it does and is as good as any other place). Has there been a murder in every house? (No, make him prove it, Jack). And is there one house in the street in which a murder has been committed in every room? (He knows there a'nt, he his the champion liar). Policemen, he says, go down it in pairs, but I stood at my shop door last Saturday afternoon and I saw Mr. Mackensie, walk from the top of the street to the bottom, with a young lady, he then walked back, laughing and chaffing with this handsome young lady, until he saw a bill in a window, notifying the inhabitants that a meeting would be held to protest against the scandalous article he had written. I might here say that the men, four or five hundred strong had made up their minds to break the windows of the "Daily Mail" offices. (Cheers). But "thank God," wiser counsels prevailed. Fancy a man from Dorset Street having the check to say "thank God," why, a man from Dorset Street has no business to live at all, according to Mr. Mackensie. (Loud laughter). However, while he was looking at the Bill, a satanic smile came over his features and he only wanted the red cloak and typical pitchfork to be a grand representation of an old gentleman that none of us ever wish to meet. (Laughter). Now, I ask you, was it manly (to say the least of it) for Mr. Mackensie to take that handsome young lady down Dorset Street, after calling the inhabitants Thieves, Murderers and Agents of Crime, without even a police officer or any other protection, unless he looked upon the young lady to do so, was it sticking to his own facts to go with only a handsome young lady down a street that he says the police patrol in pairs, after almost

causing a riot. (Cries of shame, cowardly, he's no man at all). Well, gentlemen, we will pass that over as it proves that Mr. Mackensie knew what he had written was untrue. His next words, typed again, are "Blue Blood," and he describes the lodging houses of Dorset Street and the District around as the headquarters of the shifting criminal population of London. (Cries of shame, shame, all lies). He says that the aristocrats in crime, etc., etc., do not come here at first but we have the common thief, the pickpocket and the unconvicted murderers. (Shame, shame, what lies he does tell). Mr. Maackensie tells you that the police have a theory, that it is better to let these people congregate together where they can find them when they want them. (Loud laughter). What an acquisition Mr. Mackensie would be to Scotland Yard, as the knowledge he possesses would be very valuable. (Laughter). I challenge Mr. Mackensie to prove what he has said about the police, but there, that is on a par with everything he writes. Where, in the name of goodness, does this aspirant to journalistic honors get his supposed knowledge from, some day I suppose, providing he is not snapped up by Scotland Yard, I may have the pleasure of seeing him Editor of "The Times." Mr. Mackensie goes on, if this were all, something might be said in favor of allowing such a place to continue,but it is not all, no criminal centre is wholly criminal and fancy this, he says they are not all bad people in lodging houses. (Now he's using soft-soap, cried aloud voice). There are some good boys in the street and there are honest men, who are simply down on their luck. There are, even to Mr. Mackensie, a few good women in Dorset Street, though, he says, but a very few. Well, gentlemen, after Mr. Mackensie, this aspirant to journalistic honors, has called everybody the worst names it was possible to find, he then says, there are some good respectable people there. Gentlemen, this puts me in mind of two friends in a public house bar, one suddenly called the other every bad name it was possible to lay his tongue to and otherwise abused him. The friend was surprised, but noticing that his companion was slightly elevated, let it pass over until he saw him again. The next day he asked him what he meant by calling him all those beastly names and the offender said "my dear old pal, although I was shaking my fist at you, I did not mean you, but those other men in the bar." Now, that is exactly what Mr. Mackensie is doing, he tells you there are respectable people, down Dorset Street, whose main offense is their poverty, but they are always in company with Law breakers and Agents of crime. If those people are in want and he tells you that poor people are in want, at times, it is the thief who shares his spoil with them to get them bread. (Laughter). Now, friends, doesn't this put you in mind of good old "Dick Turpin," that we read about,

who went out into the highways and byways and gave his spoils to the poor. Well, I willpass that over for what it is worth and in common with everything else it shows what a lot Mr. Mackensie knows. (Loud laughter). He says there are people here who will always teach others the simple ways of getting a dishonest living. Mr. Mackensie evidently knows that it is easy to get a dishonest livelihood and that is more than the people who live in Dorset Street know, and I wonder how he knows. He goes on to say that boy thieves are trained systematically around Dorset Street, as in the days of "Oliver Twist." So he includes all round Dorset Street in his sweeping ascertion and that around goes a long way, even Birkbeck Bank Buildings, being, at a distance, around Dorset Street. I challenge Mr. Mackensie in reference to his "Oliver Twist" theory. You, my friends, may not know who "Oliver Twist" was, but he was simply a character created in a book of fiction, by "Charles Dickens," but of all the fiction I have ever read, none is a patch upon this tale from the pen of Mr. Mackensie. (Loud laughter). Here, this aspirant to journalistic fame puts in large type "The Cancer of the Dosshouse." Of course, friends, you know what a cancer is and that it is incurable and thus you will see that Mr. Mackensie tells you that there is no cure for the Dosshouse. Here, Mr. Mackensie shows himself in his true colours, as he says that he knows it is hard for people to live in the comfortable suburban homes and bright country houses, to believe that these things take place. (But they don't shouted one of the men at the back). But if they doubt his word they are to go to the sessions and look over the records of burglars, murderers, etc. Does Mr. Mackensie mean to say that all these come from Dorset Street, if so, it shows his ignorance on the subject he writes about, not to know that these cases are down from every police court in the metropolis. I wonder how many people that reside in Dorset Street, would be found there (none at all was shouted) and whether it would be impossible to find anybody's name, living near Birkbeck Bank Buildings. (Cheers). It is manly of Mr. Mackensie to say so, but this is simply on a par with everything he writes. Now, he mentions the art of the knuckleduster, for the life of me, friends, though I have lived a good many years, I am afraid to say how many, in Dorset Street, I could not describe, what a knuckleduster is, but this aspirant to journalistic honours, knows everything in reference to crime, nothing in that line comes amiss to him and it is really a pity, that, with the knowledge he possesses, he should hide his light under a bushel, I wonder Superintendent Swanson does not send for him to overlook everything at Scotland Yard. He goes on to say that the greatest harm lodging houses do, is with those who have not yet learnt the ways of crime. The mixed houses, where men and women

go together, are, he says, infinitely the worse and the authorities may well consider the more rigid enforcement of elementary laws, for good morality, in such houses. Now, gentlemen, I will explain in reference to those houses for men and women. I have one that was advertised for sale as a going concern, I bought it and after my character was investigated, the register was transferred from a very respectable gentlemen to myself. The authorities re-measured the house and I lost several beds, but I might tell you this always takes place when a lodging house is transferred from one person to another. No children are allowed in those houses, but I hope there is no law to stop poor people having children. (Loud laughter). Not even a woman with a babe at her breast is to live in a double lodging house. So that does away with Mr. Mackensie's theory on the breeding of criminals and on a par with everything else in this article he writes upon, what he knows nothing about. Those houses are under The London County Council, whose medical officers and the health and housing committee, have the power to visit them day or night, whenever they think fit. In addition, there are day-inspectors, as well as a superintendent, who hold certificates for everything connected with buildings; who go through a very strict examination BEFORE THEY ARE APPOINTED inspectors of common lodging-houses. Well, so much for Mr. Mackensie's idea of the of the rigid enforcement of elementary laws. Now, I want to explain that a man and his wife can, if suitably attired, GO TO ANY HOTEL IN LONDON and take a bed as long as they possess the necessary £ s. d. They simply PUT THEIR NAMES IN A BOOK, go to bed, and there is an end to the matter. If they require a cheaper bed they go to one of the thousands of coffee-houses to be found all over London, but they are lucky if they can get a bed for 2s. 6d. Or 3s. (Laughter.) Now, what becomes of the poor couple who only earn 3s. or 4s. a day. This poor man and his wife will go to THE COMMON LODGING-HOUSE, where they WILL GET A CLEAN BED FOR 9d., with use of the kitchen and wash-houses thrown in. Well, that is why the local authorities REGISTER THOSE HOUSES, and it will be seen that they are a pressing necessity for the poor working-man. Mr. Mackensie here mentions LORD ROWTON'S ADMIRABLE HOMES. I have nothing to say about Lord Rowton. I admire him as a business man, and I am certain that he is well able to look after himself

and desires none of Mr. Mackensie's spoof. (Loud laughter and cries of "Hear, hear!") THIS ASPIRANT TO JOURNALISTIC HONOURS, MR. MACKENSIE, here talks about homes in Glasgow. I thought, when I first read the name of Mackenzie - good old Mae! - that it was a nom-de-plume; but when HE MENTIONS GLASGOW, and the good they are doing there, that Mackensie and Glasgow go together, and that Mac is his right name! Mackensie goes on to say that there is a great need of a lodging-house for women, and says that the Rector of Spitalfields has started a home for respectable girls. Well, gentlemen, I live in the neighbourhood, and it is news to me. IF THERE IS A HOME started by the Rector it is a great surprise, and I should like to know where it is. He further states that those of us who know ("What does he know about it?" cried one of those in front) the enormous difficulties of RUNNING A LODGING HOUSE for women believe that, with good management, it could be done. Friends, anybody would think there wasn't a house for single women in the neighbourhood, but Mr. Crossingham has two, Mr. Smith one, and there are several gentlemen overcoming THE GREAT DIFFICULTY of running a home for respectable young women. The Rector, Mr. Davies, here rose to a point of order, but the chairman told him to sit down, as Mr. McCarthy was perfectly in order, and being the only name on the bill was justly entitled to reply to what appeared in the "Daily Mail." (Cries of "Hear, hear!" "Sit down!" "Chuck him out!" etc., were heard.) Mr. McCarthy then, to the surprise of everybody present, said, I don't see any reason why I SHOULD APARE THOSE PEOPLE, and I would not, but for this interruption, mention the things which I will now allude to. Whenever THE SLIGHTEST LITTLE THING occurs in Dorset Street, the Rector of Spitalfields and THE TOYNBEE HALL PEOPLE pounce on it like A HUNGRY MAN ON A DINNER. This I can say without fear of contradiction, that, bad as the last Rector was - AND GOD KNOWS HE WAS BAD ENOUGH! - he was an angel compared to the present Rector. When the Rev. Mr. Scott was here there were 2d., 3d., 4d., and 6d. tickets GIVEN TO THE POOR - (terrific cheering) - and every shop in the neighbourhood would exchange

then for food. Excuse me describing the church as A PLACE OF BUSINESS, but when Mr. Davies came on the scene the poor had to do WITHOUT THEIR TICKETS ALTOGETHER. Why, he cannot afford to clean or light the clock - (laughter) - and this is not the kind of man to open, at his own risk, a lodging-house for single women. (Laughter.) Possibly, if he or Mr. Mackenzie received an anonymous thousand or two, ONE MIGHT BE OPENED. (Terrific applause.) The Rev. Mr. Davies got up, and, LOSING ALL CONTROL OF HIMSELF, said, I have NOT SEEN MR. MACKENSIE FOR TWO YEARS, and did not know he was going to be here. I have nothing to do with him or Toynbee hall, and don't wish to. I think IT IS VERY UNFAIR of you, Mr. McCarthy - But he was called to a point of order amidst cries of "Chuck him out!" "Shut up!" "Go on Jack, we came TO HEAR YOU!" and various other remarks. But we have had GOOD CLERGYMEN in the neighbourhood, such men as the REV. FATHER JAY. Many a lad to-day, who has a good position, blesses the name of FATHER JAY, who lifted him out of the gutter and gave him a chance to succeed in life. FATHER JAY, to keep the young folks happy, opened AN ATHLETIC CLASS, and by this means strengthened the bodies of many of our friends. (Loud cheering.) Another good man, the Rev. Mr. Billing, afterwards Bishop of Bedford. (Terrific applause.) This gentleman never had anything to say against Dorset Street or Spitalfields, and was always ready and willing to give kindness and sympathy, A WORD OF ADVICE, OR MONEY IF IT WAS WANTED. ("Hear, hear!") Another good man was the Rev. Father Carney, who was always A TRUE FRIEND TO THE POOR of the neighbourhood. He never said anything bad about Dorset Street, and was always ready with advice and kindness. Another gentleman I MUST MENTION who has led along and useful life in the district - who has always had a word of advice for those who wanted it, and if it was required he was THE FIRST TO DO ANYTHING ELSE. Day after day ha has passed through Dorset Street, but He does not insult poor people. (Cheers.) I allude, my friends, to the well-known friend of the poor, MR. CORNELIUS BARHAM. (Terrific applause.) Then taking up THE "DAILY MAIL" again he went on with the article. Here we have in large type, FURNISHED ROOMS. The lodging-houses, he says, are bad enough, but they are THE BEST SIDE OF A BAD STREET. They have a certain amount of sanitation and decency as well as official inspection, while the furnished rooms have neither. Mr. Mackensie says, you take a seven or eight roomed house at a rent of 10s. or 11s. A week. (Cries of

