II XII STREETS

Church Street wears ever a smile, from having watched bright belles Coming home with young men, after balls, “at all hours.” Its villas don’t mind; they say, “Go it, young swells, We’ve been young too!” But Ebenezer Street glowers. Chapel deacons live here, with side whiskers and pompous wives, Who play hymns on Sundays, and deeply deplore sinful acts. They’re convinced that their neighbours lead scandalous private lives; —That you and I ought to be shot, “if one knew all the facts.” Goreham Street’s sad. Here lives old Jones the poet— He knew Swinburne and Watts, and has letters from “dear Charlie Keene.” Loo Isaacs lives here as well, and poor Captain Jowett: And the “Goreham Street Murder” was over at number thirteen. (Ah! graveyard of hope, street of death and foul night, Where the sun never peers and the days are a prelude to Hell: —Street of “rooms” and cheap scent, and of broken-down drabs who invite Their Bloomsbury loves to its terrible Temperance Hotel.) Now George Street (E.C.) strikes a cheerful and strenuous note; It is full of live men of business, of ’buses and noise; Of Surbiton gents, very sleek, in top-hat and fur coat; And earnest young clerks who perspire, and take classes for boys. But Hertford Street has a calm and a gently fastidious air! Here I shall live when I’m rich, with my wife and my car: When we are pleased, we never shout nor ruffle our hair, And a lift of the eyebrow will show how annoyed we are. This is where life is lived nobly and sweetly and well: Here are beauty, all hardly-won things, and courage and love. Why people worship the slums and the poor so, I can never tell, For it’s virtue and baths and good cooking go hand in glove!