The “wrens” themselves are described as being almost all young, and all, without an exception, Irish. They range from seventeen to twenty-five years old, and almost all come out of cabins in country places. Occasionally a delicate-looking “wren” may be met, but as a rule they are sturdy, fine-limbed women, full of health and strength; many are good-looking. In their style of dress, no less than undress, they are peculiar. “All day they lounge in a half-naked state, clothed simply in one frieze petticoat, and another, equally foul, cast loosely over then shoulders; though, towards evening, they put on the decent attire of the first girl I met there. These bettermost clothes are kept bright and clean enough; the frequency with which they are seen displayed on the bushes to dry, shows how often they are washed, and how well. These observations apply to the cotton gown, the stockings, the white petticoat alone; frieze and flannel never know anything of soap-and-water at all, apparently. The ‘Curragh-petticoat’ is familiarly known for miles and miles round; its peculiarity seems to be that it is starched, but not ironed. The difference in the appearance of these poor wretches when the gown and petticoat are donned, and when they are taken off again (that is to say, the moment they come back from the ‘hunting-grounds’), answers precisely to their language and demeanour when sober and when tipsy.” The communistic principle governs each “nest;” and share-and-share alike is the rule observed. “None of the women have any money of their own; what each company get is thrown into a common purse, and the nest is provisioned out of it. What they get is little indeed: a few halfpence turned out of one pocket and another when the clean starched frocks are thrown off at night, make up a daily income just enough to keep body and soul together.”
Inquiry careful and judicious disclosed to the daring literary investigator that the “wrens” take it in turns to do the marketing and keep house while their sisters are abroad “on business.” As need not be mentioned, it is the youngest and best-looking women who engage in the money-getting branch. Considering how severe are their privations, and the unceasing life of wretchedness they lead, it is not without surprise that we hear that many of the “wrens” have occupied the ground they still squat on during the past eight or nine years. “I asked one of these older birds how they contrived their sleeping-accommodation before ‘nests’ were invented. Said she, ‘We’d pick the biggest little bush we could find, and lay under it, turnin’ wid the wind.’ ‘Shifting round the bush as the wind shifted?’ ‘Thrue for ye. And sometimes we’d wake wid the snow covering us, and maybe soaked wid rain.’ ‘And how did you dry your clothes?’ ‘We jist waited for a fine day.’”
The above and much more information concerning the habits and customs of these bushwomen of the Curragh was obtained in the daytime; but this was not enough for the plucky Pall-Mall adventurer. He was well aware that the wren was a night-bird, and could only be seen in her true colours by candle-glimmer within her nest, or by the light of the stars or moon while abroad hunting for prey. Setting out after dark, our friend made his way across the common towards the nests he had visited the day before, and particularly to one known as No. 2 nest, the inmates of which had shown themselves very civil and obliging.
“As I approached it,” says the writer, “I saw but one wretched figure alone. Crouched near the glowing turf, with her head resting upon her hands, was a woman whose age I could scarcely guess at, though I think, by the masses of black hair that fell forward upon her hands and backward over her bare shoulders, that she must have been young. She was apparently dozing, and taking no heed of the pranks of the frisky little curly-headed boy whom I have made mention of before; he was playing on the floor. When I announced myself by rapping on the bit of corrugated iron which stood across the bottom of the doorway, the woman started in something like fright; but she knew me at a second glance, and in I went. ‘Put back the iron, if ye plaze,’ said the wren as I entered; ‘the wind’s blowing this way to-night, bad luck to it!’ . . . I wanted to know how my wretched companion in this lonely, windy, comfortless hovel, came from being a woman to be turned into a wren. The story began with ‘no father nor mother,’ an aunt who kept a whisky-store in Cork, an artilleryman who came to the whisky-store and saw and seduced the girl. By and by his regiment was ordered to the Curragh. The girl followed him, being then with child. ‘He blamed me for following him,’ said she. ‘He’d have nothing to do with me. He told me to come here, and do like other women did. And what could I do? My child was born here, in this very place; and glad I was of the shelter, and glad I was when the child died—thank the blessed Mary! What could I do with a child? His father was sent away from here, and a good riddance. He used me very bad.’ After a minute’s silence the woman continued, a good deal to my surprise, ‘I’ll show you the likeness of a betther man, far away, one that never said a cross word to me—blessed’s the ground he treads upon!’ And fumbling in the pocket of her too scanty and dingy petticoat, she produced a photographic portrait of a soldier, enclosed in half-a-dozen greasy letters. ‘He’s a bandsman, sir, and a handsome man he is; and I believe he likes me too. But they have sent him to Malta for six years; I’ll never see my darlint again.’ And then this poor wretch, who was half crying as she spoke, told me how she had walked to Dublin to see him just before he sailed, ‘because the poor craythur wanted to see me onst more.’
“From this woman, so strangely compounded, I learned that she had suffered so much privation last winter, that she had made up her mind not to stay in the bush another such a season. ‘At the first fall of snow I’ll go to the workhouse, that I will!’ she said in the tone of one who says that in such an event he is determined to cut his throat. ‘Why, would you belave it, sir?—last winter the snow would be up as high as our little house, and we had to cut a path through it to the min, or we’d been ruined intirely.’