"Where are they?" "Is the man mad?" etc., were heard.) He says you put a certain amount of the oldest furniture to be found in the slums in them, and then you let them out to the first-comers at 10d. a night. (Loud and prolonged laughter.) No questions are asked, THEY PAY THE RENT, and you hand them the key. (Laughter.) If by the next night they have not got their 10d. or 1s. ready you go round and CHUCK THEM OUT (IT IS ALWAYS "CHUCK" in Dorset Street) and let a new-comer in. (Laughter.) McCarthy went on, WHAT A MARVELLOUS MAN this Mackensie is! Why he actually knows where we buy the furniture, what we pay for it, what rent we pay for our houses, and the next time I want any furniture I will commission Mr. Mackensie to get it for me. Anybody might guess we don't. GO TO MAPLE'S for it; but what's the matter with Savage's - (loud applause) - and the hundreds of private and public sales THAT TAKE PLACE IN LONDON every week? Mr. Mackensie must have a poor opinion of the BUSINESS ABILITIES of the proprietors of furnished rooms. For the information of Mr. Mackensie, furnished rooms ARE REGISTERED for poor people who have no homes and yet have one or two children. There is a medical officer and inspector who hold FIRST-CLASS CERTIFICATES for sanitation, etc., etc. These men go through a searching examination, the facsimile of that of the COUNTY COUNCIL INSPECTORS, and they ARE QUITE AS COMPETENT to do their duty. They have the power to visit furnished rooms, NIGHT OR DAY, and, in fact, though under the local authorities, have the same powers as the London County Council inspectors have to visit lodging-houses. (Cheers.) Thus it will be seen that they are A PRESSING NECESSITY to the poorer class of working-men. Mr. Mackensie says we throw the oldest furniture, always, as he says in the "Toynbee Hall Record," A RICKETY TABLE AND ONE CHAIR, into the room, and leave them to put themselves in order. Now, then, I will try to prove that what MR. MACKENSIE INTENDS AS A SLUR is really a compliment to the proprietors of the furnished rooms. Considering what THIS ASPIRANT TO JOURNALISTIC HONOURS has written, they must be very kind-hearted,

simple people, for, as Mr. Mackensie tells you, after going ROUND THE SLUMS and buying the worst furniture at the lowest possible price (always a FEW SLILLINGS), he leaves them about, trusting to the honesty of the first person that comes along with 10d. (Loud and prolonged laughter.) I must call your attention to the fact that every time Mackensie mentions LODGING-HOUSES AND FURNISHED ROOMS he couples them with that un-English word "chuck." Well, this is simply upon a par with everything he says. ("Hear, hear!") Mr. Mackensie now dives into POETICAL LANGUAGE: But for mere want we find here Depths below the lowest deep. When I first read this I tried hard to think where I had read it before, and I think it is taken out of a novel I read IN DAYS GONE BY. He says there are some to whom even the common lodging-house and PENNY SHELTER are unobtainable luxuries. He says the people would rather SLEEP ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT to a bed in Dorset Street. (A voice said, "Let him try the Embankment for a night!") Now, challenge Mr. Mackensie to tell me where THERE IS A PENNY SHELTER, and I will bet him £1 TO A BUTTON that he cannot show me where there is one. Can anybody here to-night tell me where there is a penny shelter? (Cries of "There ain't one; it's only his gab!") You can always tell the man THAT BACKS HIS FANCY, as he generally comes out with the expression, £1 to a button. (Loud laughter). Now, I want you to notice that this ASPIRANT TO JOURNALISTIC HONOURS gives you the true motive of why he wrote this article. He says that when, on winter nights, well-fed and well-clothed citizens SHIVER OVER THEIR ROARING FIRES - (a voice said, "Have they no windows or doors!") - then it is that the lot of those poor souls is TRULY PITIABLE. He says, I have seen them on such nights lying on the stones of the doorways - asleep on the DAMP, BRICK PASSAGE-WAYS of the crowded houses. Now, said Mr. McCarthy, I want you to understand what Mr. Mackensie is saying to these people. He is saying, as plain as possible, how dare you live in THOSE COMFORTABLE COUNTRY HOUSES, and sit before those lovely roaring fires, eating and drinking THE BEST OF EVERYTHING, when I, Mr. Mackensie, tell you that there are poor souls in Dorset Street who are

actually starving! Send ME whatever you can spare; THE SMALLEST DONATION WILL BE THANKFULLY RECEIVED, and I will give it to those poor souls. (Loud laughter.) I will tell you something that happened some time ago. I went to hear a clergyman preach, as he was a grand elocutionist. I looked upon him as MORE OF AN ACTOR than anything else. In the midst of A GRAND PERORATION what a word for a man from Dorset Street to use! (Laughter.) I cannot help repeating the words. In the midst of a grand peroration he suddenly stopped and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, at my last meeting A LADY LOST HER PURSE. Now, if there are any of the light-fingered gentry about, please don't perform any of those legerdemain tricks until the collection is over." (Loud and prolonged cheering.) Well, that is what Mr. Mackensie is saying to those people in their lovely country houses. He now gives the SCHOOL BOARD OFFICER a turn, and also says that THE CHILDREN ARE TRAINED IN THE GUTTER. Their first lessons are in. OATHS AND CRIMES. They learn to sip gin in their mothers' arms, and you can see them at six and eight years of age gambling in the gutter ways. Now, said Mr. McCarthy, does it not seem very inconsistent that while THE GROWN-UP PEOPLE cannot find a penny for the shelter that exists only in Mr. Mackensie's mind, yet these children six and eight years of age can find money to gamble with in the gutter. Why they pick out the gutter, when there is a well-paved road and a broad pavement on each side, both being A CREDIT TO THE LOCAL AUTHORITIES, is a mystery to me, but Mr. Mackensie says it is so, and he knows everything. He says that the County Council showed WHAT IT COULD DO in Boundary Street, and that surely here, under such needs, it might make a special endeavour. For every pound spent in REFORMING THIS STREET would mean many pounds saved on our PRISONS AND LEGAL MACHINERY to-morrow. Now, said Mr. McCarthy, what a wonderful man this Mackensie, this aspirant to journalistic honors, must be! (Loud laughter.) In addition to his other qualifications, he is a political economist, and why Lord Salisbury, Mr. Balfour, or Sir Michael Hicks-Beach do not at once commission him to take

THE CONTROL OF THE EXCHEQUER is past my knowledge. Perhaps THIS PRINCE OF LIARS would rather write an article for the "Toynbee Hall Record" or the "Daily Mail." Gentlemen, Mr. Mackensie boasts of what they are DOING FOR THE POOR in Glasgow; but for his information I will explain what they do, not only in Dorset Street, but all over the metropolis, for THE POOR OF LONDON. To illustrate what I mean, I will ask you to go with me through ANY GREAT STREET in this City. You will see those men - men that I call ANGELS ON EARTH to the poor man out of work. He may be a publican, a butcher, a hatter, a grocer, or even one of THE LODGING-HOUSE KEEPERS, but he is a sportsman, and in the quiet time of the day puts his pony in to drive round and see his pals. He never goes far before he pulls up, and THE POOR OUT-OF-WORK holds the horse's head. If the governor, barmaid or barman tells him A NICE TALE (and it is long odds on it) he comes out on GOOD TERMS WITH HIMSELF and everybody else. He is certain to give the poor out-of-work SIXPENCE AT THE LEAST, and the man looks at it and says to himself, "WHAT SHALL I DO WITH IT!" He first pays 4d. For his nights lodging, which gives him a right to the kitchen, and he can have a wash if he desires it. He then buys a farthing'sworth of tea, a farthing'sworth of sugar, one halfpennyworth of bread, one halfpennyworth of butter, and then is not broke. He receives half a pound of bread, makes some tea, and sits down and enjoys a satisfactory meal. Next morning he gets up refreshed, and goes down to one of the markets or docks to try and GET A DAY'S WORK. Can Mr. Mackensie tell me where, IN ANY PART OF THE WORLD, Glasglow included, THEY can do anything like this? Now this is done, not only in Dorset Street, but ALL AROUND SPITALFIELDS, and the very people Mr. Mackensie RUNS DOWN and cannot say anything bad enough about are the people that really do more for the prevention of crime than any other class of people in the world. These men, I should have mentioned, do not boast of their philanthropy. Now, gentlemen, I should like to explain, for the benefit of the Press, that there are twenty houses on each side of Dorset Street. ("There ought to be more," said a man in front, "considering HOW WE want 'em.") There are five lodging-houses, TWO BELONGING TO MR.

CROSSINGHAM - ("Good luck to him; he's a toff!") - one to Mr. Oyler, and I OWN TWO. (Half a dozen voices were heard together saying, "Wish it was twenty-two!") Now, if any one of Mr. Crossingham's lodgers has not got his money, does he CHUCK YOU OUT? ("No; he would let you stop a week and give you a bit of grub!" was shouted.) There are four shops - one fish-shop and three general shops and it is a REMARKABLE COINCIDENCE that the three shops are all of THAT SAME HISTORICAL NAME, "McCarthy." ("Good luck to the lot of em!") Though THIS IS THE CASE, they belong to three separate and distinct families. ("God bless them all!" shouted Bill Mazey.) There are nine houses REGISTERED AND LET as furnished rooms, one warehouse, four stables, and the other houses are let to people WHO HAVE THEIR OWN HOMES. Now, gentlemen, this is the street, and I CHALLENGE MR. MACKENSIE to prove that any one of those people are not AS RESPECTABLE AS HIMSELF. (Loud cheers.) In conclusion, gentlemen, I must say that this is A GROSS LIBEL on the MEDICAL OFFICERS, sanitary inspectors, London County Council inspectors, as well as A GROSS LIBEL on the H Division of police, a body of men who, for intelligence, tact, and unlimited resources, can hold their own with any police-off ricers IN THE WORLD. I may say that A LYING ARTICLE like this does not increase the value of property anywhere around Dorset Street or the neighbourhood. ("Hear, hear!") I thank you very much for the courtesy and attention you have shown me while I was speaking." And then, amidst a perfect volley of cheers, MR. JACK McCARTHY sat down. He had been speaking 1 hour 50 minutes, without a note to enliven his memory, and, though in trying places, never lost himself. He kept a tight grasp of his subject, and though his attention was called away (principally by the Rector at Spitalfields) he took up the subject at the same point without an instant's delay. He thoroughly thrashed out, piece by piece, every point in the article, and proved them to be untrue from beginning to end. The cheering after this great speech was deafning and fully ten minutes passed before the next speaker was called upon. MR. RAYMOND of the "Brittania" beer-house, spoke a few words and entered his protest against what was a false and ruing account of Dorset Street. Mr. Munro (George Yard Mission) said, that he had in company with his wife, visited the street for thirty-eight years and always received

the greatest courtesy possible, he had gone down this street, where thieves are said to be trained and his gold watch and chain, money and valuables had been as safe as in his own home. MR. SAGAR (East End Mission) said, that for years he had been going through Dorset Street and the whole article was false from start to finish. MR. PLANTIDE said, he lived in the street for a large number of years and was a barrow hawker, he considered it was a gross libel on a body of working people and entered his protest against it. After a few others had spoken, a vote of thanks was made to the Chairman and another to MR. JACK McCARTHY, who had made a great speech for nearly two hours and after another cheer for MR. JACK McCARTHY, which was repeated again and again, the meeting quietly broke up and a little while later no one would have known that a meeting had been held near.

Reprinted from the "Daily Mail," July 16th 1901. THE WORST STREET IN LONDON. Where our Criminals are Trained. Dorset Street, Spitalfields, has recently sprung into undesired notoriety. Here we have a place which boasts of an attempt at murder on an average once a month, of a murder in every house, and one house at least, a murder in every room. Policemen go down it as rule in pairs. Hunger walks prowling in its alleyways, and the criminals of to-morrow are being bred there to-day. BLUE BLOOD. The lodging-houses of Dorset Street and of the district around are the head centres of the shifting criminal population of London. Of course, the aristocrats of crime - the forger, the counterfeiter, and the like do not come here. In Dorset Street we find more largely the common thief, the pickpocket, the area meak, the man who robs with violence, and the unconvicted murderer. The police have a theory, it seems, that it is better to let these people congregate together in one mass where they can be easily be found than to scatter them abroad. And Dorset Street certainly serves the purpose of a police trap. If this were all, something might be said in favour of allowing such a place to continue. But it is not all. No criminal centre is wholly criminal, and to represent even the lodging houses of Dorset Street as wholly inhabited by the utterly depraved would be wrong. There are many men in them who are simply "down on their luck." There are many boys there whose sole desire is to lead a free life, and who have not yet known the policeman's clatch on their shoulder. There are even a few women, though but a very few, who have not yet shared in the almost inevitable rain which comes on their sex in such a place. Here comes the real and greatest harm that Dorset Street does. Respectable people, whose main offence is their poverty, are thrown in close and constant contact with the agents of crime. They become familiarized with law-breaking. They see the best points of the criminals around them. If they are in want, as they usually are, it often enough a thief who shares his spoils with them to give

