Palace and Hovel; Or, Phases of London Life

by Daniel Joseph Kirwan

The saloon is nearly as large as Irving Hall, in New York, but lit up in a splendid manner with handsome chandeliers, which depend from the lofty ceiling, the gas jets burning in a deep glow through the shining metal stalactites that ornament the chandeliers. A splendid band of fifty instruments is stationed in the gallery at the further end of the room, and the music is of the best kind. The leader is attired in full evening dress, as is also every fiddler in the band, and the wave of the chef's baton is as graceful as that of Julien, when he was in his prime. Women, dressed in costly silks and satins and velvets, the majority of them wearing rich jewels and gold ornaments, are lounging on the plush sofas in a free and easy way, conversing with men whose dress betoken that they are in respectable society. A number of these are in full evening dress, wearing their overcoats, and a few of them have come from the clubs, a few from dinner parties, and a greater number from the theatres or opera.

They are not ashamed to be seen here by their acquaintances—far from it; they think this is a nice and clever thing to do, and, as no virtuous woman ever enters this place, there is no danger of meeting those who own a sisterly or still dearer tie, and who might cause a blush to redden the cheeks of these charming young men. Across the lower end of the room an iron railing is stretched, and this keeps the vulgar herd from mingling with the elite of the abandoned women who frequent the Argyle. Three-fourths of the ground space is devoted to dancing, and inside this railing sets are formed at a signal from the band above.

The charge for admission below, where I stand with the detective surveying this strange scene, is but a shilling, while the entrance fee to the gallery is two shillings, and this admits, as I am told by a servant, to all the privileges of the place whatever they may be. Even in vice the "horrid spirit of caste" prevails. It is chiefly clerks and tradesmen who are dancing in the shilling place, and at the end of each dance, be it waltz or quadrille, the man who has danced is expected to refresh his partner with a copious draught of beer, or a glass of plain gin. These women all take their gin without water, and smoke cigarettes if some one will pay for them. Inside the railing it is different.

The bars here are furnished with great splendor, and the calls for champagne are incessant. The women call champagne "fizz," and ale "swill." All around the room cushioned seats or benches are placed so that those who have done dancing may rest themselves and drink. There are liquor counters in every corner of the room, and a good business is done, the bar-maids being kept actively employed all the time while the music is playing. Upstairs there is another gallery and a fine bar, and here the really fast women congregate, to look over the balconies, but never condescending to mix among the vulgar dancers, excepting when their reason is gone through intoxication. These women all carry expensive fans, and their trains are as long as the train of a Countess in a reception at St. James's. There is a handsomely fitted up alcove to the right of the bar, and this alcove is ornamented with panels, on which are painted such pictures as "Europa and the Bull," "Leda," "Bacchus and Silenus;" and here are a number of women and men with Venetian goblets foaming full of champagne before them. Standing at the entrance to the alcove, is a stout, florid-faced woman, vulgar in appearance, with incipient moustachios at the corners of her lips. She is covered with jewelry, and her fingers, fat, red, and unshapely, glitter with diamonds.

This is the famous "Kate Hamilton," who was at one time the reigning beauty of her class, and has now degenerated into a vile pander. She is surrounded by a cluster of girls, and they are all in an animated discussion with her. The detective introduces me to this famous, or rather infamous, Messalina, and her first question is, "Will you stand some 'Sham?'" The next is to make inquiry about a number of New York politicians and sporting men who have patronized her den, somewhere in the Haymarket, while doing the foreign tour. She is most business-like and brief, this fetid old wretch, and has a speaking acquaintance with every man in the saloon.

THE HAYMARKET BY NIGHT.

While we are standing looking at her and her friends, the room is darkened, the gas being almost extinguished, and a chemical, light-colored flame irradiates the room like a twilight at sea, and the entire female population rush below to join in the last, wild, mad shadow-dance of the night. Around and around they go in each other's arms, whirling in the dim, uncertain, graveyard light, these unclean things of the darkness, shouting and shrieking, totally lost to shame—their gestures wanton as the movements of an Egyptian Almee and mad as the capers of a dancing dervish. Then the hall is darkened, the band ceases playing, the waiters finish the remains of the uncorked champagne bottles, the women dash madly down the carpeted stairs and into the streets with their male companions, and are whirled away with the cabs, which wait in long rows before the entrance of the Argyle, to the purlieus of Pimlico and the sensual shades of St. John's Wood, at Brompton.

The night has closed, a full English moon floats silently in the heavens, white snowy powder hangs over our heads like a film of lace—the clock-tower at Westminster Palace booms out the hour of midnight over the dark surface of the Thames, and we escape from the bustle of that vile dancing hall with gladness.

"Now," said my conductor, "let's go down in the Haymarket to Barnes's, and look at that for a few minutes, and then we will go to the Casino, in the Holborn, for a finish, if you please, sir."