The “Cheese” bar resembles no other in London. The customers are unique, and the names of their drinks are peculiar. The simplest and amplest is “whisky,” and that means Scotch whisky. No old customer of the “Cheese” would ever think of asking for “Scotch.” If anyone dares to say “Scotch,” he is marked down at once as one not yet inured to the ways of the bar. On the other hand, neither must he whisper “Irish”—certainly not! If he knows his “Cheese” he asks for “Cork,” and if he says “Irish” he is an ignoramus. Then who would mention “gin?” The word is absolutely vulgar, and should be confined to the East End and Mrs. Harris. No, no! the cognoscente calls for “rack”—an odd name, which may be meant to suggest the state of mind of the drinker on the morrow, or it may be a mere contraction of arrack. Punch, a mysterious and delectable compound, we had better not order in the bar, its consumption is so much more pleasant upstairs; but there is no reason why we should not admire the punch bowls, and having considered them and studied the portrait of an erstwhile waiter over the fireplace as much as they deserve, we probably turn about, and, as the eyes become accustomed to the darkness, find ourselves confronted with the way out. But don’t go for a while. You would probably like to see somebody in the bar. Adequately to people the bar would task the pencil of a Hogarth, the pen of a Thackeray. That more genial Hogarth of our time, the late Phil May, has indeed done it exceedingly well in his “Parson and the Painter.” But the human constituents of the bar’s society vary with the hour of the day. In the morning the journalistic element predominates. But it is when night begins to fall that the life of the bar is at its brightest. Then the blinds are drawn, the gas is lighted, and the full orchestra tunes up. The Cheeseites are in their glory, and what might be copy for a dozen comic papers elicits a little passing laughter and then is forgotten. When the sparkle has fled from the champagne, who can restore it? Here, however, are a few fragments of typical conversation. The bar is crowded, and floating in the ambient air one detects the rich voice of a Scotch poet who is being taken to task for his grammar. [Illustration: “THE WAY OUT.”] “It’s maybe not English at present, Mr. Bluggs; but wha maks your English? It’s your Shakespeares, your Multons, an _Me_!” From another part of the room comes the voice of an Englishman somewhat at a disadvantage among Irish and Scotch intonations of rich variety.