them bread. And there are those who are always ready to instruct these new-comers in the simple ways of making a dishonest living. Boy thieves are trained as regularly and systematically around Dorset Street to-day as they were in the days of Oliver Twist. THE CANCER OF THE "DOSS HOUSE" There must seem, I am well aware, an air of unreality about this to follow who read it in comfortable surburban homes or bright country houses. It seems impossible that in our new century these things should continue. But perhaps those who think it unreal will look over for their own satisfaction the indictments of any of our great criminal courts. They may notice there the number of petty thieves, and brutal assaulters, of burglars, even of murderers at every session. These men have to learn their business. You do not become a burglar without training, and even the art of the knuckle-duster requires a little practice. Where are these folks trained? Many of them are from Dorset Street. The chief harm the common lodging-houses do is in the free association of criminals with those who have not yet learned the ways of crime. The mixed houses where men and women go together are, of course, infinitely the worse, and the authorities might well consider it worth while to secure the more rigid enforcement of elementary laws for good morality in such houses. But common lodginghouses there must be, and to close the present places without giving better accommodation in their stead would be to do more harm than good. London to-day has a sad lack of good temporary shelters for poor folks. Lord Rowton in his admirable homes has supplied a great want for some of the better class. The County Council has made a very small endeavour, but its house, too is not for the really poor. We want in London places like the great Municipal or Burn's Homes in Glasgow, where for 3½d. Or 4d. A night a man can secure a simple cubicle and the use of the common rooms. This experiment has been enormously successful in Glasgow. It yields fair returns on the money invested in it; it has swept away innumerable criminal dens; it is giving the poorest and the worst a chance of honestly re-starting again. But a still greater need is a good lodging-house for women. I understand that the curate of Christ Church, Spitalfields, has started in that neighbourhood a small home for respectable girls. This is admirable, but he himself would probably be the first to admit that something very

much more is wanted. Those of us who know the enormous difficulties in the way of running a successful common lodging-house for women yet believe that with really good management the difficulties which have frightened so many off this thing would vanish. FURNISHED ROOMS. The lodging-houses are bad, but they are the best side of a bad street. They at least have certain official inspection, and a certain minimum amount of sanitation and decency is there secured. But the furnished rooms so-called are infinitely worse. Farming furnished rooms is exceedingly profitable business. You take seven or eight-roomed houses at a rent of 10s. Or 11s. A week, you place on each door a padlock, and in each room you put a minimum amount of the oldest furniture to be found in the worst second-hand dealers' in the slums. The fittings of the average furnished room are not worth more than a few shillings. Then you let the rooms out to any comers for 10d. Or 1s. A night. No questions asked. They pay the rent, you hand them the key. If by the next night they have not their 10d. or 1s. Again ready you go round and chuck them out and let a new-comer in. But for mere want we find here "depths below the lowest deep." There are some to whom even the common lodging-house or the penny shelter are unobtainable luxuries. In the summer months they do not mind. A seat on the Thames Embankment is in many ways to be preferred to a bed in a big dormitory in Dorset Street. But on winter nights, when well-fed and well-clothed citizens shiver over their roaring fires, then it is that the lot of these poor souls is truly pitiable. I have seen them on such nights lying on the stones of the doorways, or crouched asleep by the half-dozen on the damp brick passage-ways of the furnished houses. They tell me it is a poor look-out for the School Board officer who pokes his nose into unwanted quarters of Dorset Street, The children are trained in the gutter, their first lessons are in oaths and crime. They learn ill as they sip at their mother's gin, and you can see them at six and eight years' old gambling in the gutter-ways. The County Council showed what it could do in Boundary Street. Surely here, under such needs, it might make a special endeavour. For every pound spent in reforming this street would mean many pounds saved on our prisons and legal machinery to-morrow.

Down East Gaslight Wanderings. No. III From: "The Metropolitan", 14th September 1872. Not far from Wellclose-square is a large tavern known by the Teutonic sign of the "Preussischer Adler," and into this palace of dazzling light our custodian led us. Bless you! Mr. R-- was as well known there as everywhere else, and a few mystic words spoken to the landlord were sufficient to give us the run of the establishment. We could hear the strains of music and the rushing of many feet coming from the floor above, and turning to a staircase on our left, we prepared to ascend. But a placard posted at the foot of the steps attracts our attention, and we pause to read it - this is the substance in brief:- "All persons are requested, before entering the dancing saloon, to leave at the bar their pistols and knives, or any other weapon they may have about them." Fancy such a regulation being necessary in civilised London! At any rate, it was very reassuring to us, and with renewed confidence we mounted to the domains of Terpsichore. It was a long room, with tables and seats aligning the walls, the centre being given up entirely to a crowd of dancers, who were waltzing to the by no means bad music of half-a-dozen German players, who piped away in a raised orchestra close by the stair-head. But what an assembly! There were French, Spanish, Italian, German, and Dutch seamen; there were Greeks from the Aegean Sea; there were Malays, Lascars, and even the "heathen Chinee," disguised in European costume, with his pigtail rolled up under a navy cap. There were mariners in fezes and serge capotes; there were Mediterranean dandies, girt with broad crimson scarves, and with massive gold earrings glistening as they twirled about. No wonder it had been found necessary to collect the knives and pistols from the hot-blooded cosmopolitan crowd. A blow is soon given, and with weapons at hand, who can tell where a quarrel might end? Yet I must say that, while we were present, everything was conducted in the most orderly manner, though the animated impassioned talk in a dozen different languages led one to imagine that a breach of the peace was imminent at any moment. The waltz, which all alike danced admirably, had something of the heroic about it. Each couple made three or four sharp turns, and then came to a pause with a smart stamp and heads thrown back defiantly. Catching the time to a nicety, they would repeat the movement; and when I mention that there were considerably more than a hundred dancers on the floor, the staccato effect of the stamp, coming almost simultaneously, may be imagined. Of the female portion of the assemblage, I need not say

more than that they were, in nearly every instance, foreign, the German and Flemish nationality mostly predominating. Short "Dolly Vardens," scrupulously clean, embroidered petticoats, and neatly-fitting high-heeled Hungarian boots, was apparently the favourite costume. To come suddenly upon the "Preussicher Adler's dancing saloon" out of the crowded streets of the English metropolis has a most startling effect upon the casual visitor, who is unprepared for any thing of the kind. It is absolutely as though one had been transferred, magically, to a casino in the neighbourhood of the docks of Marseilles or Genoa, or to the halls of "Tutti Nazioni" (all nations) on the Marina of Messina. But the hour is waxing late and, if we would complete our task, we must not linger amidst the delights of he "Preussicher Adler," as Hannibal did at Capua. As we passed down Ratcliff Highway, in the direction of the "Jolly Sailors," an incident occurs which greatly impresses our party. Though detective R-- has given up to us some hours of his time, yet those whom it concerns are by no means left in ignorance of his whereabouts. A quick-looking and respectably dressed young man suddenly makes his appearance, and steps up immediately to Mr. R--, as though he knew to a minute at what square on the flags he could meet with the mysterious officer, whose ways and movements are dark to those who expect him not. We draw on one side while an animated whispered conversation occurs between them, and the newcomer having in all probability received his instructions, vanishes as rapidly and quietly as he came. It was not our province to be curious, and as our guide remained reticent, I am unable to enlighten the reader on the subject that brought about the interview. I have mentioned the incident, simply to show that Mr. R--'s apparent leisure meant as much work as play. But we had reached the "Jolly Sailors," and though there was nothing much to see after the "Preussischer Adler," we nevertheless looked in for a minute or two. The company here were unmistakably English, and as unmistakably more or less drunk. The were seamen from the neighbouring docks and lodging-houses, and, having just been paid off, were doing the best to get rid of the money, and in this laudable effort they were ably seconded by their companions of the opposite sex. There was no dancing going on, but a couple of acrobats were really doing some very good tumbling in the centre of the large room, and sixpences and "bronzes" were plentifully showered to them by those not in a too maudlin and drowsy condition to get at their pocket. There was not the slightest inducement to linger in this distasteful haunt, and as the hour hand was rapidly approaching midnight Mr. R-- suggested that we should hasten our steps to the last place indicated on our programme, and wind up with "The Ghost."

Our ghost, however, instead of appearing as the twelve strokes proclaimed "the witching hour when churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead," was, according to the police regulations, to vanish punctually at the signal from the neighbouring church steeples. The dreadful apparition led no shadowy existence but haunted the purlieus of Whitechapel and dwelt in a "penny gaff." We were just in time for the last performance, and we shouldered our way along a dark narrow passage, and through a flavoursome crowd, of which the greater portion was made up of extremely coarse and brutal looking boys and girls. As a matter of course the auditorium was kept in the deepest gloom, for how could a ghost go about his business in a brilliant light ? This obscurity would naturally be very favourable to trying pockets, so as an extra measure of safety we elected to go to the twopenny stalls, as being more select and less crowded. We most of us know the theatre at the Polytechnic Institution, and we are aware of the rustlings and gigglings that follow the lowering of the light in that well-frequented and extremely proper hall. I shall not attempt to describe the innocent and refined joking and horse-play that went on behind us, nor the graphic language in which thoughts and ideas were exchanged. At length the curtain rose, discovering a dimly lit stage, with a piece of gauze stretched across the proscenium to assist in giving a hazy effect. An individual in an old dressing-gown, supposed to serve as a nobleman's sumptuous robe, makes his appearance, and bemoans his fate that he cannot find a lock under which a treasure is said to be hidden. He has learned in a dream that an ancestor of his was foully murdered, and buried with his wealth beneath a rock in the forest. "I know it's about 'ere, 'cos the vision of the dream told me it was. Eh, he told me it was 'ere, and 'ere I'll go on a seekin' it. Ah! that stone." The individual strikes his shins against an old egg box, placed upside down, and begin to wrench at it, with simulated muscular power. "Ah! ah! ah! I 'ave it now, for beneath this stone lies the bones of my poor, poor ancestor." But the gentleman in the dressing-gown is not to have it all his own way. Some resinous flashes play at the wings, a big shot is rolled about, and a couple of demon sprites skip and tumble about him, reducing the wanderer to a state of abject terror. "Mercy, mercy; I will not touch the treasure. I will fly - fly from this terrible spot, and never come back no more." At this moment the lightning ceases, the thunder is heard no more. There are a few sharp chords from a solitary violin, which appear to give the demons a stomach-ache, for they double themselves up and make the quickest tracks. Then the stage becomes luminous with blue fire, a sudden energy replaces the wanderer's fear, he gives the egg-box a hearty wrench, and beneath it discovers a bag. As he

clutches his prize the scene opens at the back, and the terrible ghost appears with a green limelight full upon him. Of course, the party in the dressing-gown quickly drops the treasure, but is encouraged by much pantomime to pick it up. The white sheet shrouding the apparition is wreathed into the most persuasive folds, and a kindly sepulchral voice informs the discoverer that" The goold and jewelles are yourn, for were they once not mine? Take them, descendant of my murdered self, take them, and be for ever 'appy!'' This brought down the curtain, and sent the audience rushing pell-mell from the place, in hopes of securing another pint before the clock should strike the prohibitory hour. We followed, glad to reach the street, and lingering for a short time together to balance the common account, we then shook hands, and the various members of the exploring party went their several ways, to moralise on and dream of the life "down East."

Dwellings of the Poor in Bethnal Green From: "The Illustrated London News", 24th October 1863. That public attention has at last been directed to the condition of the poorer neighbourhoods of Bethnal-green is attributable to the evidence of the medical officer who, at an inquest held on the body of a child, declared that death had been caused by "blood-poisoning," through the impure state of the dwellings in a certain locality. That a wide and populous district has for years been subject to all the foulest influences which accompany a state of extreme filth and squalor may be due to the fact that private moneyed interests have had little to fear from parochial authority, even when they have not been represented by the same individuals. The disgusting details which have lately been revealed to that portion of the public who have only heard of Bethnal-green as a low neighbourhood where the weavers live, somewhere in the far east of London, have been the steady growth of years. Those whose duty it has been to point out their inevitable consequences have treated them with indifference, or have suffered themselves to hope that some more powerful authority would eventually compel the alterations which they have faintly suggested. But "threatened men live long;" and even now the owners of the putrid sties in the purlieus of Friars-mount, in Thorold-square, in Twig-folly, and other centres of pestilence may well believe that neither board, nor commission, nor sanitary officer will trouble them if they can only let inquiry itself die, and so contrive to hush up the whole matter until the passing excitement is directed to some new object. Anybody whose acquaintance with Bethnal-green commenced more than a quarter of a century ago will remember that some of these names of streets and rows which now seem to have such a grimly sarcastic meaning expressed not inaptly the places to which they originally referred. Hollybushplace, Green-street, Pleasant-place, and other neighbourhoods, which now consist of ruinous tenements reeking with abominations, were outlying, decent cottages, standing on or near plots of garden ground, where the inmates reared prize tulips and rare dahlias in their scanty leisure, and where some of the last of the old French refugees dozed away the evenings of their lives in pretty summer-houses, amidst flower-beds gay with virginia stocks and creeping plants.

