hops.
The poverty of Poplar is abject, and, to that extent, picturesque in its
frankness; there is no painful note of uncomely misery about it. But the
poverty of Kingsland is the diseased poverty of bead flowers in the
front room and sticky furniture on the hire system.

My first night was the same as every other. My window looked out on a
church tower which still further preyed on the wan light of the street,
and, as I lay in bed, its swart height, pierced by the lit clock face,
gloated stiffly over me. From back of beyond a furry voice came
dolefully--

Goo bay to sum-_mer_, goo bay, goo baaaaay!

That song has thrilled and chilled me ever since. Next door an Easy
Payments piano was being tortured by wicked fingers that sought after
the wild grace of Weber's "Invitation to the Valse." From the street the
usual London night sounds floated up until well after midnight. There
was the dull, pessimistic tramp of the constable, and the long rumble of
the Southwark-bound omnibus. Sometimes a stray motor-car would hoot and
jangle in the distance, swelling to a clatter as it passed, and falling
away in a pathetic _diminuendo_. A traction-engine grumbled its way
along, shaking foundations and setting bed and ornaments a-trembling.
Then came the blustering excitement of chucking-out at the "Galloping
Horses." Half a dozen wanted to fight; half a dozen others wanted to
kiss; everybody wanted to live in amity and be jollyolpal. A woman's
voice cried for her husband, and abused a certain Long Charlie; and Long
Charlie demanded with piteous reiteration: "Why don't I wanter fight?
Eh? Tell me that. Why don't I wanter fight? Did you 'ear what he called
me? Did you 'ear? He called me a--a--what was it he called me?"

Then came police, disbandment, and dark peace, as the strayed revellers
melted into the night. Sometimes there would sound the faint tinkle of a
belated hansom, chiming solitarily, as though weary of frivolity. And
then a final stillness of which the constable's step seemed but a part.

It was a period of chill poverty that shamed to recognize itself. I was
miserably, unutterably lonely. I developed a temper of acid. I looked
on the world, and saw all things bitter and wicked. The passing of a
rich carriage exasperated me to fury: I understood in those moments the
spirit that impels men to throw bombs at millionaires and royalties.
Among the furious wilds of Kingsland, Hackney, and Homerton I spent my
rage.