“Bide a while, lads; let’s make ’em show their colours. What cheer, there?” shouted a huge Scandinavian, as a contingent detaching itself from the main body lurched towards the explorers.
“What cheer, my hearties?” sang back Hastings, and, with a diplomacy that might have done credit to a Richelieu, the entire party were fraternising within a minute.
“The Jolly Sailors” was admittedly the most dangerous of all the dens, even amid such hotbeds of iniquity as “The King of Prussia,” “The Prince Regent,” “The Old Mahogany Bar,” “The Old Gun,” “The Blue Anchor,” and “The Rose and Crown,” and had decoys in all directions to lure drunken sailors or foolish sightseers within its fatal portals. Situated at the extremity of Grace’s Alley, it led directly into Wellclose Square, a cul de sac it was easier to enter than to leave; but sailors of all nationalities are admittedly the most impressionable of mortals, and happily in the present case the sang-froid, the unexpected rejoinder, the devil-may-care bearing, disarmed apparently their rugged hostile intentions, and within half an hour visitors and regular customers—Germans, English, Scandinavians, and nondescripts—were shouting:
“What’s old England coming to?
Board of Trade ahoy!”
What any of us knew of the Board of Trade or the Mercantile Marine history does not say.
The opium dens in this delectable quarter were situated higher up at Shadwell, but the charms of the “Jolly Sailors” proving too much for our heroes, they elected to explore no further.
How different is the entire neighbourhood to-day! The very name Ratcliff Highway has disappeared, and been replaced by that of Saint George’s Street East; where constables once patrolled on the qui vive in twos and threes a solitary embodiment of the law may now be seen, strolling along in a manner that once would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; where drunken sailors in sea-boots and knives at every girdle lurched against inoffensive pedestrians, unwashed women may now be seen at corners knitting stockings, whilst unsavoury tadpoles are constructing mud-pies in the gutter; here and there may still be seen an inebriated foreigner and rows of loafers—with a striking resemblance to the “unemployed” hanging about the public-houses, but the solitary specimen in blue seems to exercise a salutary hypnotising effect, all which (justice demands) shall be placed to the credit of these enlightened days. Not that this welcome change has been long arrived at; not four years ago a respectable tradesman, Abrahams, a naturalist, of 191, St. George’s Street East, was attacked at 2 p.m., within fifty yards of his own door, and succumbed to his injuries within twenty-four hours, and even to-day to ostentatiously show a watch chain passing certain corners, say Artichoke Lane, would not be without danger; but when all is said and done, there is much to interest the seeker after novelty by a visit to the Ratcliff Highway of to-day. Here at the “Brown Bear” may now be seen the rooms, once devoted to orgies, filled to their utmost capacity with canaries sending up songs to heaven purer far than those of the long-ago sixties. Continuing along St. George’s Street will be found Jamrach’s menagerie, whence filter most of the rarities that find their way to the Zoological Gardens; and the place is no ordinary bird shop, but a museum of information in more ways than one. Here one large room will be found stuffed with bronzes and curios from all parts of the world, which every American visiting London, who fancies he is a critic, does not fail to inspect; for Mr. Jamrach—like his father—is an authority, and a naturalist in the highest acceptation of the term.
Lovers of animals will not regret a pilgrimage to “the Highway,” a pilgrimage which, by the aid of the District Railway and broad, electric-lighted streets, is no longer attended with discomfort or danger.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BOOTHS ON EPSOM DOWNS.
While racing men have gained by the railway’s close proximity to the course, others are now deprived of many of the sights there used to be seen along the road. From Westminster Bridge to the historical heath was almost one continuous panorama of life, joviality, cheer, and fun; every hedgerow was lined with open-mouthed yokels, gaping at the “coves from Lunnon” of whom they had heard so much, but had never before seen; every ditch supported a natural artificial cripple; every beerhouse was fronted by holiday crowds quaffing ale and inviting one to join; and to cap all this, the miles of vehicles with their accompanying dust gave every one the complexion of chimney sweeps, despite veil, artificial nose, and other guises incidental to a real journey by the road.