At this time, and before the present main road was formed to supersede the old Bethnal-greenroad, which lies nearer to Cambridge-heath, this district was but a sort of country extension of Spitalfields; for Spitalfields had begun to assume the appearance that it exhibits now that its worst features have been exceeded by the wretched maze of streets and alleys which have built all greenness, except that belonging to rottenness, out of Bethnal. It may be remarked that the worst parts of Bethnal-green are not those inhabited by weavers, and that wherever the weaver is found his personal cleanliness and the tidiness of his poor room offer a striking contrast to those of many of his neighbours. His work requires a "long light" or leaden casement, so that he most frequently occupies garrets originally designed for his trade. Poor, suffering, nearly starved, and living in a house which shares with the rest the evils of bad or no drainage and insufficient water supply, his business requires at least some amount of personal cleanliness, or the delicate fabrics on which he is employed could never come out unsullied from the touch of coarser hands. Skirting the station of the Great Eastern Railway in Shoreditch, and traversing Club-row - the Sunday morning resort of pigeon and bird fanciers - the earnest visitor has only to cross the road and turn up Nichols-row, to find himself in as foul a neighbourhood as can be discovered in the civilised world (savage life has nothing to compare to it), and amongst a population depressed almost to the last stage of human endurance. Should he have started with an impression that report had exaggerated the misery of these dwellings he will, if he have the heart - and, let us add, the stomach - to inspect them, prove that no allowable strength of language could do more than adequately express the condition of the dens which surround Friars-mount. It is true that several of the main thoroughfares, though dirty and ruinous enough, do not indicate externally the teeming and filthy rooms, which can only be appreciated by a closer inspection. Even though here and there a falling tenement is propped up by a shoring-beam to prevent the wall from bulging over into the street, there are still the remains of poor respectability in some places; and ragged, dirty children, and gaunt women, from whose faces almost all traces of womanliness have faded, alternate with the clean-looking and even well-dressed families of some of the shopkeepers. Let the traveller penetrate further, and he will enter upon a maze of streets each of which is a social crime, and each of which contains tributary hovels many degrees worse than itself. They are not always easy to find, since, if they have ever had any names, the names have been obliterated except from the memory of the police and the City missionary, the doctor or the landlord; and the entrance to most of them

is by a covered alley not wider than an ordinary doorway - nay, sometimes so narrow that a brewer's dray-man would be compelled to walk in sideways. At the end of this blind court there will be found either a number of black and crumbling hovels forming three sides of a miserable little square, like a fetid tank with a bottom of mud and slime; or an irregular row of similar tenements, mostly of four small rooms, fronted by rotten wooden palings. In either case there are three peculiarities which are common to the great part of the whole neighbourhood. The miserable rooms are underlet and teeming with inhabitants to an almost inconceivable extent. The water for some fourteen or fifteen houses is frequently supplied from one tap in a dirty corner, where it runs for only a short time every day; and the places are mostly undrained. Add to this the decay of vegetable matter, the occasional evidence of the presence of pigs from adjacent houses which have back yards (these have none), and that sickly odour which belongs always to human beings living in such a state, and the result will represent a score of places extending over Bethnalgreen parish for more than a mile in length and half a mile in breadth. This district of Friars-mount, which is nominally represented by Nichols-street, Old Nichols-street, and Half Nichols-street, including, perhaps most obviously, the greater part of the vice and debauchery of the district, and the limits of a single article would be insufficient to give any detailed description of even a day's visit. There is nothing picturesque in such misery; it is but one painful and monotonous round of vice, filth, and poverty, huddled in dark cellars, ruined garrets, bare and blackened rooms, teeming with disease and death, and without the means, even if there were the inclination, for the most ordinary observations of decency or cleanliness. In the neighbourhoods where the inhabitants follow poor trades the condition is but little better: a few streets where there is a more cleanly appearance do but lead to a repetition of the horrors just witnessed; and from garret to cellar whole families occupy single rooms, or, if they can find a corner of available space, take a lodger or two. In some wretched cul de sac, partly inhabited by costers, the fetid yards are devoted to the donkeys, while fish are cured and dried in places which cannot be mentioned without loathing. Bandbox and lucifer-box makers, cane workers, clothespeg makers, shoemakers, and tailors, mostly earning only just enough to keep them from absolute starvation, swarm from

roof to basement; and, as the owners of such houses have frequently bought the leases cheaply and spend nothing for repairs, the profits to the landlords are greater in proportion than those on a middle-class dwelling. The visitor who, after having threaded the labyrinth of Friars-mount, remembers that it is principally to Thorold-square that attention has been called, will wonder in what that place can be worse than the neighbourhood he has just left. The truth is, that it is in nothing worse - nay, is many degrees betters, since it is approached from the main road; but that such a den should for so long have been suffered to open from a broad public thoroughfare is in itself a pretty good evidence of what must be the condition of the old places which are hidden in almost unexplorable corners. Thorold-square is a repetition of these, but on a large, lighter, and airier scale. It is true that it is muddy, that its houses are ruinous, and that the rotten, ruined, wooden pump, stuck full of nails, which adorns its filthy area is a pretty good representative of the usual water supply. It is equally true that on entering it from the main street the visitor will feel a sickly feeling creep over him, and would, if he were previously hungry, discover within himself a sudden loathing for food and a desire for strong drink. But Thorold-square is by no means an unfavourable specimen of Bethnal-green, although the parish authorities are making much of it, as though for its condition alone they had been liable to censure. This impression is still further increased on reaching Hollybush-place, where the poor shoemaker, who occupies a garret with his family, has lost two children by disease which has been directly attributed to the impure air. It is with reference to Hollybush-place that the Inspector of Nuisances took exception to the inaccuracy of a report which was current to the effect that a shed of sixty cows was only nine feet from the house where the shoemaker's children died of putrid fever, and that pigs were also kept close by. He declares that there were but fifty cows, that the shed was some eighteen feet from the house, and that pigs have not been kept there lately. Taking this correction for what it is worth, the visitor will have remarked on his journey several stifling localities where, amongst the crowded hovels, pigsare very evidently kept, and add their filthy exhalations, ay, and their special diseases, to the general abominations. As there are also several cowsheds and not a few slaughter-houses in this eastern portion of Bethnal-green, which, in the district of Twigfolly, and all that neighbourhood, rivals Friars-mount itself, and has horrible peculiarities of its own,

it might be useful to inquire to what purpose the animals are ultimately applied. There can be no necessity for stall-fed cows in this particular district, since all the milk consumed (and there can be but little in proportion to the number of inhabitants) might readily be sent from the country by the Great Eastern Railway to Mile-end station, and there delivered to the dealers. It is scarcely too much to say that stall-fed cows huddled together in filthy, undrained sheds, in the midst of fever-haunted houses, must yield milk of a very inferior quality, but both cows and pigs suggest a more startling consideration. It is the custom when cows "go off their milk" to exchange them for others; but what of the instances where cows either die or, being past yielding, are slaughtered? What of the pigs, which poison if they are not poisoned in return by the foulness of their habitations? It is a significant fact, whether it has any relation to this inquiry or not, that all through this teeming neighbourhood of Bethnal-green the visitor will have noticed a surprising number of shops where the coarsest parts of meat seem to share the space with what butchers call offal. Cow-heels, bullocks'-hearts, kidneys, and livers, thin and poor-looking tripe, and sheeps-heads are amongst the uncooked portion of the stock; while the cooked viands are often represented by piles and chains of bruised, and often damaged-looking, saveloys, black-puddings, and a sort of greasy cakes of baked sausage-meat, known as "faggots," sold for a penny or three farthings, and made of the harslet and other internal portions of the pig. It is often the case that these shops have some display of joints of meat, often coarse, poor, and flabby-looking, but they bear no proportion to the staple trade. It would be curious to inquire how many Bethnal-green pigs, or if any Bethnalgreen cows, ever find their way to a regular dead-meat market, there to come under the observation of an authorised inspector. Whether they do or not, the places in which they live must be removed, and this foul district must be purged, or our sanitary legislation is ineffectual, and all the wonderful sanitary schemes of which we have heard, and for which we shall have to pay so much, are but costly failures. See also: More Revelations of Bethnal Green, published a week later in "The Builder"

East and West London By the Rev. Harry Jones. Published by Smith, Elder & Co., 1875

Introductory I DIP my pen to write the first line of this book with a consciousness that it must be rather egoistic if written at all. It is a rough impression of my own experience and opinions; and, do what I will, I cannot help using a large number of capital I's in its compilation. The subject is one which ought especially to interest Londoners; and as I have been repeatedly asked about it by friends, I fancy that some others may care to read what is at least an honest record of personal observation. Circumstances led me some two years ago to move from a populous Western district of which I had long had charge - that of St. Luke's, Berwick Street, in St. James's, Westminster - to St. George's in the East, a large parish lying a little beyond the Tower, and containing the London Docks. Thus I have the opportunity of bringing the experience of many years in the West to the observation of the East. The result hitherto has been the correction of much of my own ignorance and the dissipation of some prejudice. As soon as I came I began in an aimless sort of way, sometimes even as I walked along the street, jotting down impressions on scraps of paper, just as they occurred, without any order or connection, and stuffing them into a large envelope. This has now grown ready to burst, and after emptying the heap of pencil notes upon my study table I have tried to assimilate and reproduce them. I cannot, however, transform this papery jumble into a severely connected record. Thus, if any one cares to be my reader, I must ask him to forgive me for the discursive and colloquial shape of my attempt; for, after all, I must offer the fruit of my observation much as it was gathered. My first impression was, perhaps, of the nearness of the East of London to the West. The East is, to many who dwell in the West, an unknown distant land. Anything beyond the City is indefinitely remote. I lived close to the Langham Hotel, and on the occasion of my first taking Sunday duty at St. George's I hailed a crawling cab in Portland Place and drove there. To my surprise it landed me at

the gate of my new church in twenty-eight minutes. Of course, it being Sunday, the streets were clear, but I had not urged the driver to any special speed. The next week I got the jailor at the Marlborough Street police-court to go over my course with the fatal wheel which decides the disputes between cabmen and their 'fares.' The distance from the Oxford Street Circus to the iron gate of the church at St. George's in the East turned out to be something under four miles - a verdict which several cabmen have since heard with much professional affectation of scepticism; but on my informing them of my authority they have shown by their acquiescence that they had drawn upon their faith in the vaguely exaggerated public conceptions of the remoteness of the East in attempting to decline half-a-crown for the journey. It is not, however, the actual distance so much as the throng in the City which divides the East of London from the West. By day Westminster and Whitechapel are, so to speak, on the opposite sides of a thick wood; but at night, or when the road is clear, they are easily joined by a half-hour's drive. The railways, from whichever side they approach it, as yet only empty themselves into the rim round the centre of London; and thus they have hitherto done little toward bringing the suburbs together. Wherever you alight there is the same dense core to be penetrated and passed through before an opposite terminus can be reached. Presently, however, there will be one connecting line between at least the East and West. The East London Railway, which runs through the old Thames Tunnel and is burrowing under the London Docks, will, by striking into the Great Eastern Low Level, meet the extension of the Metropolitan at Liverpool Street, and thus provide a new way through part of the parishes of Bethnal Green, Stepney, and St. George's in the East, from Paddington to the Sydenham district, and so on to Brighton. This will of course immensely benefit us Easterners. Now we have no wholly unimpeded road westward but the river. This in summer-time provides a cheap and pleasant access to Westminster by the Greenwich boats which call at various piers above the Tower. After all, however, the East is very much farther from the West than the West is from the East.

When I lived near the line of Regent Street, I intended for years to make an expedition to the Ratcliff Highway; but I was deterred, I imagine, chiefly by the supposed length of the trip. Now that I live near the Highway I find that I can get easily, by three or four routes, to my old neighbourhood in from half an hour to forty-five minutes. The second general impression I received of the East of London was in respect to its spaciousness. Anyone may perceive this who penetrates and then traverses the City from the West, and after passing the 'Butcher's Row' at Aldgate enters on either of the broad thoroughfares, traversed by trains, which are called the Commercial Road or the Mile End Road. These, shortly after leaving the City, become two of the widest streets in London, and the pavement in the Mile End Road in particular is proportionately as wide as the roadway. They are characteristic of the East, and branching off from them on either side may be seen long tributaries of modest houses, many, I may say most of them, only two stories high, in which rent is low and where the tenants get plenty of elbow-room. The Mile End Road dies out into the country - which, by the way, involves Epping Forest - with a growing fringe of villas; and the Commercial Road justifies its name more and more as it goes on and reveals, by the masts of the ships in the docks, its connection with the maritime commerce of London. To recur to that part of the East which is daily before me, and which lies immediately on the right of the Commercial Road after passing Whitechapel. It eminently impresses me with the sense of spaciousness. In this my present parish presents a remarkable contrast to the district in which I had worked for some years. There my church was jammed up so tightly in the centre of a crowd of courts that a stranger walking down Berwick Street, at the bottom of which it was placed, might traverse nearly the whole street and come away without suspecting that it contained a church at all. Here the church dominates - in a material sense - the whole parish, and has a disused church yard of some three acres at its foot, or, rather, heel. There, at St. Luke's, we had a densely crowded population. That of the Berwick Street division of St. James's, Westminster, has been stated in published statistics to be the most crowded in the metropolis. My reader may believe me or not,

but I am speaking the truth when I tell him that we had 10,000 people in 300 yards square. Here the streets are wider, the houses are less closely packed together, and poor people especially have more room. There, an artisan in the receipt of good wages is frequently obliged to content himself with one apartment, which serves for all purposes, and for which he pays some five or six shillings aweek. Here he can get a whole house of four rooms, with a commodious yard at its back, for about the same sum. Many people entertain a vaguely erroneous idea of the crowded 'slums' of the East. For the worst or most frequent specimens of 'slums' they should go to some parts of central London, or even some portions of St. James's, Westminster, and its contiguous parishes. Of course there are not a few vile corners and courts in the East; but, on the whole, the working classes are much better lodged here at St. George's than in those parts of the West of which I know most. And our neighbouring parishes of Stepney and Limehouse have fewer crowded corners than we have. Then, too - I speak of the districts which skirt the river - an enormous sense of space is afforded by the docks. These give us, moreover, something beyond a sense of space - a touch of catholicity or cosmopolitanism which is hard to be defined, though very real. It was a new sensation to me when walking down a street to see its whole width gradually filled up by, say, a full-rigged tea-ship from China, which, after months of plunging in tropical seas, was now creeping through the last few yards of its progress to some calmest nook within the docks, and, like a monster vessel in a play, crossed the stage silently with even keel. All sorts of ships thus traverse St. George's, and, as may be supposed, contribute to the stream in its streets as well as to the crowd in its waters. You hear many languages on its pavements, and see men in all colours of skin and dress. This passing contact and contrast of races, this mixture of land and water, of homely trucks and foreign traders, of horse-vans and steam-vessels; the tier of huge ocean-going ships, brought so close to the shore that can touch their long black sides you with your stick or umbrella as you pace the edge of the docks, produces that sentiment of proximity to the ends of the world of which I have spoken, and which adds to the sense of space that characterises this part of the East of London. And I must remark, in passing, that this evidence of relationship with other parts of the earth seems to me to have its effect on the wits of the residents in St. George's.

