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diff --git a/1688-h/1688-h.htm b/1688-h/1688-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60a821f --- /dev/null +++ b/1688-h/1688-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9464 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The People of the Abyss, by Jack London</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The People of the Abyss, by Jack London</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The People of the Abyss</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Jack London</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March, 1999 [eBook #1688]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 1, 2020]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The People of the Abyss</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Jack London</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#pref01">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. THE DESCENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. JOHNNY UPRIGHT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. MY LODGING AND SOME OTHERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. A MAN AND THE ABYSS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. THOSE ON THE EDGE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. FRYING-PAN ALLEY AND A GLIMPSE OF INFERNO</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. A WINNER OF THE VICTORIA CROSS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. THE CARTER AND THE CARPENTER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. THE SPIKE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">X. CARRYING THE BANNER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. THE PEG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. CORONATION DAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. DAN CULLEN, DOCKER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. HOPS AND HOPPERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. THE SEA WIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. PROPERTY VERSUS PERSON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. INEFFICIENCY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. WAGES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">XIX. THE GHETTO</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">XX. COFFEE-HOUSES AND DOSS-HOUSES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">XXI. THE PRECARIOUSNESS OF LIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">XXII. SUICIDE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">XXIII. THE CHILDREN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">XXIV. A VISION OF THE NIGHT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">XXV. THE HUNGER WAIL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">XXVI. DRINK, TEMPERANCE, AND THRIFT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">XXVII. THE MANAGEMENT</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +The chief priests and rulers cry:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“O Lord and Master, not ours the guilt,<br /> +We build but as our fathers built;<br /> +Behold thine images how they stand<br /> +Sovereign and sole through all our land.<br /> +<br /> +“Our task is hard—with sword and flame,<br /> +To hold thine earth forever the same,<br /> +And with sharp crooks of steel to keep,<br /> +Still as thou leftest them, thy sheep.”<br /> +<br /> +Then Christ sought out an artisan,<br /> +A low-browed, stunted, haggard man,<br /> +And a motherless girl whose fingers thin<br /> +Crushed from her faintly want and sin.<br /> +<br /> +These set he in the midst of them,<br /> +And as they drew back their garment hem<br /> +For fear of defilement, “Lo, here,” said he,<br /> +“The images ye have made of me.” +</p> + +<p class="right"> +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="pref01"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +The experiences related in this volume fell to me in the summer of +1902. I went down into the under-world of London with an attitude +of mind which I may best liken to that of the explorer. I was +open to be convinced by the evidence of my eyes, rather than by the +teachings of those who had not seen, or by the words of those who had +seen and gone before. Further, I took with me certain simple criteria +with which to measure the life of the under-world. That which +made for more life, for physical and spiritual health, was good; that +which made for less life, which hurt, and dwarfed, and distorted life, +was bad. +</p> + +<p> +It will be readily apparent to the reader that I saw much that was +bad. Yet it must not be forgotten that the time of which I write +was considered “good times” in England. The starvation +and lack of shelter I encountered constituted a chronic condition of +misery which is never wiped out, even in the periods of greatest prosperity. +</p> + +<p> +Following the summer in question came a hard winter. Great +numbers of the unemployed formed into processions, as many as a dozen +at a time, and daily marched through the streets of London crying for +bread. Mr. Justin McCarthy, writing in the month of January 1903, +to the New York <i>Independent</i>, briefly epitomises the situation +as follows:— +</p> + +<p> +“The workhouses have no space left in which to +pack the starving crowds who are craving every day and night at their +doors for food and shelter. All the charitable institutions have +exhausted their means in trying to raise supplies of food for the famishing +residents of the garrets and cellars of London lanes and alleys. +The quarters of the Salvation Army in various parts of London are nightly +besieged by hosts of the unemployed and the hungry for whom neither +shelter nor the means of sustenance can be provided.” +</p> + +<p> +It has been urged that the criticism I have passed on things as they +are in England is too pessimistic. I must say, in extenuation, +that of optimists I am the most optimistic. But I measure manhood +less by political aggregations than by individuals. Society grows, +while political machines rack to pieces and become “scrap.” +For the English, so far as manhood and womanhood and health and happiness +go, I see a broad and smiling future. But for a great deal of +the political machinery, which at present mismanages for them, I see +nothing else than the scrap heap. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +JACK LONDON. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +PIEDMONT, CALIFORNIA. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +THE DESCENT</h2> + +<p> +“But you can’t do it, you know,” friends said, +to whom I applied for assistance in the matter of sinking myself down +into the East End of London. “You had better see the police +for a guide,” they added, on second thought, painfully endeavouring +to adjust themselves to the psychological processes of a madman who +had come to them with better credentials than brains. +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t want to see the police,” I protested. +“What I wish to do is to go down into the East End and see things +for myself. I wish to know how those people are living there, +and why they are living there, and what they are living for. In +short, I am going to live there myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want to <i>live</i> down there!” everybody +said, with disapprobation writ large upon their faces. “Why, +it is said there are places where a man’s life isn’t worth +tu’pence.” +</p> + +<p> +“The very places I wish to see,” I broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t, you know,” was the unfailing rejoinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is not what I came to see you about,” I answered +brusquely, somewhat nettled by their incomprehension. “I +am a stranger here, and I want you to tell me what you know of the East +End, in order that I may have something to start on.