he submerged
quarters but in comfortable houses by English people of education and
position. Buy a few numbers of the Society's official organ, _The
Child's Guardian_, and read of the hundreds of cases which they attack
every month, and of the bestialities to which children are submitted,
and you will then see that light as the beacon-light of England's
disgrace. I once showed it to a Spanish friend, and he looked at me with
polite disgust. "And your countrymen, my friend," he said, "speak of the
Spaniards as cruel. Your countrymen, who gather themselves in dozens,
protected by horses and dogs, to hunt a timid fox, call us cruel because
we fight the bull--because our toreadors risk their lives every moment
that they are in the ring, fighting a savage, maddened animal five times
larger and stronger than themselves. You call us cruel--you, who have to
found a Society in order to stop cruelty to your little children. My
friend, there is no society like that in Spain, for no society like that
is necessary. The most depraved Spaniard, town or countryman, would
never dream of raising his hand against a child. And your countrymen, in
face of that building, which is open day and night, and supports a staff
of five hundred, call the Spaniards cruel! My friend, yours surely must
be the cruellest people on earth."

And I had no answer for him, because I knew. I knew what Mr. Robert Parr
had told me: and I knew why little girls of twelve and thirteen are
about the dripping mouths of the Shadwell alleys at all queer hours. You
will understand why some men, fathers of little girls, suddenly have
money for beer when a foreign boat is berthed. You will appreciate what
it is that twists its atmosphere into something anomalous. You remember
the gracious or jolly fellows you have met, the sweet, rich sea-chanties
you have heard; and then you remember other things, and the people
suddenly seem monstrous, the spirit of the place bites deep, and the
dreadful laughter of it shocks.

A SUNDAY NIGHT

ANYWHERE

_SUNDAY TEA-TIME_

_There is a noise of winkles on the air,
Muffins and winkles rattle down the road,
The sluggish road, whose hundred houses stare
One on another in after-dinner gloom._
"Peace, perfect Peace!" _wails an accordion,_
"Ginger, you're barmy!" _snarls a gramophone._

_A most unhappy place, this leafless Grove
In the near suburbs; not a place for tears
Nor