Education has been somewhat neglected here - more of this presently - but the people are, it strikes me, eminently shrewd and colloquially intelligent. Their acquaintance with distant commerce must, I think, account for a certain freedom from that local exclusiveness of sentiment and information which characterises many dense communities. Fresh points are given to the many-sided sharpness of London life by familiarity with distant interests. Another phase of spaciousness appears in the interest which many of the working classes here take in the keeping of animals. I do not now refer to Mr. Jamrach, whose beasts are my parishioners though the fact of St. George's being notoriously the central market of the world for lions, bears, tigers, elephants, monkeys, and parrots, must create a sentiment of cosmopolitanism among those who can hear them howl and chatter - but to tamer tastes, exhibited in the possession of pigeons, fowls, and dogs. I appreciated the opportunities for this myself, and, being fond of most live things, soon had a company of cocks and hens, which resulted in abundance of fresh eggs throughout the year... [There's a lengthy digression here about the Rev. Jones' fowls and dogs which has been omitted.] There is a sentiment of elbow-room and manifold life at St. George's which is felt and reflected by its natives. Not that they do not work, and work hard. No one can live in the East without perceiving this. Life has a very severe and importunate side in these parts. The air is heavily charged with the sentiment of toil, and there is little to stir it. We seem not only to be always at work, but we hardly ever have a glimpse of the unoccupied side of London life. Every one appears either to have something to do or to be seeking work. I except, of course, the phase of relaxation, often grossly offensive, exhibited by sailors ashore, who crowd as much coarse indulgence as possible into the few hours at their disposal. Otherwise, all are obviously about some business. No one dreams of a carriage airing in this part of the East. Here I have never seen a coachman in a wig, or a footman in powder. I have never met a lady on horseback, or a 'Victoria;' and, though we go much about on foot, such a luxury as a crossing-sweeper is unknown. I tax my memory but I do not recollect ever to have seen a 'Punch' at St. George's. As I think about it I perceive that here the strain of work and sentiment of toil is continuous. It is unbroken by the exhibition of equipages and pleasure seekers that marks the 'London Season.' Here our only 'seasons' are summer and winter. We are hot or

cold, but we are always at work. September is marked by no difference in the aspect of our streets. We have no fixed busy time, for all times are the same. We do not know when London is 'full' or 'empty,' When Parliament meets or disperses. The only annual event which makes a distinct impression on the neighbourhood is the Cambridge and Oxford boat-race. Then the smallest little draper's shop down the loneliest and dullest street breaks out in blue ribands, and the van horses toiling up Old Gravel Lane from the Docks wear their colour. The papers tell those who please to read such information, of Gun Clubs, Polo Clubs, Four-in Hand Gatherings, Lord's Cricket-matches, Garden Parties, Annual Exhibitions, and all the machinery of pleasure and play, whose wheels are set going from Easter till August, but no echo of this yearly stir reaches us here. We live much from hand to mouth. Every farthing has to be earned, and a sixpence is severely perceived to be worth six pennies. True there is some pretext for relaxation associated with Victoria Park and the Bethnal Green Museum, but here we sorely want some mollifying influence, some commentary of ornament. The strain of toil is too importunate. An illustration of the general acceptance of the prevailing necessity of work in these parts appears in the use that is made of the big bell of our church - a use of it which, I fancy, would not be tolerated in the West of London. The parish is proud of its peal of bells. There are eight of them, and at a little distance, or on Sunday before service, they sound well; though practices and rehearsals fill every room, within the radius of some hundred yards or so, with a tremendous din. We have, too, a sonorous clock, which chimes the quarters and strikes the hours with a will. Besides ordinary marking of time by the clock, the curfew is regularly rung; and so is the morning alarum. St. George's is the only place I know of in which the curfew fulfils some of its original purpose. Directly the clock has done striking eight it tolls for a quarter of an hour; and I am informed that it gives the signal for the cessation of work and the turning-off of the gas in divers workshops. But the tolling of the day is preeminently in the morning. Then the big bell is rung for fifteen minutes before six, with irregular clang. Sometimes a few strokes are less vigorous than others, but they are never equidistant, and they are always strong. The purpose of this peal or metal monologue is not so much to herald the hour at which work should begin as to awaken the workers, and as it has been so rung for years by the same man he has become an expert in the business. The

sleeping ear might survive an even unvarying sound, such as the striking of a clock, but it could hardly outsleep the strain of our alarum. Did Mr. Fleming, our awakener, toll the bell with the same regularity and force as that which announces the hour, I believe that many might sleep through the summons, though he sounded it for a quarter of an hour. It is remarkable how soon the ear learns to accommodate itself to a recurrent sound, when it is simply and evenly repeated. But Mr. Fleming knows better than merely to reproduce his message. He never precisely repeats his morning performance; sometimes he tolls rapidly and loudly for a minute, then pausing for some fifty seconds, he gives a couple of clangs which seem to discharge an accumulated store of sound. Then, after another silence, he lets off an other big bang; to wait again during a parenthesis which is broken by a score of strokes, that increase in loudness, and crowd so closely on each other, that one wonders how he can get the heavy clapper to obey his tugs with sufficient rapidity. But his great and expiring effort arrives when the chimes begin to precede the striking of six o'clock. Then, stimulated by the additional perception that he can produce a discord as well as a noise, he pulls with a will, and produces a tocsin so complicated and vehement, that if the sleeper has outslept even the summons of the previous fifteen minutes, he must awake, at least if he lives anywhere near the church. My house adjoins it. Its tower is so close that I can hear the rattle of the rope and the groan of the wheel before each metal 'boom.' And when the last stroke of six has been struck in a storm of accompanying clangour from the heavy alarum bell, the air long remains filled with an angry hum, as if the emperor of all the hornets was flying around the room. And this is done summer and winter, wet and dry. No wonder, if I have not finally contracted a habit of early rising, that I frequently find myself in my study at six o'clock. Here, in this tocsin, this alarum, which is meant to be intolerable, and so borne with, we have remarkable witness to the general acceptance of the necessity of work in these parts. A great feature of the business here is cartage. The goods brought into dock from over the seas are incessantly being dispersed by wheel and axle. When the tocsin ceases you presently begin to hear a dull, distant rumble of wheels as the vans start for their day's work.

Barring the bells, however, which really represent 'noise' only to those who live close to them, this, though a populous and busy part of London, is tolerably quiet. The rectory, which stands a little off the street, is remarkably free from the usual London noises. Though I can discern the dull grind of wheels down Cannon Street Road, most of our vehicles move slowly. They are heavily laden. There is hardly any of the sharp penetrating rattle which is made by swift carriages and cabs; and the disturbance, lasting into the small hours of the morning, created by a contiguous late 'party' in the season is, of course, unknown. The route of the Blackwall Railway, which traverses the parish, is distantly indicated by its whistles, but I hear little of the trains. Late at night, when the public-houses are emptied, there is an accession of shouts and singing, mostly from sailors abusing their liberty ashore by getting more or less drunk. But, curiously enough, to us this clamour seems to come from the church, which ' corners' on the rectory. The west front of its tower catches and reflects the noises that arise from the street. When I first heard these I fancied that some riotous party had made its way into the churchyard, but I soon found that they were strictly the echoes of that nocturnal dissipation \vhich may be heard everywhere in the neighbourhood of publicans, especially when they turn their customers out of doors. There is another sound, too, which is more constant in the evenings, and which for a long time I could not make out. I thought several times that somebody had upset a chair or table in the next room but one. It was as if a visitor was announcing his call by kicking intermittently at the outer gate with his shoes off. At last I found that these dull thuds came from a covered skittle-alley some fifty yards off. What I heard was that from the successful shots of the players. The sounds we hear are, however, altogether less than what one might expect from Ratcliff Highway. Most of the other streets are usually quiet enough, the liquor houses being chiefly congregated in our main thoroughfares. As to the street organs and bands which plague the West End, I cannot say that I have heard one while sitting indoors at St. George's. There are a few to be met with sometimes, but very few. I seem never to hear them. Nor is there anything like the commercial row which costermongers used to make under my windows a few yards from Portland Place. There they incessantly proceeded, two to a barrow, day after day, offering onions, rhubarb, what not, in a yell, hour after hour, without

ever, as far as I could perceive, meeting with any response to their tremendous proposals. Here, too, we have no roaring liars or frozen-out gardeners. Indeed, barring the bells, our chief household noises arise from our own cocks and hens, which record their domestic events with more cackling than I ever heard in connection with them. The vividness with which these are heard says much for the general quiet of our surroundings. When I am saying the daily morning service in the church hard by, I can distinctly note the advertisement of another egg... [Another digression about his dogs follows and has been omitted.] TRADES AND INDUSTRIES I SUPPOSE there is no part of London without its special trade or manufacture. Some callings, associated with constant immediate and universal demand - such as those of the baker, butcher, and publican - are, of course, spread evenly over the whole of the metropolis. Daily bread, meat and drink, must be easily accessible. But with the exception of bread, I am (for the moment) at a loss to think of anything in large and constant use which is not produced at special centres of industry, and then widely dispersed. This dispersal from the centres is continuous and conspicuous. But your baker is generally local, he goes mostly on foot; or if he has two wheels, drags his own load, and produces behind his shop the commodity which he sells. Meanwhile his neighbours - the butchers, grocers, linendrapers and publicans of his district - bring their goods from a distance. With some partial exceptions the articles in commonest demand are manufactured wholesale, and then distributed to be retailed. It would, however, be difficult to determine the causes of the selection of various parts of London for the production or storage of some articles of commerce. There is historical cause for the presence of silk-weavers in Bethnal Green and Spitalfields. Possibly there may be some equally good reason for the prevalence of watchmakers in Clerkenwell. The chemical manufactories at Bow were placed there I suppose, originally, to be beyond the range of the metropolitan nose. The crowd of minutely precise trades, such as those of dressing-case makers, hand bookbinders, engravers, &c. &c., located in Soho, are probably drawn there by the high pressure of the demand for the

immediate supply of artificial wants which characterises the region of shops that minister to condensed and luxurious civilisation. Soho exhibits the fringe of skilled high class manual workers which has floated up from the centre and East of London towards the long-pursed territory of the West. The neighbourhood of the River and the Docks displays the paraphernalia of the sea and shore. Slops and sextants, deck-boots and telescopes, are offered in what, to an outsider, appears a superfluous abundance along the bank of the Thames east of the Tower. There, too, may be found rope-walks and sail-lofts. Many of the manufactures and trades associated with seafaring life are carried on in our part of the city. They are indeed common to all seaports; but of these London is the largest, and thus they abound among us. Sugar bakeries In or near to St. George's, however, we provide things for which there is the widest and narrowest market. If anyone were to ask me what were the two articles most characteristic of the commerce of this neighbourhood, I should say sugar and wild beasts. We are, or rather were, conspicuous for our bakeries of sugar; and we hope we shall be again. Out of some five-and-twenty in the whole of London and its suburbs, you might count the chimneys of more than two-thirds from the tower of our church; and the factory which produces the best English loaf sugar stands within a few hundred yards of the church gate. The raw material is landed hard by, in a shape unattractive to any but flies and greedy little boys, who cannot keep their hands from picking at anything sweet however coarse, and, especially after school hours, buzz round any sugary waggon in which there is a leaky parcel. Hereabouts we have transformed the coarsest brown stuff into loaf sugar. But this trade is now very much depressed. Indeed, there are some who think it wellnigh destroyed. I am informed that in 1864 there were twenty-three producers of loaf sugar in London. Since then their trade has shrunk very seriously. A short time ago I believe only three survived, and the chief of them, in St. George's in the East, has ceased operations in the course of this year. The action of the French Government in encouraging, chiefly by a bonus, the exportation of home made sugar, has, at present, made it impossible for the British manufacturers to compete with the French. But as this advantage is given to a special branch of industry in France by the taxing of its whole nation, it is to be hoped that