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we know nothing of the East End. It is over there, +somewhere.” And they waved their hands vaguely in the direction +where the sun on rare occasions may be seen to rise. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall go to Cook’s,” I announced. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” they said, with relief. “Cook’s +will be sure to know.” +</p> + +<p> +But O Cook, O Thomas Cook & Son, path-finders and trail-clearers, +living sign-posts to all the world, and bestowers of first aid to bewildered +travellers—unhesitatingly and instantly, with ease and celerity, +could you send me to Darkest Africa or Innermost Thibet, but to the +East End of London, barely a stone’s throw distant from Ludgate +Circus, you know not the way! +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t do it, you know,” said the human emporium +of routes and fares at Cook’s Cheapside branch. “It +is so—hem—so unusual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Consult the police,” he concluded authoritatively, when +I had persisted. “We are not accustomed to taking travellers +to the East End; we receive no call to take them there, and we know +nothing whatsoever about the place at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that,” I interposed, to save myself from +being swept out of the office by his flood of negations. “Here’s +something you can do for me. I wish you to understand in advance +what I intend doing, so that in case of trouble you may be able to identify +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I see! should you be murdered, we would be in position +to identify the corpse.” +</p> + +<p> +He said it so cheerfully and cold-bloodedly that on the instant I +saw my stark and mutilated cadaver stretched upon a slab where cool +waters trickle ceaselessly, and him I saw bending over and sadly and +patiently identifying it as the body of the insane American who <i>would</i> +see the East End. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” I answered; “merely to identify me in +case I get into a scrape with the ’bobbies.’” +This last I said with a thrill; truly, I was gripping hold of the vernacular. +</p> + +<p> +“That,” he said, “is a matter for the consideration +of the Chief Office.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is so unprecedented, you know,” he added apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +The man at the Chief Office hemmed and hawed. “We make +it a rule,” he explained, “to give no information concerning +our clients.” +</p> + +<p> +“But in this case,” I urged, “it is the client +who requests you to give the information concerning himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Again he hemmed and hawed. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” I hastily anticipated, “I know it +is unprecedented, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“As I was about to remark,” he went on steadily, “it +is unprecedented, and I don’t think we can do anything for you.” +</p> + +<p> +However, I departed with the address of a detective who lived in +the East End, and took my way to the American consul-general. +And here, at last, I found a man with whom I could “do business.” +There was no hemming and hawing, no lifted brows, open incredulity, +or blank amazement. In one minute I explained myself and my project, +which he accepted as a matter of course. In the second minute +he asked my age, height, and weight, and looked me over. And in +the third minute, as we shook hands at parting, he said: “All +right, Jack. I’ll remember you and keep track.” +</p> + +<p> +I breathed a sigh of relief. Having burnt my ships behind me, +I was now free to plunge into that human wilderness of which nobody +seemed to know anything. But at once I encountered a new difficulty +in the shape of my cabby, a grey-whiskered and eminently decorous personage +who had imperturbably driven me for several hours about the “City.” +</p> + +<p> +“Drive me down to the East End,” I ordered, taking my +seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Where, sir?” he demanded with frank surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“To the East End, anywhere. Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +The hansom pursued an aimless way for several minutes, then came +to a puzzled stop. The aperture above my head was uncovered, and +the cabman peered down perplexedly at me. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” he said, “wot plyce yer wanter go?” +</p> + +<p> +“East End,” I repeated. “Nowhere in particular. +Just drive me around anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“But wot’s the haddress, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“See here!” I thundered. “Drive me down to +the East End, and at once!” +</p> + +<p> +It was evident that he did not understand, but he withdrew his head, +and grumblingly started his horse. +</p> + +<p> +Nowhere in the streets of London may one escape the sight of abject +poverty, while five minutes’ walk from almost any point will bring +one to a slum; but the region my hansom was now penetrating was one +unending slum. The streets were filled with a new and different +race of people, short of stature, and of wretched or beer-sodden appearance. +We rolled along through miles of bricks and squalor, and from each cross +street and alley flashed long vistas of bricks and misery. Here +and there lurched a drunken man or woman, and the air was obscene with +sounds of jangling and squabbling. At a market, tottery old men +and women were searching in the garbage thrown in the mud for rotten +potatoes, beans, and vegetables, while little children clustered like +flies around a festering mass of fruit, thrusting their arms to the +shoulders into the liquid corruption, and drawing forth morsels but +partially decayed, which they devoured on the spot. +</p> + +<p> +Not a hansom did I meet with in all my drive, while mine was like +an apparition from another and better world, the way the children ran +after it and alongside. And as far as I could see were the solid +walls of brick, the slimy pavements, and the screaming streets; and +for the first time in my life the fear of the crowd smote me. +It was like the fear of the sea; and the miserable multitudes, street +upon street, seemed so many waves of a vast and malodorous sea, lapping +about me and threatening to well up and over me. +</p> + +<p> +“Stepney, sir; Stepney Station,” the cabby called down. +</p> + +<p> +I looked about. It was really a railroad station, and he had +driven desperately to it as the one familiar spot he had ever heard +of in all that wilderness. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +He spluttered unintelligibly, shook his head, and looked very miserable. +“I’m a strynger ’ere,” he managed to articulate. +“An’ if yer don’t want Stepney Station, I’m +blessed if I know wotcher do want.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you what I want,” I said. “You +drive along and keep your eye out for a shop where old clothes are sold. +Now, when you see such a shop, drive right on till you turn the corner, +then stop and let me out.” +</p> + +<p> +I could see that he was growing dubious of his fare, but not long +afterwards he pulled up to the curb and informed me that an old-clothes +shop was to be found a bit of the way back. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’tcher py me?” he pleaded. “There’s +seven an’ six owin’ me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I laughed, “and it would be the last I’d +see of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord lumme, but it’ll be the last I see of you if yer +don’t py me,” he retorted. +</p> + +<p> +But a crowd of ragged onlookers had already gathered around the cab, +and I laughed again and walked back to the old-clothes shop. +</p> + +<p> +Here the chief difficulty was in making the shopman understand that +I really and truly wanted old clothes. But after fruitless attempts +to press upon me new and impossible coats and trousers, he began to +bring to light heaps of old ones, looking mysterious the while and hinting +darkly. This he did with the palpable intention of letting me +know that he had “piped my lay,” in order to bulldose me, +through fear of exposure, into paying heavily for my purchases. +A man in trouble, or a high-class criminal from across the water, was +what he took my measure for—in either case, a person anxious to +avoid the police. +</p> + +<p> +But I disputed with him over the outrageous difference between prices +and values, till I quite disabused him of the notion, and he settled +down to drive a hard bargain with a hard customer. In the end +I selected a pair of stout though well-worn trousers, a frayed jacket +with one remaining button, a pair of brogans which had plainly seen +service where coal was shovelled, a thin leather belt, and a very dirty +cloth cap. My underclothing and socks, however, were new and warm, +but of the sort that any American waif, down in his luck, could acquire +in the ordinary course of events. +</p> + +<p> +“I must sy yer a sharp ’un,” he said, with counterfeit +admiration, as I handed over the ten shillings finally agreed upon for +the outfit. “Blimey, if you ain’t ben up an’ +down Petticut Lane afore now. Yer trouseys is wuth five bob to +hany man, an’ a docker ’ud give two an’ six for the +shoes, to sy nothin’ of the coat an’ cap an’ new stoker’s +singlet an’ hother things.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much will you give me for them?” I demanded suddenly. +“I paid you ten bob for the lot, and I’ll sell them back +to you, right now, for eight! Come, it’s a go!” +</p> + +<p> +But he grinned and shook his head, and though I had made a good bargain, +I was unpleasantly aware that he had made a better one. +</p> + +<p> +I found the cabby and a policeman with their heads together, but +the latter, after looking me over sharply, and particularly scrutinizing +the bundle under my arm, turned away and left the cabby to wax mutinous +by himself. And not a step would he budge till I paid him the +seven shillings and sixpence owing him. Whereupon he was willing +to drive me to the ends of the earth, apologising profusely for his +insistence, and explaining that one ran across queer customers in London +Town. +</p> + +<p> +But he drove me only to Highbury Vale, in North London, where my +luggage was waiting for me. Here, next day, I took off my shoes +(not without regret for their lightness and comfort), and my soft, grey +travelling suit, and, in fact, all my clothing; and proceeded to array +myself in the clothes of the other and unimaginable men, who must have +been indeed unfortunate to have had to part with such rags for the pitiable +sums obtainable from a dealer. +</p> + +<p> +Inside my stoker’s singlet, in the armpit, I sewed a gold sovereign +(an emergency sum certainly of modest proportions); and inside my stoker’s +singlet I put myself. And then I sat down and moralised upon the +fair years and fat, which had made my skin soft and brought the nerves +close to the surface; for the singlet was rough and raspy as a hair +shirt, and I am confident that the most rigorous of ascetics suffer +no more than I did in the ensuing twenty-four hours. +</p> + +<p> +The remainder of my costume was fairly easy to put on, though the brogans, or +brogues, were quite a problem. As stiff and hard as if made of wood, it was +only after a prolonged pounding of the uppers with my fists that I was able to +get my feet into them at all. Then, with a few shillings, a knife, a +handkerchief, and some brown papers and flake tobacco stowed away in my +pockets, I thumped down the stairs and said good-bye to my foreboding friends. +As I passed out of the door, the “help,” a comely middle-aged +woman, could not conquer a grin that twisted her lips and separated them till +the throat, out of involuntary sympathy, made the uncouth animal noises we are +wont to designate as “laughter.” +</p> + +<p> +No sooner was I out on the streets than I was impressed by the difference +in status effected by my clothes. All servility vanished from +the demeanour of the common people with whom I came in contact. +Presto! in the twinkling of an eye, so to say, I had become one of them. +My frayed and out-at-elbows jacket was the badge and advertisement of +my class, which was their class. It made me of like kind, and +in place of the fawning and too respectful attention I had hitherto +received, I now shared with them a comradeship. The man in corduroy +and dirty neckerchief no longer addressed me as “sir” or +“governor.” It was “mate” now—and +a fine and hearty word, with a tingle to it, and a warmth and gladness, +which the other term does not possess. Governor! It smacks +of mastery, and power, and high authority—the tribute of the man +who is under to the man on top, delivered in the hope that he will let +up a bit and ease his weight, which is another way of saying that it +is an appeal for alms. +</p> + +<p> +This brings me to a delight I experienced in my rags and tatters +which is denied the average American abroad. The European traveller +from the States, who is not a Croesus, speedily finds himself reduced +to a chronic state of self-conscious sordidness by the hordes of cringing +robbers who clutter his steps from dawn till dark, and deplete his pocket-book +in a way that puts compound interest to the blush. +</p> + +<p> +In my rags and tatters I escaped the pestilence of tipping, and encountered +men on a basis of equality. Nay, before the day was out I turned +the tables, and said, most gratefully, “Thank you, sir,” +to a gentleman whose horse I held, and who dropped a penny into my eager +palm. +</p> + +<p> +Other changes I discovered were wrought in my condition by my new +garb. In crossing crowded thoroughfares I found I had to be, if +anything, more lively in avoiding vehicles, and it was strikingly impressed +upon me that my life had cheapened in direct ratio with my clothes. +When before I inquired the way of a policeman, I was usually asked, +“Bus or ’ansom, sir?” But now the query became, +“Walk or ride?” Also, at the railway stations, a third-class +ticket was now shoved out to me as a matter of course. +</p> + +<p> +But there was compensation for it all. For the first time I +met the English lower classes face to face, and knew them for what they +were. When loungers and workmen, at street corners and in public-houses, +talked with me, they talked as one man to another, and they talked as +natural men should talk, without the least idea of getting anything +out of me for what they talked or the way they talked. +</p> + +<p> +And when at last I made into the East End, I was gratified to find +that the fear of the crowd no longer haunted me. I had become +a part of it. The vast and malodorous sea had welled up and over +me, or I had slipped gently into it, and there was nothing fearsome +about it—with the one exception of the stoker’s singlet. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +JOHNNY UPRIGHT</h2> + +<p> +I shall not give you the address of Johnny Upright. Let it +suffice that he lives in the most respectable street in the East End—a +street that would be considered very mean in America, but a veritable +oasis in the desert of East London. It is surrounded on every +side by close-packed squalor and streets jammed by a young and vile +and dirty generation; but its own pavements are comparatively bare of +the children who have no other place to play, while it has an air of +desertion, so few are the people that come and go. +</p> + +<p> +Each house in this street, as in all the streets, is shoulder to +shoulder with its neighbours. To each house there is but one entrance, +the front door; and each house is about eighteen feet wide, with a bit +of a brick-walled yard behind, where, when it is not raining, one may +look at a slate-coloured sky. But it must be understood that this +is East End opulence we are now considering. Some of the people +in this street are even so well-to-do as to keep a “slavey.” +Johnny Upright keeps one, as I well know, she being my first acquaintance +in this particular portion of the world. +</p> + +<p> +To Johnny Upright’s house I came, and to the door came the +“slavey.” Now, mark you, her position in life was +pitiable and contemptible, but it was with pity and contempt that she +looked at me. She evinced a plain desire that our conversation +should be short. It was Sunday, and Johnny Upright was not at +home, and that was all there was to it. But I lingered, discussing +whether or not it was all there was to it, till Mrs. Johnny Upright +was attracted to the door, where she scolded the girl for not having +closed it before turning her attention to me. +</p> + +<p> +No, Mr. Johnny Upright was not at home, and further, he saw nobody +on Sunday. It is too bad, said I. Was I looking for work? +No, quite the contrary; in fact, I had come to see Johnny Upright on +business which might be profitable to him. +</p> + +<p> +A change came over the face of things at once. The gentleman +in question was at church, but would be home in an hour or thereabouts, +when no doubt he could be seen. +</p> + +<p> +Would I kindly step in?—no, the lady did not ask me, though +I fished for an invitation by stating that I would go down to the corner +and wait in a public-house. And down to the corner I went, but, +it being church time, the “pub” was closed. A miserable +drizzle was falling, and, in lieu of better, I took a seat on a neighbourly +doorstep and waited. +</p> + +<p> +And here to the doorstep came the “slavey,” very frowzy +and very perplexed, to tell me that the missus would let me come back +and wait in the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“So many people come ’ere lookin’ for work,” +Mrs. Johnny Upright apologetically explained. “So I ’ope +you won’t feel bad the way I spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, not at all,” I replied in my grandest manner, +for the nonce investing my rags with dignity. “I quite understand, +I assure you. I suppose people looking for work almost worry you +to death?” +</p> + +<p> +“That they do,” she answered, with an eloquent and expressive +glance; and thereupon ushered me into, not the kitchen, but the dining +room—a favour, I took it, in recompense for my grand manner. +</p> + +<p> +This dining-room, on the same floor as the kitchen, was about four +feet below the level of the ground, and so dark (it was midday) that +I had to wait a space for my eyes to adjust themselves to the gloom. +Dirty light filtered in through a window, the top of which was on a +level with a sidewalk, and in this light I found that I was able to +read newspaper print. +</p> + +<p> +And here, while waiting the coming of Johnny Upright, let me explain my errand. +While living, eating, and sleeping with the people of the East End, it was my +intention to have a port of refuge, not too far distant, into which I could run +now and again to assure myself that good clothes and cleanliness still existed. +Also in such port I could receive my mail, work up my notes, and sally forth +occasionally in changed garb to civilisation. +</p> + +<p> +But this involved a dilemma. A lodging where my property would +be safe implied a landlady apt to be suspicious of a gentleman leading +a double life; while a landlady who would not bother her head over the +double life of her lodgers would imply lodgings where property was unsafe. +To avoid the dilemma was what had brought me to Johnny Upright. +A detective of thirty-odd years’ continuous service in the East +End, known far and wide by a name given him by a convicted felon in +the dock, he was just the man to find me an honest landlady, and make +her rest easy concerning the strange comings and goings of which I might +be guilty. +</p> + +<p> +His two daughters beat him home from church—and pretty girls +they were in their Sunday dresses; withal it was the certain weak and +delicate prettiness which characterises the Cockney lasses, a prettiness +which is no more than a promise with no grip on time, and doomed to +fade quickly away like the colour from a sunset sky. +</p> + +<p> +They looked me over with frank curiosity, as though I were some sort +of a strange animal, and then ignored me utterly for the rest of my +wait. Then Johnny Upright himself arrived, and I was summoned +upstairs to confer with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak loud,” he interrupted my opening words. +“I’ve got a bad cold, and I can’t hear well.” +</p> + +<p> +Shades of Old Sleuth and Sherlock Holmes! I wondered as to +where the assistant was located whose duty it was to take down whatever +information I might loudly vouchsafe. And to this day, much as +I have seen of Johnny Upright and much as I have puzzled over the incident, +I have never been quite able to make up my mind as to whether or not +he had a cold, or had an assistant planted in the other room. +But of one thing I am sure: though I gave Johnny Upright the facts concerning +myself and project, he withheld judgment till next day, when I dodged +into his street conventionally garbed and in a hansom. Then his +greeting was cordial enough, and I went down into the dining-room to +join the family at tea. +</p> + +<p> +“We are humble here,” he said, “not given to the +flesh, and you must take us for what we are, in our humble way.” +</p> + +<p> +The girls were flushed and embarrassed at greeting me, while he did +not make it any the easier for them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! ha!” he roared heartily, slapping the table with +his open hand till the dishes rang. “The girls thought yesterday +you had come to ask for a piece of bread! Ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!” +</p> + +<p> +This they indignantly denied, with snapping eyes and guilty red cheeks, +as though it were an essential of true refinement to be able to discern +under his rags a man who had no need to go ragged. +</p> + +<p> +And then, while I ate bread and marmalade, proceeded a play at cross +purposes, the daughters deeming it an insult to me that I should have +been mistaken for a beggar, and the father considering it as the highest +compliment to my cleverness to succeed in being so mistaken. All +of which I enjoyed, and the bread, the marmalade, and the tea, till +the time came for Johnny Upright to find me a lodging, which he did, +not half-a-dozen doors away, in his own respectable and opulent street, +in a house as like to his own as a pea to its mate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +MY LODGING AND SOME OTHERS</h2> + +<p> +From an East London standpoint, the room I rented for six shillings, +or a dollar and a half, per week, was a most comfortable affair. +From the American standpoint, on the other hand, it was rudely furnished, +uncomfortable, and small. By the time I had added an ordinary +typewriter table to its scanty furnishing, I was hard put to turn around; +at the best, I managed to navigate it by a sort of vermicular progression +requiring great dexterity and presence of mind. +</p> + +<p> +Having settled myself, or my property rather, I put on my knockabout +clothes and went out for a walk. Lodgings being fresh in my mind, +I began to look them up, bearing in mind the hypothesis that I was a +poor young man with a wife and large family. +</p> + +<p> +My first discovery was that empty houses were few and far between—so +far between, in fact, that though I walked miles in irregular circles +over a large area, I still remained between. Not one empty house +could I find—a conclusive proof that the district was “saturated.” +</p> + +<p> +It being plain that as a poor young man with a family I could rent +no houses at all in this most undesirable region, I next looked for +rooms, unfurnished rooms, in which I could store my wife and babies +and chattels. There were not many, but I found them, usually in +the singular, for one appears to be considered sufficient for a poor +man’s family in which to cook and eat and sleep. When I +asked for two rooms, the sublettees looked at me very much in the manner, +I imagine, that a certain personage looked at Oliver Twist when he asked +for more. +</p> + +<p> +Not only was one room deemed sufficient for a poor man and his family, +but I learned that many families, occupying single rooms, had so much +space to spare as to be able to take in a lodger or two. When +such rooms can be rented for from three to six shillings per week, it +is a fair conclusion that a lodger with references should obtain floor +space for, say, from eightpence to a shilling. He may even be +able to board with the sublettees for a few shillings more. This, +however, I failed to inquire into—a reprehensible error on my +part, considering that I was working on the basis of a hypothetical +family. +</p> + +<p> +Not only did the houses I investigated have no bath-tubs, but I learned +that there were no bath-tubs in all the thousands of houses I had seen. +Under the circumstances, with my wife and babies and a couple of lodgers +suffering from the too great spaciousness of one room, taking a bath +in a tin wash-basin would be an unfeasible undertaking. But, it +seems, the compensation comes in with the saving of soap, so all’s +well, and God’s still in heaven. +</p> + +<p> +However, I rented no rooms, but returned to my own Johnny Upright’s +street. What with my wife, and babies, and lodgers, and the various +cubby-holes into which I had fitted them, my mind’s eye had become +narrow-angled, and I could not quite take in all of my own room at once. +The immensity of it was awe-inspiring. Could this be the room +I had rented for six shillings a week? Impossible! But my +landlady, knocking at the door to learn if I were comfortable, dispelled +my doubts. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, sir,” she said, in reply to a question. +“This street is the very last. All the other streets were +like this eight or ten years ago, and all the people were very respectable. +But the others have driven our kind out. Those in this street +are the only ones left. It’s shocking, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +And then she explained the process of saturation, by which the rental +value of a neighbourhood went up, while its tone went down. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, sir, our kind are not used to crowding in the way +the others do. We need more room. The others, the foreigners +and lower-class people, can get five and six families into this house, +where we only get one. So they can pay more rent for the house +than we can afford. It <i>is</i> shocking, sir; and just to think, +only a few years ago all this neighbourhood was just as nice as it could +be.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at her. Here was a woman, of the finest grade of the +English working-class, with numerous evidences of refinement, being +slowly engulfed by that noisome and rotten tide of humanity which the +powers that be are pouring eastward out of London Town. Bank, +factory, hotel, and office building must go up, and the city poor folk +are a nomadic breed; so they migrate eastward, wave upon wave, saturating +and degrading neighbourhood by neighbourhood, driving the better class +of workers before them to pioneer, on the rim of the city, or dragging +them down, if not in the first generation, surely in the second and +third. +</p> + +<p> +It is only a question of months when Johnny Upright’s street +must go. He realises it himself. +</p> + +<p> +“In a couple of years,” he says, “my lease expires. +My landlord is one of our kind. He has not put up the rent on +any of his houses here, and this has enabled us to stay. But any +day he may sell, or any day he may die, which is the same thing so far +as we are concerned. The house is bought by a money breeder, who +builds a sweat shop on the patch of ground at the rear where my grapevine +is, adds to the house, and rents it a room to a family. There +you are, and Johnny Upright’s gone!” +</p> + +<p> +And truly I saw Johnny Upright, and his good wife and fair daughters, +and frowzy slavey, like so many ghosts flitting eastward through the +gloom, the monster city roaring at their heels. +</p> + +<p> +But Johnny Upright is not alone in his flitting. Far, far out, +on the fringe of the city, live the small business men, little managers, +and successful clerks. They dwell in cottages and semi-detached +villas, with bits of flower garden, and elbow room, and breathing space. +They inflate themselves with pride, and throw out their chests when +they contemplate the Abyss from which they have escaped, and they thank +God that they are not as other men. And lo! down upon them comes +Johnny Upright and the monster city at his heels. Tenements spring +up like magic, gardens are built upon, villas are divided and subdivided +into many dwellings, and the black night of London settles down in a +greasy pall. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +A MAN AND THE ABYSS</h2> + +<p> +“I say, can you let a lodging?” +</p> + +<p> +These words I discharged carelessly over my shoulder at a stout and +elderly woman, of whose fare I was partaking in a greasy coffee-house +down near the Pool and not very far from Limehouse. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yus,” she answered shortly, my appearance possibly +not approximating the standard of affluence required by her house. +</p> + +<p> +I said no more, consuming my rasher of bacon and pint of sickly tea +in silence. Nor did she take further interest in me till I came +to pay my reckoning (fourpence), when I pulled all of ten shillings +out of my pocket. The expected result was produced. +</p> + +<p> +“Yus, sir,” she at once volunteered; “I ’ave +nice lodgin’s you’d likely tyke a fancy to. Back from +a voyage, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“How much for a room?” I inquired, ignoring her curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +She looked me up and down with frank surprise. “I don’t +let rooms, not to my reg’lar lodgers, much less casuals.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll have to look along a bit,” I said, with +marked disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +But the sight of my ten shillings had made her keen. “I +can let you have a nice bed in with two hother men,” she urged. +“Good, respectable men, an’ steady.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t want to sleep with two other men,” +I objected. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t ’ave to. There’s three beds +in the room, an’ hit’s not a very small room.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“’Arf a crown a week, two an’ six, to a regular +lodger. You’ll fancy the men, I’m sure. One +works in the ware’ouse, an’ ’e’s been with me +two years now. An’ the hother’s bin with me six—six +years, sir, an’ two months comin’ nex’ Saturday. +’E’s a scene-shifter,” she went on. “A +steady, respectable man, never missin’ a night’s work in +the time ’e’s bin with me. An’ ’e likes +the ’ouse; ’e says as it’s the best ’e can do +in the w’y of lodgin’s. I board ’im, an’ +the hother lodgers too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he’s saving money right along,” I insinuated +innocently. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, no! Nor can ’e do as well helsewhere +with ’is money.” +</p> + +<p> +And I thought of my own spacious West, with room under its sky and +unlimited air for a thousand Londons; and here was this man, a steady +and reliable man, never missing a night’s work, frugal and honest, +lodging in one room with two other men, paying two dollars and a half +per month for it, and out of his experience adjudging it to be the best +he could do! And here was I, on the strength of the ten shillings +in my pocket, able to enter in with my rags and take up my bed with +him. The human soul is a lonely thing, but it must be very lonely +sometimes when there are three beds to a room, and casuals with ten +shillings are admitted. +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you been here?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Thirteen years, sir; an’ don’t you think you’ll +fancy the lodgin’?” +</p> + +<p> +The while she talked she was shuffling ponderously about the small +kitchen in which she cooked the food for her lodgers who were also boarders. +When I first entered, she had been hard at work, nor had she let up +once throughout the conversation. Undoubtedly she was a busy woman. +“Up at half-past five,” “to bed the last thing at +night,” “workin’ fit ter drop,” thirteen years +of it, and for reward, grey hairs, frowzy clothes, stooped shoulders, +slatternly figure, unending toil in a foul and noisome coffee-house +that faced on an alley ten feet between the walls, and a waterside environment +that was ugly and sickening, to say the least. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be hin hagain to ’ave a look?” she +questioned wistfully, as I went out of the door. +</p> + +<p> +And as I turned and looked at her, I realized to the full the deeper +truth underlying that very wise old maxim: “Virtue is its own +reward.” +</p> + +<p> +I went back to her. “Have you ever taken a vacation?” +I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Vycytion!” +</p> + +<p> +“A trip to the country for a couple of days, fresh air, a day +off, you know, a rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lor’ lumme!” she laughed, for the first time stopping +from her work. “A vycytion, eh? for the likes o’ me? +Just fancy, now!—Mind yer feet!”—this last sharply, +and to me, as I stumbled over the rotten threshold. +</p> + +<p> +Down near the West India Dock I came upon a young fellow staring +disconsolately at the muddy water. A fireman’s cap was pulled +down across his eyes, and the fit and sag of his clothes whispered unmistakably +of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, mate,” I greeted him, sparring for a beginning. +“Can you tell me the way to Wapping?” +</p> + +<p> +“Worked yer way over on a cattle boat?” he countered, +fixing my nationality on the instant. +</p> + +<p> +And thereupon we entered upon a talk that extended itself to a public-house +and a couple of pints of “arf an’ arf.” This +led to closer intimacy, so that when I brought to light all of a shilling’s +worth of coppers (ostensibly my all), and put aside sixpence for a bed, +and sixpence for more arf an’ arf, he generously proposed that +we drink up the whole shilling. +</p> + +<p> +“My mate, ’e cut up rough las’ night,” he +explained. “An’ the bobbies got ’m, so you can +bunk in wi’ me. Wotcher say?” +</p> + +<p> +I said yes, and by the time we had soaked ourselves in a whole shilling’s +worth of beer, and slept the night on a miserable bed in a miserable +den, I knew him pretty fairly for what he was. And that in one +respect he was representative of a large body of the lower-class London +workman, my later experience substantiates. +</p> + +<p> +He was London-born, his father a fireman and a drinker before him. +As a child, his home was the streets and the docks. He had never +learned to read, and had never felt the need for it—a vain and +useless accomplishment, he held, at least for a man of his station in +life. +</p> + +<p> +He had had a mother and numerous squalling brothers and sisters, +all crammed into a couple of rooms and living on poorer and less regular +food than he could ordinarily rustle for himself. In fact, he +never went home except at periods when he was unfortunate in procuring +his own food. Petty pilfering and begging along the streets and +docks, a trip or two to sea as mess-boy, a few trips more as coal-trimmer, +and then a full-fledged fireman, he had reached the top of his life. +</p> + +<p> +And in the course of this he had also hammered out a philosophy of +life, an ugly and repulsive philosophy, but withal a very logical and +sensible