“. . . Presently the report of a gun was heard. ‘Gunfire!’ cried my companion. ‘They’ll be back soon now, and I hope it’s not drunk they are.’ I went out to listen. All was dead quiet, and nothing was to be seen but the lights in the various bushes, till suddenly a blaze broke out at a distance. Some dry furze had been fired by some of the soldiers wandering on the common, and in search of whom the picket presently came round, peeping into every bush. Presently the sound of distant voices was heard; it came nearer and nearer, and its shrillness and confusion made it known to me that it was indeed a party of returning wrens, far from sober. They were, in fact, mad drunk; and the sound of their voices as they came on through the dense darkness, screaming obscene sounds broken by bursts of horrible laughter, with now and then a rattling volley of oaths which told that fighting was going on, was staggering. I confess I now felt uncomfortable. I had only seen the wren sober, or getting sober; what she might be in that raging state of drunkenness I had yet to find out, and the discovery threatened to be very unpleasant. The noise came nearer, and was more shocking because you could disentangle the voices and track each through its own course of swearing, or of obscene singing and shouting, or of dreadful threats, which dealt in detail with every part of the human frame. ‘Is this your lot?’ I asked my companion with some apprehension, as at length the shameful crew burst out of the darkness. ‘Some of ’em, I think.’ But no, they passed on; such a spectacle as made me tremble. I felt like a man respited when the last woman went staggering by. Again voices were heard, this time proceeding from the women belonging to the bush where I was spending such an uncomfortable evening. Five in all,—two tipsy and three comparatively sober,—they soon presented themselves at the door; one of them was Billy’s mother. At the sound of her voice the child woke up and cried for her. She was the most forbidding-looking creature in the whole place; but she hastened to divest herself outside of her crinoline and the rest of her walking attire (nearly all she had on), and came in and nursed the boy very tenderly. The other wrens also took off gown and petticoat, and folding them up, made seats of them within the nest. Then came the important inquiry from the watching wren, ‘What luck have you had?’ to which the answer was, ‘Middling.’ Without the least scruple they counted up what they had got amongst them—a poor account. It was enough to make a man’s heart bleed to hear the details, and to see the actual money.
“In order to continue my observations a little later in a way agreeable to those wretched outcasts, I proposed to ‘stand supper,’ a proposition which was joyfully received, of course. Late as it was, away went one of the wrens to get supper, presently returning with a loaf, some bacon, some tea, some sugar, a little milk, and a can of water. The women brought all these things in such modest quantities that my treat cost no more (I got my change, and I remember the precise sum) than two shillings and eightpence-halfpenny. The frying-pan was put in requisition, and there seemed some prospect of a ‘jolly night’ for my more sober nest of wrens. One of them began to sing—not a pretty song; but presently she stopped to listen to the ravings of a strong-voiced vixen in an adjoining bush. ‘It’s Kate,’ said one, ‘and she’s got the drink in her—the devil that she is.’ I then heard that this was a woman of such ferocity when drunk that the whole colony was in terror of her. One of the women near me showed me her face, torn that very night by the virago’s nails, and a finger almost bitten through. As long as the voice of the formidable creature was heard, everyone was silent in No. 2 nest—silent out of fear that she would presently appear amongst them. Her voice ceased: again a song was commenced; then the frying-pan began to hiss; and that sound it was, perhaps, that brought the dreaded virago down upon us. She was heard coming from her own bush, raging as she came. ‘My God, there she is!’ one of the women exclaimed. ‘She’s coming here; and if she sees you she’ll tear every rag from your back!’ The next moment the fierce creature burst into our bush, a stalwart woman full five feet ten inches high, absolutely mad with drink. Her hair was streaming down her back; she had scarcely a rag of clothing on; and the fearful figure made at me with a large jug, intended to be smashed upon my skull. I declare her dreadful figure appalled me. I was so wonder-stricken, that I believe she might have knocked me on the head without resistance; but, quick as lightning, one of the women got before me, spreading out her petticoat. ‘Get out of it!’ she shouted in terror; ‘run!’ And so I did. Covered by this friendly and grateful wren, I passed out of the nest, and made my way homeward in the darkness. One of the girls stepped out to show me the way. I parted from her a few yards from the nest, and presently ‘lost myself’ on the common. It was nearly two o’clock when I got to Kildare from my last visit to that shameful bush-village.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THE QUESTION.
The Laws applying to Street-walkers—The Keepers of the Haymarket Night-houses—Present Position of the Police-magistrates.—Music-hall Frequenters—Refreshment-bars—Midnight Profligacy—“Snuggeries”—Over-zealous Blockheads.
Six or seven years since, such alterations were made in the laws applying to nocturnal street-walkers and disorderly persons generally, as enabled the London magistrates, with the assistance of the police, to reduce the great Haymarket disgrace to manageable dimensions. To completely abolish so renowned and prodigious a nuisance at a blow was more than could be expected; but the public generally were quite satisfied with the gradual and successful working of the plans adopted for the final extinction of the infamous “oyster-shops,” and cafés, and wine-shops, that in the olden time made night hideous from St. James’s-street to Piccadilly. Suddenly, however, the good work has received a serious check. According to the usual custom, the keeper of a refreshment-house, on being summoned before the magistrate (Mr. Knox) for an infringement of the Act, was fined for the offence; and nothing else was expected but that the fine would be paid, and, except for its salutary effect, there an end of it. But it would seem that the fined “night-house” keeper had cunning advisers, who assured him that the conviction was bad, and that he had only to appeal to a superior court to insure its being set aside. The course suggested was adopted, and crowned with success. Mr. Knox’s decision was reversed, it not being clearly shown that the loose women discovered on the premises were really assembled for an immoral purpose.