French eyes will be opened to the matter, and that the cloud will pass away from the British trade. Especially is this desired at St. George's in the East, for, as I have said, sugar refining is, perhaps, the most 'conspicuous' trade of these parts. I have thus let my reference to it stand uncorrected, though at present our furnaces are cold. Jamrach's In respect to the other article to which I have referred as characteristic of the trade of St. George's, and which may be considered peculiar to it, I suppose that there is no other place in the world where a domesticated parson could ring his bell and send his servant round the corner to buy a lion. Had I a domestic capable of discharging such an errand, and a proper receptacle in which to put the article when brought home, I could indulge the whim for a lion at five minutes' notice. My near neighbour, Mr. Jamrach, always keeps a stock of wild beasts on hand. Anyhow, if he happened to be out of lions, I should be sure of getting a wild beast of some sort at his store. A little time ago one of our clergy, who knows of almost everything going on in the parish, happened to remark to me that Mr. Jamrach's stock was low. He had just looked in, and the proprietor said he had nothing particularly fresh then, only four young elephants and a camelopard, beside the usual supply of mon keys, parrots, and such small deer. The wild beasts are kept in Betts Street, within a bow shot of my door, but the shop in Ratcliff Highway is always full of parrots and other birds. The attitudes and gestures of those exposed for sale are always curious and sometimes comical. I was much struck the other day with the pose and expression of a posse of owls on view. They sat side by side full of thoughtful silent wisdom, with just a twinkle of possible humour in their eyes, like judges in banco; while in an oblong recess within the shop beyond them there were twenty-four large and perfectly white cockatoos standing in two precise rows, shoulder to shoulder, and giving out their best notes, exactly like a surpliced choir. In another room were two thousand parroquets flying loosely about, or clustering like flies upon the window frames in ineffectual attempts to get out. The incessant flutter of this multitude of captives filled the air of the apartment so thickly with tiny floating feathers that they settled on our coats like flakes of snow. We came out powdered. The twitter in the room was, of course, incessant and importunate. There is a great demand for talking parrots. Mr. Jamrach always has orders in his

books for more than he can supply. The parrots kept in stock are all young and unlearned. They look like the rest, but education marks the difference in the world of birds as in that of men. The selling value of wild beasts varies very much. You must pay about £200 for a royal tiger, and £300 for an elephant, while I am informed you may possibly buy a lion for £70, and a lioness for less. But a firstrate lion sometimes runs to a high figure, say even £300. Ourang-outangs come to £20 each, but Barbary apes range from £3 to £4 apiece. Mr. Jamrach, however, keeps no priced catalogue of animals, but will supply a written list of their cost if needed. He does not, moreover, 'advertise,' so much as royally 'announce' his arrivals. Certain papers in London, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna, occasionally contain a bare statement that such and such beasts and birds are at 'Jamrach's,' no address being given. He has customers in all the Zoological Museums in Europe, and the Sultan has been one of the largest buyers of his tigers and parrots. Once, some long time ago, a disastrous and distressing accident happened in connection with this store of wild beasts. One of the tigers in transit escaped from his cage in the neighbourhood of the Commercial Road. Finding himself free, he picked up a little boy and walked off with him, intending probably, when he found a convenient retreat, to eat him. Of course, the spectacle of a tiger walking quietly along with a little boy in his mouth (he had him only by the collar) attracted the notice of residents and wayfarers. Presently the bravest spectator, armed with a crowbar, approached the tiger, and striking vehemently and blindly at him, missed the beast and killed the boy. The tiger was then secured. Mr. Jamrach has great and, I suppose one might say, mystic power with beasts. His business, though, is not confined to the animals of the earth and the air. You may find curious products of the water in Mr. Jamrach's back-room. I especially recollect a vessel of telescope fish from Shanghai, queer little creatures with eyes starting out of their heads like the horns of a snail. These were on their way to the Brighton Aquarium. Besides the store of birds, beasts, and fishes, there is a collection of all sorts of heterogeneous things from all parts of the world -armour, china, inlaid furniture, shells, idols, implements of savage warfare, and what not. Mr. Jamrach not only collects in comparative detail, but does not overlook the promising purchase of a whole museum. Some time ago he brought one in the lump from Paris.

No wonder that the Ratcliff Highway is visited by many with money in their pockets for the purchase of antiquities and curiosities. From. what I have seen I fancy that sometimes a good judge of these things can pick up a bargain here. Beside that of Mr. Jamrach's, we have divers shops for the sale of birds, especially parrots, and I imagine that many a sailor turns his collection of foreign curiosities into money within the limits of St. George's. London and St. Katharine's Docks Of course, one main feature of the catholicity which I have noticed as characterising the trade of these parts is exhibited in the London and St. Katharine's Docks, which are situated mainly in the parish of St. George's. People must be impressed with a sense of things being done on a large scale, when we have in one cellar six acres, of port, sherry, and madeira, and under one roof 6o,ooo large casks of brandy, worth on an average, say, some £70 apiece. Besides the cellar just mentioned, there are eight others, not so large, but immense. I believe that almost all the wine that enters the port of London pauses here, and most of the brandy. The greater portion of the rum is received in the West India Docks. Of course, with such alcoholic temptations and opportunities, the greatest care is exercised to employ none but trustworthy men. Sometimes, however, appetite gets the better of conscience in the dock attendants. On one occasion this appetite was terribly avenged in the case of a greedy subordinate, who thrusting his head into a newly opened vessel of spirits with the intention of a drunken gulp, was thus choked and killed. The most strenuous pains are taken to prevent official intemperance. Indeed, I am informed that to be drunk on duty involves an ipso facto excommunication of any servant, however long he may have served, or however good his previous character. The question does not arise whether he shall be discharged; if he transgresses he discharges himself. The vaults or cellars in which the wine is stored are accounted one of the sights of London. They are, however, no more to be appreciated by a visit than London itself, inasmuch as the whole of a cellar cannot possibly be seen at once. You are provided with a round squat lamp at the end of a short flat stick, like a spoonful of fire, and are tramped, if you please, through miles of under ground streets, on either sides of which are piles of casks. In the largest vault - which, like others, has its

countless alleys laid with iron rails on which the casks are rolled - I am informed that they altogether reach the incredible distance of twenty-one miles. The alleys are, however, narrow. While in the midst of them you see only a little at a time. All along the route the ceiling is black with fungus, like that which is supposed to distinguish and commend a bottle of old port. Here wine is racked and blended. Great funnels like jellybags are filled with, say, port, which trickles brightly down from the tips of the bags, leaving the lees behind it. And very nasty they look. Talking of unpleasant looking material in connection with eating and drinking, I may remark that the sugar, molasses, and treacle stores in the Docks are anything but appetising. One day I was walking through the huge sheds on the ground floor where all this sweetstuff is lodged, and saw a parcel of men scraping the floor with hoes, much in the same way as the scavengers do the streets. And the mud they scraped up was very black. On my asking what they did with it, one of the superintendents told me it was going to be made into lollipops. Looking further, one could see many casks filled with this uninviting substance. However, whether it passes through the processes of the sugar refinery or not, the saccharine matter in the mess is made up into shapes nice-looking enough to children. Nothing is wasted from which sweets can be made. There is, though, one form of waste here which seems to me needless. One day I was standing on the church steps, and became conscious of what seemed to be an unusual descent of huge smuts. The air was full of them. They spotted the church path and the street. It was a fall of black snow. I never saw such a murky downpour. We asked one another whence these dark flakes came. No chimney in the neighbourhood seemed to be smoking enough to account for them, and indeed they were unlike the usual London smuts. Presently, I found that they came from the Queen's Pipe, as it is called - a fierce furnace in which contraband tobacco is destroyed, and which just then was engaged in the destruction of some condemned tea. The atmosphere was still, and the result of this incremation powdered the neighbourhood. One of the Queen's Pipes - for there are two or three - is in the middle of St. George's, and such of my readers as are smokers can understand the pathetic air with which the man who tends it once told me he had consumed in a single smoking bout some five or six thousand pounds of shag tobacco. 'And ever so many cigarettes and cigars,' he added. I asked him, in reference to the black storm I have mentioned, how he ever came to burn so much tea, and why it made such smuts? ' Tea, Sir,' he said, 'is a numb-burning thing; one can't get the fire

into it.' That which is destroyed is such as has been mildewed, or is so bad that it is not worth having the duty paid on it. This, I am told, goes into the Queen's Pipe; but we use our own pipe seldom now. The Docks abound with rats, and an army of about three hundred cats is employed to keep them down. Besides these you find dogs. Some little time ago I came on a famous one with her litter of puppies, close by the 'bowl' of our Queen's Pipe. Her owner volunteered a record of some of her performances in the rat-killing way, and fondly enumerated the number she had slain. But, like a true Englishman, he had his grievance. I learned that the Company does not pay for or provide the keep of the dogs, while it seems to be at the expense of extensive orders for cat's meat. I should have thought dogs would have needed food, while cats could have kept themselves. Some of these dogs are very sharp. I was one day walking through the Docks with my big black retriever, 'Jem,' when he was furiously attacked by a cur just outside the Brandy Delivery Office. Poor Jem is always unlucky in these encounters, since he is never prepared for an assault, and indeed is hopelessly penetrated with the belief that his size, weight, and general respectability of appearance ought to protect him. On this occasion he had been much exercised by the investigation of a quantity of treacle which had escaped on the quay from some burst cask, and which he was quite unable to analyse or account for. He had obviously met with nothing really resembling it before. It looked like some of the results obtained in connection with the killing of a pig, and as such he thought it well worth pausing to examine, but it made his nose and paws sticky. Thus he could not bring his mind to realise the charge of a dog much smaller than himself and expressed his concern at the sudden change of the subject by tumbling over on his back and howling shame fully. Beside the dogs and cats, there are men who get their living by clearing freshly unladen ships of rats. I believe that the charge for ratting a ship is £1. The rats are taken alive, and then sold for 2d. apiece to such as find amusement in killing them with dogs. As a couple of hundred rats are sometimes caught in one ship, the contracting catcher occasionally makes a good thing out of it. Besides wine and brandy we land huge stores of ivory. In the early part of this year the result of discoveries of old accumulations of tusks by Livingstone made its appearance in a display of them,

which at one sale realised, it is said, some £70,000. Divers of them were pronounced to be hundreds of years old. They covered a huge floor, and buyers came from all parts to secure them. The wind is watched with much concern here by the dock-labourers, since upon it depends the due arrival of the ships, by the unlading of which they live. After a spell of east wind, which detains vessels in the Channel, the Docks are remarkably bare, while on its shifting, especially into the west, our waters are crowded as if by magic. And then the work presses. All sorts of cargoes, special and general, need to be bundled out as soon as the big ocean-going ships have crept slowly to their places alongside the quays. From my study-window I can see them, or at least their masts, towering above the roofs of some of the houses in the Ratcliff Highway, and moving towards their final berths, one after another, with a motion which from a little distance is hardly perceptible. What a change from some portions of their course! Talking of the arrival of ships and the diversities of sentiment in their voyage, I happened to be in the Docks when the 'Jefferson Borden' came in, on board of which a famous or infamous mutiny occurred on the high seas in April last. She was an American three-masted fore and aft schooner, deep in the water, being heavily laden with oilcake, which seemed to have saturated her deck. Indeed it was so greasy that I noticed several persons who traversed it carelessly slip down and have severe falls, which called forth an unsympathising laugh from the fringe of rough spectators who were not allowed to tread her planks. When she came alongside the quay I stepped on board. There, in the deck-house, lay the mutineers, wounded and ironed, with the marks around them of the bullets from the revolver with which the captain had protected his wife and himself. He was a quiet, slim, gentle spoken man, with a brown beard, and I had some conversation with him. The ship seemed certainly to have been undermanned, since there were only four men who, properly speaking, constituted the crew. Besides them were two mates, one the brother and the other the cousin of the captain; and a steward, cook, and boy. One night three of the crew, after having gagged the boy, fell upon the two mates, killed and threw them overboard. Then one, a Finn, tried to entice the captain out of his cabin but the captain missing his mates, and seeing that the man had something in his hand behind him - really the cruel iron bar with which the captain's. brother had just been murdered - declined to come out till he had provided himself with a revolver. Then came the terrible time in which the captain, first with pistolshots, which had plainly pitted the outside of the deck-house, drove the men within its shelter, and on their refusing to surrender, eventually fired into it upon them till they submitted to thrust their