one from his point of view. When I asked him what he +lived for, he immediately answered, “Booze.” A voyage +to sea (for a man must live and get the wherewithal), and then the paying +off and the big drunk at the end. After that, haphazard little +drunks, sponged in the “pubs” from mates with a few coppers +left, like myself, and when sponging was played out another trip to +sea and a repetition of the beastly cycle. +</p> + +<p> +“But women,” I suggested, when he had finished proclaiming +booze the sole end of existence. +</p> + +<p> +“Wimmen!” He thumped his pot upon the bar and orated +eloquently. “Wimmen is a thing my edication ’as learnt +me t’ let alone. It don’t pay, matey; it don’t +pay. Wot’s a man like me want o’ wimmen, eh? jest +you tell me. There was my mar, she was enough, a-bangin’ +the kids about an’ makin’ the ole man mis’rable when +’e come ’ome, w’ich was seldom, I grant. An’ +fer w’y? Becos o’ mar! She didn’t make +’is ’ome ’appy, that was w’y. Then, there’s +the other wimmen, ’ow do they treat a pore stoker with a few shillin’s +in ’is trouseys? A good drunk is wot ’e’s got +in ’is pockits, a good long drunk, an’ the wimmen skin ’im +out of his money so quick ’e ain’t ’ad ’ardly +a glass. I know. I’ve ’ad my fling, an’ +I know wot’s wot. An’ I tell you, where’s wimmen +is trouble—screechin’ an’ carryin’ on, fightin’, +cuttin’, bobbies, magistrates, an’ a month’s ’ard +labour back of it all, an’ no pay-day when you come out.” +</p> + +<p> +“But a wife and children,” I insisted. “A +home of your own, and all that. Think of it, back from a voyage, +little children climbing on your knee, and the wife happy and smiling, +and a kiss for you when she lays the table, and a kiss all round from +the babies when they go to bed, and the kettle singing and the long +talk afterwards of where you’ve been and what you’ve seen, +and of her and all the little happenings at home while you’ve +been away, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Garn!” he cried, with a playful shove of his fist on +my shoulder. “Wot’s yer game, eh? A missus kissin’ +an’ kids clim’in’, an’ kettle singin’, +all on four poun’ ten a month w’en you ’ave a ship, +an’ four nothin’ w’en you ’aven’t. +I’ll tell you wot I’d get on four poun’ ten—a +missus rowin’, kids squallin’, no coal t’ make the +kettle sing, an’ the kettle up the spout, that’s wot I’d +get. Enough t’ make a bloke bloomin’ well glad to +be back t’ sea. A missus! Wot for? T’ +make you mis’rable? Kids? Jest take my counsel, matey, +an’ don’t ’ave ’em. Look at me! +I can ’ave my beer w’en I like, an’ no blessed missus +an’ kids a-crying for bread. I’m ’appy, I am, +with my beer an’ mates like you, an’ a good ship comin’, +an’ another trip to sea. So I say, let’s ’ave +another pint. Arf an’ arf’s good enough for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Without going further with the speech of this young fellow of two-and-twenty, +I think I have sufficiently indicated his philosophy of life and the +underlying economic reason for it. Home life he had never known. +The word “home” aroused nothing but unpleasant associations. +In the low wages of his father, and of other men in the same walk in +life, he found sufficient reason for branding wife and children as encumbrances +and causes of masculine misery. An unconscious hedonist, utterly +unmoral and materialistic, he sought the greatest possible happiness +for himself, and found it in drink. +</p> + +<p> +A young sot; a premature wreck; physical inability to do a stoker’s +work; the gutter or the workhouse; and the end—he saw it all as +clearly as I, but it held no terrors for him. From the moment +of his birth, all the forces of his environment had tended to harden +him, and he viewed his wretched, inevitable future with a callousness +and unconcern I could not shake. +</p> + +<p> +And yet he was not a bad man. He was not inherently vicious +and brutal. He had normal mentality, and a more than average physique. +His eyes were blue and round, shaded by long lashes, and wide apart. +And there was a laugh in them, and a fund of humour behind. The +brow and general features were good, the mouth and lips sweet, though +already developing a harsh twist. The chin was weak, but not too +weak; I have seen men sitting in the high places with weaker. +</p> + +<p> +His head was shapely, and so gracefully was it poised upon a perfect +neck that I was not surprised by his body that night when he stripped +for bed. I have seen many men strip, in gymnasium and training +quarters, men of good blood and upbringing, but I have never seen one +who stripped to better advantage than this young sot of two-and-twenty, +this young god doomed to rack and ruin in four or five short years, +and to pass hence without posterity to receive the splendid heritage +it was his to bequeath. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed sacrilege to waste such life, and yet I was forced to confess +that he was right in not marrying on four pounds ten in London Town. +Just as the scene-shifter was happier in making both ends meet in a +room shared with two other men, than he would have been had he packed +a feeble family along with a couple of men into a cheaper room, and +failed in making both ends meet. +</p> + +<p> +And day by day I became convinced that not only is it unwise, but +it is criminal for the people of the Abyss to marry. They are +the stones by the builder rejected. There is no place for them, +in the social fabric, while all the forces of society drive them downward +till they perish. At the bottom of the Abyss they are feeble, +besotted, and imbecile. If they reproduce, the life is so cheap +that perforce it perishes of itself. The work of the world goes +on above them, and they do not care to take part in it, nor are they +able. Moreover, the work of the world does not need them. +There are plenty, far fitter than they, clinging to the steep slope +above, and struggling frantically to slide no more. +</p> + +<p> +In short, the London Abyss is a vast shambles. Year by year, +and decade after decade, rural England pours in a flood of vigorous +strong life, that not only does not renew itself, but perishes by the +third generation. Competent authorities aver that the London workman +whose parents and grand-parents were born in London is so remarkable +a specimen that he is rarely found. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. A. C. Pigou has said that the aged poor, and the residuum which +compose the “submerged tenth,” constitute 71 per cent, of +the population of London. Which is to say that last year, and +yesterday, and to-day, at this very moment, 450,000 of these creatures +are dying miserably at the bottom of the social pit called “London.” +As to how they die, I shall take an instance from this morning’s +paper. