Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1889-12-22

We are now about the center Of the scenes
OF London's most startling tragedies. 1t is
q forbidding neighborhood. The houses are
low and mean looking, the shutters on most
of the windows being closely shut The
streets are narrow and ill-lighted. The
cross streets seem almost deserted, but those
leading from the road are thronged.
Public houses abound, Of course, all
OF them crowded, and the noises
are suggestive, sometimes of reyelry, some
times OF riot Groups Of women, mostly
young, many not over 10, come out and go
along, apparently hali-crazed with drink
and excitement. Singing, shouting, laugh
ing, the echoes of their wretched glee come
back from the dark, dismal streets like the
shFieks Of the lost. Hades could hardly
hold sadder scene than this.
AN EAST END EATING HOUSE.
At one corner is large eating house,
where the coarsest food is served. Fish,
sausages and fried onions seem their special
ties. The process of cooking can be seen
through the windows, and scores of hungry
eyes watch the viands sizzling in the grease.
There is quite crowd, and the walters are
selling pennyworths and halfpennyworths
Of their delicacies on all sides. Children
buy sausage and divide it on the curb
stone. Old women humble at a slice of
bread spread with onions and lick their
skinny fingers afterthe savory feast. Rough
looking men, with red handkerchiefs about
their neeks, tear fish to pieces and chew it
regardless of bones. A gaunt, hollow-eyed
woman, holding to her breast a pale, sickly
baby, begs penny and buys fish. Before
tasting it herself, she picks the bones from
two or three mouthfuls and gives them to
a ha ho fr1h horo lrr da
vouring the remainder, she folds the child
in the corner of her scanty shawl and fits
away into the darkness.
1t is thus all over-wild, reckless, defiant
drunkenness and debauchery, or abiect, de-
graded poverty and want One looks in
vain for ray or spark OF good. It is not
there. The better side of human nature
seems utterly gone. There is nothing left
but that which is unlovely, coarse, hardened,
vile, lost
We have had enough, and take a short
cut to Brick lane. As we pass along mar
row, dark cross street, man comes out
from the darkness of an alley and looks at
US. The light of a lamp on the other side
shows his face, thin and ghastly pale, with
large black eyes, deeply sunken, but glean-
ing with strange glare. In one hand he
carries black oilcloth satchel. There is
something about his glance which makes
ones flesh creep.
''Mr. Hyde!'' I involuntarily whispered
to my companion.
Jack the Ripperl" he answers. At
which the tragedian from the Pavilion
Thester incontinently takes to his heels, nor
do we overtake him until the lights and
crowd on Brick lane restore him to COM
posure. We readily accept his rather lame
apologies, for, as Mr.. Snagsby would say,
mot to put too fine a point upon it," we
had felt somewhat like hurrving ourselves.
We are soon back on Whitechapel road,
and dismissingl J. Sharp, Esq, with his re-
ward, we 60 to the Metropolitan Railway
station to await our train. Here we find
Mr.. Billy Kirk, the ancient comedian of the
Royal London Theater," accompanied by
fresh-faced, honest looking young man,
evidently his son, We strike up conver-
sation, and learn that on their wav to the
station the young man had taken his father
into public house with the filial intention
of buying dram" for him. A dispute
with the bar keeper over the payment had
led to q score of rufianly hangers-on attack
ing them, and only the timely arrival Of the
police saved them from serious trouble.
CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN.
The old actor was greatly worked mp. He
paced the platform with the stride of a
Kemble or Macready, and grew more tragic
with each word.
Talk habOut yer HingIish fairplayP' he
cried. Where do yer get it2 Who gives
1t yer? What ii they do? Creep up be-
ind yer, 1t yer hin the neck hand jump
hon yer when yer down. His that
the way Britons used to fight?
His that the way they does hin Hamerica?
Mol Hive been there, hand 1 know them
BY art. Hin Hamerica no gentleman heyer
raises is and to hanother Hif two gents
quarrel they don't 90 hat beach hother with
their 'ands, but they locks themselves hup
hin dark room, ties one and behind their
backs, drors their bowie knives, hand there.
halone hand hin darkness, they fights by
the hear, hand not by the heye.
During this bloodcurdling recital he
crosses one hand behind his back and darts
from one side of the platform to the other.
dealing furious cuts and siashes at an i'm
aglnary foe. With artful fattery we say:
Sir, you ought to be on the STAGE
'E's hon hit now," cries the son in a
delighted aside, at which we express graft
fed surprise.
"Honly poor clown, gents" SAYS Mr.. |
Kirk In self-deprecatory sort of way.
only clown. "A poor player, that struts |
hand frets lis hour hupon the stage. hand |
'hen his heard no more The time Was-but |
no matter, no matter" and he waves the |
part away with gloomy sternness. just |
hen the snorting trains rush in out of |
The darkness of the underground lines. and |
ne and his son 60 their way. and we 20 ours.
HENRY HALL,