hands out of a little window in its. side and be ironed. As I stood there the Thames Police swarmed in, and with stretchers and stern tenderness carried them off to the London Hospital. At that moment another ship came in, with a crew of negroes, and made fast alongside the American. They soon crowded the rigging, or peered over the bulwarks, to see the wounded mutineers borne off, thus witnessing one phase of a Nemesis which I could not help thinking, probably with injustice, set a grim lesson to as unpleasant countenanced a set of companions as any skipper ever found himself at sea with. But I dare say they were docile enough. I was, indeed, struck with the example presented in the landing of these mutineers, of the severity in judgment which sometimes pursues failure, or accompanies a sordid appearance. 'Did you ever see three such rascally fellows?' said a spectator to me, as the wounded murderers were being carried ashore. They were ill-looking, sure enough; but if you were to take the three Graces and dress them in tarpaulins, and shut them up in a pigsty, and shoot their legs full of bullets, and tie their hands together, and lay them uncombed and unwashed on their backs for ten days, they would look, to say the least of it, ugly when drawn out into the sunshine. Pain and fear chiefly marked these poor fellows, though they were grievous malefactors. One of them cried out piteously as he was handed up the dock side. Their landing was a sad item of experience in that chance walk of mine along the quays. The Docks are, however, an endless source of entertainment and instruction to anyone gifted with the least share of curiosity or observatiion, and I must have a little more chat about them before I pass on to some other prominent features in the trade of these parts. It is difficult to realise the amount of labour and wealth represented by the square plantations of bare masts upon which we can look down from the summit of our church tower. They show like woods or copses in the map of the estate of London. In a much fuller and more accurate sense than that in which the phrase is generally used, the Docks are a world in themselves, since they represent every corner of the earth into which British enterprise has thrust itself. Those dull piles of white brick warehouses, which discard every sentiment of decoration, and fearlessly exhibit the ugly side of usefulness, are, within, full of tropical products and appliances and means of the most luxurious beauty and sumptuous fare. Here are stores of ivory and ebony. Here are the choicest cigars, the richest drugs, the brightest dyes, the sweetest perfumes, and the finest wines. Here are landed and hence are

dispersed the accompaniments of perhaps the costliest, most curious and exacting civilisation, and the busiest commerce to be found on the face of the globe. Here are pines from the West Indies, oranges from Seville, teas from China, masses of ice from Norway, and of marbles from. Carrara, along with spices from Ceylon and ivory from Africa. Here, on these wharves, are heaped together for the day the most unlike though equally precious products of the earth, and yet many a man in walking through them would probably carry away a very slight impression of the business being carried on around him. Take our comparatively small docks, such as the London and St. Katharine's. I say comparatively small, as there are besides them the West India, Miliwall, Surrey, &c. You perceive no bustle or prominent strain of labour within their limits, and would hardly believe that five or six thousand men are not unfrequently paid their wages at the close of the day. Their employment is, however, necessarily uncertain. The great bulk of them do not live here. Many of them - almost shiftless, without a trade, reminding one of Falstaff's recruits - come from all parts of London for the chance of a job; and if the weather has been against the progress of ships in the Channel, you may see hundreds of these would-be labourers standing all the day idle about the various entrances of the Docks. Then a shift of wind brings in a number of ships, and the whole machinery of the place is suddenly in full operation. But it works smoothly, and it is only after repeated visits that the magnitude and complexity of the business transacted can be apprehended. I am told that nothing strikes foreigners more than the quiet methodical way in which everything moves on here. There is no shouting, scolding, uproar, or excitement of any kind, as the riches of the world are unfolded or poured out. But go round the perfect little dock of St. Katharine, with its hedge of hydraulic lifts steadily disembowelling the vessels, which lie so close to the shore that you might toss a halfpenny into their holds when you look out of the top storey of the warehouse which is absorbing the cargo. Go round this little dock. Mount tier after tier of floors; see even a single shipload of coffee, consisting of about 10,000 bags or sacks, being repacked and distributed; or picture, if you can, the presence of, say, £750,000 worth of indigo - which was the value of the amount being prepared for show in a single department when I went over it one day - and you will begin to perceive the largeness of the work in these parts, and admire the quietness with which it is carried on. It must be remembered, however, that the surroundings of this dock represent but a small proportion of the storageroom used for merchandise in St. George's alone. After writing these lines

I happened, on my way down to the Raines Schools on pastoral business, to fall in with our dock superintendent who remarked that on one side of the Old Gravel Lane down which I was walking there were deposited I am afraid to say how many thousand tons of sugar, and 6o,ooo bags of coffee on the other. It is difficult to realise these quantities, much less what they represent; for this bulk of coffee, enough one would think to keep London awake for a month, is only a passing deposit under one of divers roofs... Wapping My readers will be pleased to know that in connection with the Docks, at least with the London and St. Katharine's, there are compulsory night schools for the boys, and that well-attended readings and entertainments are given in the winter to the servants of the company. Moreover, a gradually ascending scale of salary makes the position of a well-conducted official a comfortable and encouraging one. Commodious residences are provided for many of them, and anyone who, not knowing it, fancies that Wapping is a scene of coarse toil and rude debauchery, would be surprised to see the quiet pleasant river-side square which characterises the place. This square is well planted with trees, and skirted on two sides by handsome edifices which look on the Thames. These are mostly occupied by dock officers. In respect to other residents whose presence might be objectionable, pains are taken by the vestry of Wapping to discover and suppress any disorderly house within their jurisdiction. Beside these official residences there is excellent accommodation for artisans and others, erected by the company over which Sir Sydney Waterlow presides, and there has lately been built a small Board school for their children. Altogether, Wapping is one of the most respectable and well-conducted parishes in London. Curiously enough, the Orton family never lived there. Their house, which was pulled down this summer, was situated in St. George's, which extends nearly to the riverside. It latterly seems to have been used as an eating-shop, so that, as a man standing by it one day said to me, quite seriously, visitors might be able to say that they had dined in the room where 'Sir Roger' was born - a queer mixture of confused associations. This house stood near the Wapping entrance of the London Docks, and adjoined that in which it is said Lord Nelson got his outfit when he first went to sea. Both are now demolished to make way for warehouses, which promise to displace most of the old residences by the river-side in these parts. Indeed, the High Street of Wapping is gradually being skirted by enormous piles of these buildings, and before

long few beyond the model lodging-houses of Sir Sydney Waterlow and the residences of the dock officers I have alluded to, will be left for domestic use. Hitherto this neighbourhood, though its Stairs are celebrated in song, has been supposed to be very little visited or traversed by the rest of the London world, especially the Western. Passengers by the Scotch steamboats have, however, always sailed from Wapping. And presently many residents in the West of London, especially those who live in the neighbourhood of the stations on the Metropolitan Railway, will be familiar with the railroad now rapidly approaching completion, which, running under the London Docks and cutting through St. George's and Wapping, will take them (possibly without change of carriage) to the Sydenham district and Brighton. This East London Railway will provide a very important outlet for the West as soon as the long-delayed work of boring under the Docks has been finished. The old Thames Tunnel already supplies a way for trains under the river, and gives access to Rotherhithe, which looks at us from the opposite bank. It is proposed also to provide a steam-ferry between the shores of the Thames at this spot. This, if provided, will be able to carry the loaded waggons which are now obliged to go round by London Bridge, some mile and a half off.. As it is, I generally like to cross by a wherry, which provides a pleasant change from the usual modes of locomotion in London and in this case, when the place to be reached is Rotherhithe, affords the quickest, most obvious, though sometimes the least conventional means of access. The first time I went to dine with my old acquaintance, the rector of that parish - who is indeed, a near neighbour, though the Thames lies between us - I landed on the beach, not far from his house, among a parcel of naked natives, like Captain Cook. It was high summer and low tide, and half the boys of Rotherhithe were bathing there... Emigrants at Blackwall Pier The Blackwall Pier is, I think, the best from which the Londoner may see the traffic of the Thames. It is certainly reached by a railway which has some of the dirtiest and shabbiest stations and carriages to be found anywhere, and thus the contrast presented when the door of the Blackwall Terminus has been passed is the more striking. You exchange in a moment its dingy interior for the view of a grand bend in the river, alive with a crowd of red-sailed barges and other craft, through which a few big ships proceed slowly, like oxen among sheep. To the right the masts of the vessels in the West

India and Miliwall Docks show like a larch plantation in the winter time. Both ways there is a long view down the Thames. This spot was once chosen as a likely site for a temple of whitebait, but the hotel is now converted into an Emigrant Depot. With its bow-windows commanding a finer prospect than 'The Ship' at Greenwich, it is now a hive of swarming emigrants, at least just before each shipload of them is despatched. The large balconied dining-room has exchanged the 'purple and fine linen' of its white cloths and coloured wineglasses for a number of plain bare deal tables. I must say a word about this, as it is indeed in some measure characteristic of the business that goes on at this end of London. Not only are we in contact with the uttermost parts of the earth by means of the merchandise which we receive from thence, but this depot is our door of departure for New Zealand. I have frequently to sign the papers of those who sail hence. The first day I visited it the dining-room was filled with a crowd of hungry emigrants waiting for dinner, and the air with the odour of its advent. They sat in messes of eight or ten, to each of which was a captain, who kept his nose steadily pointed towards the door through which the smell came. Presently a signal was given, and each disappeared, receiving a ticket as he passed out. With this he descended to the kitchen, returning in a minute or two, mostly grinning, and bearing a large brown oval dish, divided in the middle. One half was filled with roast-beef and the other with potatoes. There was enough and to spare for all. 'They waste a lot,' said one of the officials. But I don't know; it seemed to be appreciated. 'Ah,' remarked a country-looking fellow to me, with his cheek bulged with a huge bite, and a twinkle in his eye, 'I wish, sir, they would let me stay here for a month.' 'Rare good victuals,' said another. 'I believe you,' added a third; 'Tain't allus we've had a bellyful of cooked meat every day.' The emigrants are fed and taken to New Zealand free of charge, excepting £1 each for 'beddingmoney' for those over twelve, and 10s. each for those under that age. I was struck with the air of confidence displayed by most. They were leaving the old country with less regret than I liked to see, though some of the elders looked sad. The majority were labourers. The officials told me that on the arrival of the ship at its destination they were for some time lodged in a depot free of expense, but that they were generally engaged at once, or soon fetched away by friends.

The sleeping arrangements at the depot prepare the emigrants for their inevitable crowding on board-ship. The married couples have each a berth to themselves, but dozens of these sleep in what would be called, on shore, the same apartment. Their discomfort, to use the mildest word, especially during the first week of the voyage, must be extreme. The single men and women are of course kept scrupulously apart, and their berths, especially those of the former - which were 22 inches wide, and separated by a wooden division some 6 inches high - looked unpleasant enough. However, free carriage and food can hardly be expected to be luxurious. Some of the men wore red-carpet slippers, which were an odd finish to an earth-stained suit of fustian or corduroy. Divers, however, had on their 'Sunday' clothes. The vessels are fine-looking and roomy. But the 'roominess' of a ship, like that of any other place, is comparative, being determined by the number it is made to hold. Several of them were waiting their turn in the Docks hard by, and sticking their bowsprits over the quays in that long masted line which fringes the land in these parts, and to which the dirty Blackwall Railway ministers with incessant trains. The depot associated with this at Plymouth sends emigrants to Sydney, Adelaide, and New Zealand. This at Blackwall is a point of embarkation for New Zealand alone, and has seen the departure of seventeen thousand emigrants from May 11th, 1874, to August 7th in this year, which gives an average of more than a thousand a month. I found divers Scotch and German families awaiting the next ship. It looks as if New Zealand were filling up fast, since this is only part of the human stream which is incessantly being poured into it from Europe.

More Revelations of Bethnal Green Excerpt from an article in "The Builder", vol. XXI, no. 1082 (31st October 1863). Notwithstanding all that has been said on the subject elsewhere as well as in our own pages, the horrible condition in which a vast population are living is not yet understood and realized by the public. Nothing short of a personal examination, indeed, under proper guidance, can convey a complete idea of it. We must endeavour, however, by bringing the pencil to the aid of the pen, to make the facts a little clearer, and to urge on the authorities the absolute necessity for immediate steps with a view to bringing about a better state of things. Some of these steps, moreover, are quite practicable and not difficult... We have recently again carefully examined a considerable part of the district [of Bethnal Green], including Grey Eagle-street, and the courts at the back of it, Phoenix-street, Nichol-street and its courts, Old Nichol-street, Half Nichol-street, and others. With few exceptions, each room contains a separate family; some consisting of mother, father, and eight children. The first two adjoining houses that we looked into, of six rooms each, contained forty-eight persons. To supply these with water, a stream runs for ten or twelve minutes each day, except Sunday, from a small tap at the back of one of the houses. The struggle for it is sometimes great: the means of storage are very small. The result is, as in other places mentioned by us again and again, that on Sunday there is seldom a drop of water to be found, and this of itself leads to a whole train of evils. The houses are, of course, ill-ventilated. The front room in the basement, wholly below the ground, dark and damp, is occupied, at a cost of 2s. a week for rent. We tried our old test on the first two women seen standing at the doors. "How many children have you?" "Four," was the reply of the first of them. "Have you lost any?" "Five, and there is one inside given over by the doctor." The second had two living and had lost three. Many of the houses are in a dangerous state structurally, and some have been condemned under the Building Act. Here is the description the inspector of nuisances gave of these when he went to the magistrate at Worship-street on the subject. He said each room contained a man and his wife and six or seven children. The whole were filthy and dilapidated; the party-wall between Nos.20 and 21 bulged at the basement to the extent of at least 2 feet, and the whole brickwork throughout was so

