Odd Bits of Travel with Brush and Camera

by Charles M. Taylor

What better opportunity of studying this phase of life can there be, than in the faces of those whose existence is passed amid associations of suffering, want and crime; who not only witness, but experience all these in their different shades and degrees.

Take with me a walk through the worst portions of the greatest metropolis in the world, and observe a few of the pictures in the localities where humanity is born and nourished in misery, filth and sin. Guarded by three of England’s best paid detectives, I follow closely in their footsteps, not daring to speak lest I rouse in his lair the slumbering lion of passion and revenge. From street to street we pass, viewing the wretched tenementstenements, and more wretched inmates huddling together over a faint spark of fire, or vainly trying to impart to their little ones some of the natural warmth which still exists in their bodies, in spite of hunger, cold and fatigue. The crumbs from the tables of the rich would be a lavish feast to these poor creatures. Clean water is as great a stranger to their stomachs as to their bodies; loathsome rags cover their emaciated forms, and the destroyer drink has left his signet upon their countenances. A little farther on is the vile dance house into which the inhabitants of this neighborhood crawl for the lowest stage of their degradation. A motley throng is assembled here, and the sound of a violin mingles with shrill laughter and drunken oaths.

I am guarded so carefully that many times I am hurried away from a scene more quickly than I wish, the officers fearing that our presence may create a disturbance among these reckless characters. We enter a low saloon in a cellar dimly lighted by an old oil lamp: the atmosphere is gruesome, and one of the detectives warns me that the men who frequent this haunt are desperate fellows who would not hesitate to stab me for the sake of my clothing. Old and grizzled habitués line reeking walls, with depravity written upon every countenance, and I fully realize that my life would not be worth a moment’s purchase here should my attendants forsake me.

Now we are in a long narrow alley, as black as Erebus, which gives one the feeling of being in a subterranean passage upon some mysterious mission. In a few minutes a light appears ahead—a dull glimmering bluish light, like that which is supposed to hover above graveyards—and we pause in front of a small frame house of two stories. A knock upon the door brings to the threshold a little dried up, wizened Chinaman, made feeble by long dissipation, who in his broken language makes us welcome. The place is “Chinese Johnson’s” opium den. How can I describe the scene that is before me? In this room are many small dirty cots filled with unconscious human beings, willing victims of the pernicious drug—a loathsome spectacle—and here on a small couch sits the proprietor of the establishment. This is his throne of state, and here he can smoke with impunity the deadly drug, which has no perceptible effect upon his depraved body. We are glad to end this experience and banish from our minds the unattractive picture of the Chinaman in his elysian fields.

We are not the only ones who have the privilege of viewing these scenes. Any one who desires and possesses the necessary courage may invade the haunts and dens of the lower world, and be profited by the lessons here learned; but he must exercise great caution. The studies are not only for the brush and camera: they are food for the thoughtful mind which can apply the wisdom thus gained, and seek in these conditions for the solution of knotty problems. One can better appreciate, by reason of this contrast, the blessings of his own life; of purity, honesty and contentment as opposed to ignorance, poverty and vice.

This evening, fatigued in mind and body by my experience in the slums of London, I enter the Holborn Restaurant, hoping to enjoy a good dinner, and at the same time be entertained by the delightful music of skilled musicians. I seat myself at a table on the second floor, and supposing myself free from intrusion, yield myself up to the charming melody, when a good-looking and well-dressed man approaches, and with many apologies asks if the seat opposite me is engaged. I assure him that I do not lay claim to ownership of any portion of the Holborn, and that I can speak only of the chair upon which I am sitting. Upon this he takes the opposite place and gives to the waiter an order for quite an extravagant supply of the dainties enumerated on the bill of fare. During the time intervening between the giving of the order and its delivery, no conversation passes between us, but I have an unpleasant consciousness of his presence, and occasionally feel his eyes resting upon me. The appearance of the epicurean repast seems to impart the confidence he requires, and he addresses me with the remark that I must pardon him for staring at me so impolitely, but he is sure he has met me before. Am I not an American? to which I assent. “Are you a New Yorker?” is the next interrogation from this experienced catechiser. He can readily perceive that I am an American by my foreign accent.

To the last question I also respond in the affirmative, and may heaven forgive the falsehood. “Ah,” he says, “do you frequent the races at Sheepshead Bay?” “Yes, generally,” I reply. (I have never seen the place.) “It is there, then, that I have met you. Were you not there last summer?” “Many times.” (Another breach of truth.) “Will you kindly give me your name?” follows as a matter of course. I reach my hand into my pocket and draw out a card upon which is engraved simply my name, and extending it toward him, remark: “My name is Charles M. Taylor, Jr., and I am associated with Mr. ——, one of the chief detectives at Scotland Yard. My present mission is to look up some ’Bunco’ men from New York who have headquarters in London. Here is my card.” But the stranger does not take the card. He glances hastily at his watch, and rising hurriedly, says: “It is nine o’clock. I did not know it was so late. I must be off, as I have an important engagement.”

As he pushes back his chair, I quickly call a waiter, and tell him to collect the money for this gentleman’s order, as I do not wish to be held responsible for it. He pays for the meal which he has not touched, and in his haste to depart forgets his manners, for he does not wish me “good-night.”

Did he think I was a tender lamb? This hurts my pride somewhat. I am sorry, however, that I was obliged to deceive him so.

One evening while discussing matters in general with an English friend, born and bred in the city of London, we touch upon the order and unswerving obedience of the soldiers, policemen and good citizens who dwell under the dominion of her gracious Majesty, the Queen, in the great metropolis; and my friend cites as an example, the guards who patrol nightly the White Hall Horse Guards Barracks, as adhering so strictly to their line of march that they will not turn out of their way one inch for any person or obstacle in their direct course. I accept the wager of a dinner at the Holborn to be given by me if I do not succeed in inducing one of these guards to move out of his line of march. Selecting a dark night for the one in which to make good my assertion, I approach the barracks, and espy the guard with bayonet at “Carry arms,” making a “bee line” toward me. I walk in his direction with head bent low, and come so close that there would be a collision were it not for the stern and firmly-uttered “Halt” that comes from his lips. I halt face to face with this noble specimen of humanity, standing fully six feet one in his boots, and as straight as “Jack’s bean pole.” “Sir,” I say, “you are in my way, will you please move out?” He makes no response. “Will you please step aside and allow me to pass?” No response. “Come, my good fellow,” I continue in persuasive tones, “I have made a wager that you will move out of line for me, and if you do I will share the bet with you.” No reply. But I see in the immovable countenance an inflexible determination to do his duty which all the bribes in Christendom will not be able to change. I feel that death only can prevent his obedience to orders. “Well,” I conclude, “you are a good fellow, and the power you serve, be it queen, emperor, or president, is to be envied for having such a faithful subject. I respect your obedience to law and order. Good-night.” No response. It is needless to say that I pay the forfeit willingly, and my friend and I enjoy a good dinner at the Holborn.