ables. The explanation is that the
greengrocers can come here, and, in tidying up their carts, can throw
their refuse upon the roadway, as they would not be allowed to do in
'higher class' streets. They swear genially at the housewives, and are
forgiven.

So the work and gossip of the day goes on, with a slight quieting down
in the afternoon and an incredible amount of conversation after work,
in the evening.

[Sidenote: _THE ALEXANDRA BACK-DOOR_]

On Sundays, the great fact of best clothes lends a different and, to my
mind, a less pleasant--a harder--tone to the children's voices. But
their merriment cannot wholly be suppressed. Did those who dislike the
Salvation Army wish to illustrate its shortcomings, they could find a
biting satire ready-made by the children of Under Town. A fat small boy
comes round here, who has attentively studied the meetings; who can
copy the canting, up-and-down, gentle-explosive, the _Behold I am
saved, ye sinners_! tone to a nicety. He marches at the head of a
band of serious infants who bear rags, tied to sticks and parasols, as
banners. Every now and then he circles them to a standstill for an
harangue about blood, fire and Jesus. (It is the gory part which
delights him.) Then the procession re-forms, imitating brass
instruments as unbroken voices can, and singing a Salvation hymn. They
are earnest, the children; except Tommy Widger, whose irrepressible
spirit causes him to march in the rear with a mocking dance and an
infinitely grotesque squint. He is a pagan. He can turn the children's
serious imitation into roaring Aristophanic farce. He represents the
healthful laughing element of an age wherein rest from sorrow is too
much sought in fever. He infects us all with jollity.

* * * * *

The back-door of the Alexandra, which opens on the Gut, is my home
comedy. It is strangely fascinating; sad in a way, but very human; for
nothing on earth, except one or two of the very great things of life,
is so democratic as the back-door of a public house. Soon after
breakfast, or even before, the tradesmen sneak round for their
pick-me-ups. Then the housewives go for their jugs of ale and stout.
Some people never enter the Alexandra except by the back way. They
march down the Gut as if on important business; then, in the twinkling
of an eye, they are gone within. One worn little woman, who wears a
loose cape and a squalid sailor hat, walks up and down