much fractured that it might fall at any moment. In the basement of No.20 a great quantity of the dust and house refuse had not been removed for fourteen years, and formed a mound, through which a pathway had been made, by constant treading, which led from and to the entrances at the back and front. The water for drinking perposes was derived from a small tub without a lid in the midst of this heap, but a very scanty supply was furnished, it not being on much more than twenty minutes at a time. There was no efficient drainage to take off the waste water, so that the basements were saturated by it, and pools of stagnant water collected in the yards, which were unpaved, and contained a quantity of putrid vegetables, that had not been removed for a long time! In George's-street three children have died in one house, and the rest of the family have been made ill, through the badness of the drainage and the want of pure air. The occupation of the underground rooms here, as well as elsewhere, is illegal, and may at once be prevented. Under the Local Management Act, as our readers may remember, an underground room may not be occupied separately as a dwelling unless certain conditions are complied with, one of which is that there shall be a window of specified size, with an area before it open down to 6 inches below the floor of the room. The terms of the Act, however, have led to the belief that the duty of discovering the occupancy of such rooms rests with the district surveyor appointed under the Building Act, whose duties are entirely structural, who is quite unfit to serve as sanitary policeman, and moreover has not power under the Act to prove his case if he were to try. For the most part, therefore the Act is nugatory, - we had nearly written, with Hood, Newgatory, excepting where, as in Islington and some other parishes, the inspector of nuisances or other qualified person obtains the proof of occupancy, calls on the district surveyor for a report as to the structural deficiency only, and carries the case before a magistrate in accordance with the Act. This should at once be done in Bethnal-green, and scores of murderous dens would be shut up. It is no answer to say the inhabitants prefer to live, or (more truly) to die, in such rooms rather than meet the difficulty of finding a better room elsewhere. they must not be allowed to do so. Suicide is

not permitted; still less suicide that leads to the death of others not desiring to die, and to the pauperising of a still larger number, who must be maintained by the more sensible and provident. One of the worst examples that we saw of these underground rooms we must endeavour to illustrate. It is in Nichol-street, No.59, and may be described as entirely below the surface. the window of the apartment is a little over 3 feet in width, and about the same in height; the area is even with the breadth and depth of the window. It extends from the wall about 2 feet, and was closed with an iron grating; but this having become broken, the entire top of the area has been covered with wood, so that the only means of light and ventilation is a chink 3 feet wide by 4 and a half inches in height. Passing through the passage to the back, the dilapidated condition of the premises, as may be seen in the sketch, is startling. The plaster has fallen from the walls and the ceilings, the narrow staircase is rotten and shaky, the general colour is of a dingy smoky black, with peeps of indifferent brickwork and broken laths. At the back there is a large open space, in a most filthy condition; damp refuse of all kinds is piled up against the wall; there is no supply of water; the people have "to hunt for it;" nor is there any distinct closet accommodation for this home. When looking at the wet and poisonous mound, at the ill-built wall through which the damp and unwholesome matter must weep, and seeing that in all directions similar neglect of proper scavenging is evident, we cannot but insist that it is disgraceful to the parish. But as regards the cellar, in all our experince of London destitution and awful conditions, we have seen nothing so harrowing as what there met the view. Through the narrow space of the window that is left open ther came a glimmering light, which fell upon two figures, on a broken truckle, seemingly naked, with the exception of some black rags which passed across the middle of their bodies; but the greter part of the room, small as it is, was in total darkness. Mr. Price that there were more figures visible; and on asking if any were there, a female voice replied, "Yes; here are two of us. Mother is out;" and gradually, as the eye became accustomed to the gloom two other figures were to be seen lying in a corner upon rags. This was between twelve and one o'clock in the day. we were not disposed to look further into their mystery; but it was evident that one of the unfortunates was resting close to the damp and poisonous wall. Neither words nor drawing can convey a complete idea of this den and its dense and polluted atmosphere. Instead of this place

being filled with the pure life-giving air which is needful for human existence, it seemed occupied by something tangible which might be moved and weighed. The height of the room, all of which is below the surface, is not quite 6 feet. The window would not open; the ceiling was ready to fall; and the walls, so far as the light showed, were damp and mildewed. The inmates here were a widow and her four children: one a girl twenty years of age, another girl eighteen, a boy of fourteen, and a boy of twelve. What, we ask, is to become of those unhappy creatures, reared in the dark and the dirt, and of the multitude who in this metropolis are "dragged up" under similar circumstances? For four such rooms as we have attempted to describe, there are paid on the whole 12s. a week; that is, 31l. 4s. per year. Another similar cellar, not quite so dark or so damp, we found occupied by a man and his wife and six children, aged respectively fourteen, eleven, nine, six, and four years, and one ten months. We could draw a frightful picture of what met our sight in an upper room of a neighbouring house, but it would not further our present object, which is practical and precise, - to call for a sufficient water supply; the periodical removal, at short intervals, of all refuse; and the enforcement of the law in respect of the occupancy of underground dwellings. We returned from the inspection saddened and ill. We have written of it coolly, but it was a sight to move indignation.

SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE EAST END. SCENES WITNESSED IN MILE END. BY AN EYE WITNESS. SENSATIONALISM, according to certain individuals, whose information is supposed to be absolutely trustworthy, is rapidly on the increase. Such being the case, any attempt of a writer to set forth scenes descriptive of what actually transpires in the streets of the East End at midnight may brand the scribe as an unfortunate pessimist. Strictly confining myself to the adage, "the truth requires no exaggeration," I shall at once proceed to give my experience as a lounger in the neighbourhood of Mile End, depending upon impartial observers to bear me out in any remarks I may have to make. It wanted but a very few minutes to 12 o'clock on Saturday night when I found myself stationed at the corner of Houndsditch, patiently awaiting something of an exciting nature to occupy my fertile imagination. Just as the midnight chimes solemnly proclaimed the approaching dawn of another day I was looking with considerable amusement at a party of four Jews, who were occupied as an oratorical combat of a somewhat exciting character. On making my way up to these talkative individuals, I soon learned that their argument had reference to the strike in the fur trade. From the remarks that passed, three of these gentlemen were Socialists, who expressed surprise at the manner in which "Englishmen" allowed their rights to be so shamefully "trodden under foot." Their jargon was creating quite a sensation, and yet there was no policeman near to admonish these midnight orators. Proceeding leisurely along towards Mile End Road I found plenty of material to occupy my attention until I had reached Commercial Street. On casting a hurried glance around I discovered in a doorway a suspicious-looking person, who appeared to be wrapped in the heavenly contemplation of his surroundings. Thinking that possibly this eccentric-looking individual was in some way connected with the stage (his very appearance suggested the heavy villain,) I determined to make enquiries, and so satisfy my inquisitive nature. Boldly making my way up to a detective-officer, whose face was not unknown to me, and who was engaged in a serious conversation with a constable, I asked whether the individual in the doorway was in any way connected with the police force. "Oh," answered the police officer, with a disagreeable shrug of his shoulders, "he is what is commonly

known as a vigilant man, who is practically useless for midnight work. In less than an hour he will be asleep." This august remark was evidently intended as a little sarcasm against a body of men whose work is certainly not enviable. Wishing the two officers a good night I plodded on until I reached the popular house known as the Blind Beggar. Here a crowd was assembled in hearing a dispute between a man and wife. Both were very much the worse for liquor, and they were not long before they came to serious blows. This pugilistic display lasted fully 10 minutes before a constable made his appearance, much to the disgust of the bye-standers. Leaving this not by any means edifying spectacle, I walked on to Cleveland Street where a boisterous group were singing the music-hall ditty "Drink up boys, and have a glass with me, For it isn't every day I am out upon the spree, I'm all right for I've got the £ s. d., And I mean to keep it up for I'm as happy as can be." Judging by their personal appearance they would have done far better if they had expended a few pence on having their wearing apparel overhauled, as they certainly looked very much the worse for wear. These disorderly persons were subsequently seen to parade the road, shouting at the top of their voices some song of a nauseating character without any interferences on the part of the police. From Cleveland Street right down as far as Globe Bridge I counted no less than 10 distinct parties of men, women, boys and girls, all indulging in some popular refrain. Surely the police are not altogether powerless to stop these midnight prowlers from disturbing peaceable citizens. There was one very sad sight I witnessed at Globe Road, where a dozen or so persons had assembled. A young girl, who certainly had not attained to her eighteenth year, was carrying a sickly infant in her arms. A finely built young fellow, who was considerably the worse for liquor, and who was apparently the husband of the girl, was entreated by the latter to come home. Muttering some inaudible sentence, this fine young fellow, without the slightest provocation, struck his wife a cowardly blow, and then offered to fight any one of the bystanders. This was more than mortal man could bear, and one burly-looking individual, who had every appearance of a publican, roughly seized him by the neck and proceeded to march him in the direction of home.

Another disorderly scene was taking place on Stepney Green, but strange to say there were actually three or four policemen present. Has Mr. Charrington's interference with the roughs of this neighbourhood borne good fruit? It certainly looks very much like it, and the sooner other disinterested gentlemen make complaints of midnight rowdyism, the more safe will our streets be for late pedestrians.

Extract from "Murder and Madness" by William A Hammond Published December 1888 "A few months ago a murder of a peculiarly atrocious character was committed in the district known as Whitechapel, London. The victim was a woman of the lowest class of that particularly low section of the metropolis. Not content with simply killing the woman, the murderer had mutilated the corpse and had inflicted wounds altogether unnecessary for the accomplishment of his object. Three or four months afterwards another woman of the same class was found dead with over thirty stab wounds in her body, and in quick succession other similar crimes were committed, until now the number amounts to nine. The efforts of the police to discover the perpetrator or perpetrators have up to this time been utterly fruitless, and every supposed clew that has been followed has proved to be without foundation. All kinds of theories have been indulged in by the police, professional and amateur, and by legal and medical experts, who appear to have exhausted their ingenuity in devising the most strained hypotheses in their attempts to account for these murderous crimes. In the foregoing remarks relative to madness and murder I have brought forward examples in illustration of several forms of mental derangement, any one of which may have been the predominating motive which has been the starting point of the crimes in question. This they may have been committed by a person who kills merely for the love of killing, and who has selected a particular class from which to choose his victims, for the reason that being of very little importance in the social world, they could be killed with a minimum amount of risk of detection. The fact that unnecessary wounds and mutilation were inflicted gives additional support to this theory. The more hacking and cutting the more delight would be experienced. They may be the result of a morbid impulse which the perpetrator fells himself unable to resist, and which, after he had yielded to its power, is followed by the most acute anguish of mind. It may be said against this view that if such were the fact the murderer would, in his moments of mental agony and repentance, surrender himself to the authorities; but in answer I think it may be properly alleged that fear for his own safety would prevent him doing an act which he might feel to be right, but which he would know would lead to his speedy execution. To test the correctness of this hypothesis it would be necessary to offer him free and unconditional pardon. If he is the subject of a morbid impulse which he cannot resist, he will give himself up if immunity be promised him.

The murders may have been committed by one who is acting under the principle of suggestion. He may have recently heard or read of similar crimes (for such murders have been committed before) and has been impelled thereby to go and do likewise, until after the first two or three murders he has acquired a love for the act of killing, and for the excitement attendant on the risk which he runs. This last incentive is a very powerful one, with certain morbidly constituted minds, and has apparently been the chief motive in some notable series of crimes. Again, they may have been committed by several persons acting under the influence of the power of imitation. This force, owing to the extensive publication of reports of crimes through the newspapers, is much more influential at present than at any other period in the history of the world. The more ferocious the murder the more likelihood that it will be imitated. It is not at all unreasonable to suppose that there may have been as many murderers of these women as there are murders. I am inclined, however, to think that the perpetrator is a reasoning maniac, one who has received or imagines he has received some injury from the class of women upon which his crimes are committed, or who has assumed the role of the reformer, and who thinks he can annihilate them one by one or strike such terror into those that remain that they will hasten to abandon their vicious mode of life. He is probably a person whose insanity is not suspected even by those who are in constant association with him. He may be a clergyman, a lawyer, a physician, or even a member of the titled aristocracy; a cashier in a bank, a shopkeeper, an officer of the army or navy. All apparently motiveless crimes are exceedingly difficult of detection. It is quite conceivable that this man may leave the dinner table or the ballroom and pass a dozen policemen on his way towards the accomplishment of his purpose. The higher he appears to be in the social scale the less he would be liable to suspicion. If the perpetrator of the so-called Whitechapel murders were to case now his career of crime, there is no reason to suppose that he would ever be discovered. But it is not at all likely that he will fail to go on in the course which has now become second nature to him. His love for murder has become overpowering, and immunity has rendered him bold. Little by little he will become less cautious, and eventually he will be caught.

When arrested the question of how to dispose of him will arise. In what I have said I have assumed him to be a lunatic of some kind. If a certain degree of maudlin sentimentality should prevail he will be placed in a lunatic asylum and in the course of a few years may be discharged as cured. But such insanity as his is never cured. Doubtless while an inmate of the asylum his conduct will be of the most exemplary character. He will dissemble for years and will deceive the very elect among experts in insanity. Superintendents and clergymen and various other high personages will unite in testifying to his thorough change of heart and Christian bearing, and when he is discharged with the blessings of all with whom he has been associated he will begin to commit another series of murders fully as atrocious as those for which he has been sequestrated. There is but one way to deal with a person like this Whitechapel murderer, and that is to hang him as soon as he is caught. He is an enemy of society and is entitled to no more consideration than a wild beast which follows his instinct to kill. Laws are not made for the purpose of enforcing the principles of abstract justice; they are enacted solely for the protection of society.