There were no sleeping cars in all Europe then, so I sat up in a compartment and really enjoyed the ride, viewing the country by moonlight. At midnight we arrived at Calais, and took the boat for Dover. Then the express for London. Arriving at Victoria Station I took a cab to Mrs. Green's, where I had breakfast a l'anglaise.
I had a little adventure that night going down the Strand. At Bow street, on the corner, is the "Gaiety," a famous drinking saloon, flooded with light inside and out, with more than a half-dozen handsome barmaids. Barmaids are a great institution in England—that is, they have never more than one man behind a bar, none at all in the railway bars. And a fearful source of ruin to the girls, as they are to thousands of young men—I might say tens of thousands every year. These girls are chosen for their beauty and attractiveness. Yearly, in London and in other large cities of England, a "Beautiful Barmaid Show" is one of the stated features, and is held in some public garden or monster hall. These exhibitions are wonderfully popular, and thousands flock to them. Various beauty contests are got up, and all the popular features of voting, etc., are in vogue. Those of the young women who win the prizes make their fortunes, for they are at once engaged at high salaries for the more aristocratic barrooms. Fancy what an attraction and even fascination the gin palace with lovely girls behind the bar must have to the youth of a great city. Many of them strangers, busy during the day, but with nothing to do at night, with the choice of the street or a sombre room, but sure of a sweet smile of welcome from a fascinating woman in the barrooms. How easily and how naturally, too, does a young man become ensnared. But how if he has no money? No smiles and no welcome for him! And then what a temptation to help himself to his master's cash!
Happy for our country that our laws forbid women entering that occupation!
While standing in the brilliant light of the Gaiety, watching the thronging crowd of passers-by, with its sprinkling of unfortunates, I saw one poor, bedraggled creature, wan-faced and hollowed-eyed, with hunger and despair imprinted on every feature. Looking sharply at her she caught my eye, and, crossing the street, she spoke to me. The poor thing looked as if she had been dragged through all the gutters of London. She said that herself and her baby were actually starving—that her husband had been out of work thirteen weeks and had then deserted her, owing twelve weeks' rent, and the landlady had just told her that unless she paid her some rent before 9 o'clock that night she would be turned out with her baby into the streets.
Those of my readers who have been in London know something of what it would mean for this woman to be turned out into the streets of that fearful Babylon. No wonder, then, the poor soul was frantic with despair. In her poverty a shilling looked as big as a cartwheel, and when I said to her: "Will you promise to go direct home if I give you a sovereign?" she cried out: "Oh, sir, God forever bless you if you will!" I gave her the $5, and as she started to run I caught her by the sleeve and said: "I will go home with you to see if you have told me the truth." She lived close by, in one of those teeming courts that run off from the Strand. We found her baby naked on a heap of rags, in a small, dirty room, containing two broken chairs for furniture. I felt that there were in the large city thousands of similar cases, but this one was brought home to me. I was young and impressionable—more than that, I had other people's money to be liberal with; so I called up the landlady, who, almost dumb with surprise, received the arrears of rent, along with a month in advance. Eliza, for that was her name, told me she could get work if she had clean clothes for herself and baby, which she could buy for £2. I gave her five, and giving her my address in New York, told her to find work and let me know how she got on. She did find work in an eel-pie shop in Red Lion Square, High Holborn. I saw her two years later in London, and possibly may refer to her again in this story.
I went down to Liverpool and embarked on the good ship Java. Ten days later we sailed through the Narrows.
During my last day in London I went to Westminster Abbey, and spent three hours in that Valhalla of the Anglo-Saxon race. It made a tremendous impression upon my mind. In no other work of human hands do the spirits of so many departed heroes linger, certainly in no other does the dust of so many of the great dead rest, and as I read memorial upon memorial to departed greatness I realized that the path of honor and of truth was the only one for men to tread. All through the voyage the influences of the Abbey were upon me; I felt I was treading on dangerous ground, and resolved I would have no more of it. Would I had then resolved, when I met Irving & Co., to throw all the plunder in their faces and say: "I'll have none of it, and here we part!" I felt that I ought to do that, but weakly said: "I need the $10,000, and I'll give the rogues their share and then see them no more." I had fully made up my mind to that, knowing Irving would be on the wharf, eager to meet me.
In sailing through the Narrows and past Staten Island I was making up my mind as to the little speech I would make. We rapidly neared the wharf in Jersey City, and I quickly recognized Irving standing on the edge of the closely packed crowd, watching the steamer with a nervous look on his face. A rogue suspects every one, and although by this time he had become pretty well satisfied as to my good faith, no doubt he would be happier when he had his share of the plunder safe in his pocket. I was standing close to the rail between two ladies, and saw Irving before he saw me. Waving my handkerchief, his eye suddenly fell on me. With a smile and pointing significantly to my pocket, I gave him a salute. An eager look came into his face, and waving his hand he cried out: "I am glad to see you!" and no doubt he spoke the truth. When the gangplank was thrown ashore, and I saw him making his way toward it, evidently intending to board the steamer, I thought how surprised he would be when I told him I would have no more of his game. He sprang on board, rushed to me with a beaming face, grasped my hand, and putting the other on my shoulder, led me toward the gangway. He had not spoken yet, but as we were going down the gangplank he said: "My boy, you have done splendidly," and then, putting his mouth close to my ear, whispered: "We have got another job for you, and it's a beauty!"
I don't mean to pester my reader with a moral, or by too much moralizing, although I am tempted to do so. There is ample material for a course of sermons in that "we have another job for you" coming to me just then. But, leaving my reader to draw his own moral, I must go on with my narrative.