As to the company sitting round on the
dark grimy benches against the wall, or leaning
heavily against the counter, or holding on tipsily
by its fellows in the middle of the apartment,
it is abundant if not select, noisy if not joyous.
It consists principally, in consequence of our
being so near the barracks, of soldiers. There
are of course representatives of other callings,
two or three thieves, and some hangers-on about
the pedestrian and pugilistic circles. This part
of the assemblage for the most part wears its
trousers inordinately tight, its chest disproportionately
heavy for its legs, the back of its
neck very large and ponderous, its nose
considerably indented in the middle, and altogether
presents a combination of strength with pallor
which has something unnatural and unhallowed
in its look.

The ladies of this society are perhaps somewhat
less feminine in their manners and appearance
than fastidious persons might wish. They
are apt to be well favoured with bone and
muscle, to wear a shawl pinned tightly round
them, leaving the arms free for pugilistic and
clawing encounters. They are also given to the
wearing of lace-up boots of considerable weight
and thickness, and are in the habit of dispensing
with the use of bonnets, and all other
head-coverings with the exception of grease.

It is evening, and the heat, foulness, and
uproar of this base tavern are at their worst.
Everybody is more or less drunk. The soldiers,
however, representing the " more " and the
thieves the " less." In a corner of the bar a
couple of Jews are trying to sell a concertina to
a gentleman who, wearing trousers that are
tight where they ought to be loose and loose
where they ought to be tight, having a clasp-knife
suspended by cordage to his waistband, a
glazed hat stuck on the back of his head, and
a very large turnover shirt-collar, may safely
be set down as a representative of the royal
navy—for we are in a marine as well as a
military neighbourhood. The notes of the
concertina, which are of a rather thin and reedy
quality, make a pretty accompaniment to the
fervid eloquence with which the Hebrew gentlemen
urge its purchase, ending in the usual way,
however, by intimating that on the whole they
would rather not sell.

"Vell, it don't matter—I don't vant to sell
it, I've only got to take it to vun of the first-
rate music shops at the vest end of London to
get twice the money."

The haggling which attends this musical
transaction, and the monotonous growling of an
intoxicated knife-grinder who is telling a long
story all about himself, about what " he said,"
and what "the other party said," and what he
replied in return—these are almost the only
peaceable sounds that are to be heard. Everybody
is quarrelling and boasting. "I'd fight
'im for a penny-loaf." " I'm a sporting man all
over, and you're not." " Who says I'm not?"
"Why, I say it." " Oh, you say it." " Here's
Jim, now Jim's a sportsman every hinch—I
appeal to 'im." "Come away, Bob, you've 'ad
enough." " No, I 'aven't." " Come away, I
tell you." "Shan't." "Ugh, you brute—
strike at a woman." "Strike, ah, and so I
will, what d'ye come 'ere for, arter me? I'll
strike—I'll do for yer too, one of these days."
"Well, come away then, now." " No, I shan't."
And so on, ad infinitum.

In the midst of all the hubbub made by the
minor performers in this wretched scene, a special
storm in one particular part of the room is
gathering force to such an extent that its
uproar soon drowns all competition.

It has its origin, as other great things have
had time out of mind, in a very small matter. A
pint of beer is the point at issue, and the
disputants are, the stout and sullen youth who works
the beer-handles, and a soldier whose disordered
dress, uncovered head, and distorted features,
show him to be considerably the worse for liquor.
The quarrel, after passing through the various
stages incidental to such pursuits, is not long in
reaching the inevitable crisis, and presently the
soldier has managed to undo his belt and has
struck the potboy with it, violently, across the
head. The bar-woman, who is akin to the lad,
rushes to the rescue, and is in turn belted. The
landlord in an instant rushes out of his secret
lair, dives under the counter, and flies at the
soldier, forcing him towards the door. At this,
other soldiers present interpose, and it is not
long before—what with new belligerents, and
what with fuddled pacificators—the whole
company is somehow or other mixed up in the fight.
At length the noise is so great that it reaches
the world outside, the police are brought to the
scene of action, and after infinite difficulties in
capturing them, after more fighting and swearing,
after screaming and clawing of women, and
every other pandemonial circumstance that can
add to the horror of the scene, a couple of
soldiers are borne off to the station to be locked up,
and the potboy is carried to a neighbouring
chemist, to have his broken head doctored.

Let us now turn to a different picture
altogether. The reader, who has been led into
such very bad company, shall now have his
reward. He has been taken to a place that is
dirty, dark, airless, and where there are no
amusements provided, but quarrelling and
getting drunk—neither of them very delightful
occupations; he shall now be taken to a place
that is clean, brilliantly lighted, airy, and where
there are so many amusements and pastimes
provided, that the only difficulty is to choose
which you will engage in first.

We have seen that the first house of
entertainment with which we had to do was a rickety,
tumble-down looking structure with a slouching
appearance, which made it look as if it was
ashamed of itself—as it had good cause to be.
The second house of entertainment before which
we are now standing, is a large handsome,
bright-looking building, which stands boldly
forth, conscious of having nothing to hide, and
not having the remotest cause to be ashamed of
anything about it. It is faced with white brick
and stone, has plenty of windows, and is