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +SELF-NEGLECT +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Yesterday Dr. Wynn Westcott held an inquest at Shoreditch, respecting the death +of Elizabeth Crews, aged 77 years, of 32 East Street, Holborn, who died on +Wednesday last. Alice Mathieson stated that she was landlady of the house where +deceased lived. Witness last saw her alive on the previous Monday. She lived +quite alone. Mr. Francis Birch, relieving officer for the Holborn district, +stated that deceased had occupied the room in question for thirty-five years. +When witness was called, on the 1st, he found the old woman in a terrible +state, and the ambulance and coachman had to be disinfected after the removal. +Dr. Chase Fennell said death was due to blood-poisoning from bed-sores, due to +self-neglect and filthy surroundings, and the jury returned a verdict to that +effect. +</p> + +<p> +The most startling thing about this little incident of a woman’s +death is the smug complacency with which the officials looked upon it +and rendered judgment. That an old woman of seventy-seven years +of age should die of SELF-NEGLECT is the most optimistic way possible +of looking at it. It was the old dead woman’s fault that +she died, and having located the responsibility, society goes contentedly +on about its own affairs. +</p> + +<p> +Of the “submerged tenth” Mr. Pigou has said: “Either +through lack of bodily strength, or of intelligence, or of fibre, or +of all three, they are inefficient or unwilling workers, and consequently +unable to support themselves . . . They are often so degraded in intellect +as to be incapable of distinguishing their right from their left hand, +or of recognising the numbers of their own houses; their bodies are +feeble and without stamina, their affections are warped, and they scarcely +know what family life means.” +</p> + +<p> +Four hundred and fifty thousand is a whole lot of people. The +young fireman was only one, and it took him some time to say his little +say. I should not like to hear them all talk at once. I +wonder if God hears them? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +THOSE ON THE EDGE</h2> + +<p> +My first impression of East London was naturally a general one. +Later the details began to appear, and here and there in the chaos of +misery I found little spots where a fair measure of happiness reigned—sometimes +whole rows of houses in little out-of-the-way streets, where artisans +dwell and where a rude sort of family life obtains. In the evenings +the men can be seen at the doors, pipes in their mouths and children +on their knees, wives gossiping, and laughter and fun going on. +The content of these people is manifestly great, for, relative to the +wretchedness that encompasses them, they are well off. +</p> + +<p> +But at the best, it is a dull, animal happiness, the content of the +full belly. The dominant note of their lives is materialistic. +They are stupid and heavy, without imagination. The Abyss seems +to exude a stupefying atmosphere of torpor, which wraps about them and +deadens them. Religion passes them by. The Unseen holds +for them neither terror nor delight. They are unaware of the Unseen; +and the full belly and the evening pipe, with their regular “arf +an’ arf,” is all they demand, or dream of demanding, from +existence. +</p> + +<p> +This would not be so bad if it were all; but it is not all. +The satisfied torpor in which they are sunk is the deadly inertia that +precedes dissolution. There is no progress, and with them not +to progress is to fall back and into the Abyss. In their own lives +they may only start to fall, leaving the fall to be completed by their +children and their children’s children. Man always gets +less than he demands from life; and so little do they demand, that the +less than little they get cannot save them. +</p> + +<p> +At the best, city life is an unnatural life for the human; but the +city life of London is so utterly unnatural that the average workman +or workwoman cannot stand it. Mind and body are sapped by the +undermining influences ceaselessly at work. Moral and physical +stamina are broken, and the good workman, fresh from the soil, becomes +in the first city generation a poor workman; and by the second city +generation, devoid of push and go and initiative, and actually unable +physically to perform the labour his father did, he is well on the way +to the shambles at the bottom of the Abyss. +</p> + +<p> +If nothing else, the air he breathes, and from which he never escapes, +is sufficient to weaken him mentally and physically, so that he becomes +unable to compete with the fresh virile life from the country hastening +on to London Town to destroy and be destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving out the disease germs that fill the air of the East End, +consider but the one item of smoke. Sir William Thiselton-Dyer, +curator of Kew Gardens, has been studying smoke deposits on vegetation, +and, according to his calculations, no less than six tons of solid matter, +consisting of soot and tarry hydrocarbons, are deposited every week +on every quarter of a square mile in and about London. This is +equivalent to twenty-four tons per week to the square mile, or 1248 +tons per year to the square mile. From the cornice below the dome +of St. Paul’s Cathedral was recently taken a solid deposit of +crystallised sulphate of lime. This deposit had been formed by +the action of the sulphuric acid in the atmosphere upon the carbonate +of lime in the stone. And this sulphuric acid in the atmosphere +is constantly being breathed by the London workmen through all the days +and nights of their lives. +</p> + +<p> +It is incontrovertible that the children grow up into rotten adults, +without virility or stamina, a weak-kneed, narrow-chested, listless +breed, that crumples up and goes down in the brute struggle for life +with the invading hordes from the country. The railway men, carriers, +omnibus drivers, corn and timber porters, and all those who require +physical stamina, are largely drawn from the country; while in the Metropolitan +Police there are, roughly, 12,000 country-born as against 3000 London-born. +</p> + +<p> +So one is forced to conclude that the Abyss is literally a huge man-killing +machine, and when I pass along the little out-of-the-way streets with +the full-bellied artisans at the doors, I am aware of a greater sorrow +for them than for the 450,000 lost and hopeless wretches dying at the +bottom of the pit. They, at least, are dying, that is the point; +while these have yet to go through the slow and preliminary pangs extending +through two and even three generations. +</p> + +<p> +And yet the quality of the life is good. All human potentialities +are in it. Given proper conditions, it could live through the +centuries, and great men, heroes and masters, spring from it and make +the world better by having lived. +</p> + +<p> +I talked with a woman who was representative of that type which has +been jerked out of its little out-of-the-way streets and has started +on the fatal fall to the bottom. Her husband was a fitter and +a member of the Engineers’ Union. That he was a poor engineer +was evidenced by his inability to get regular employment. He did +not have the energy and enterprise necessary to obtain or hold a steady +position. +</p> + +<p> +The pair had two daughters, and the four of them lived in a couple +of holes, called “rooms” by courtesy, for which they paid +seven shillings per week. They possessed no stove, managing their +cooking on a single gas-ring in the fireplace. Not being persons +of property, they were unable to obtain an unlimited supply of gas; +but a clever machine had been installed for their benefit. By +dropping a penny in the slot, the gas was forthcoming, and when a penny’s +worth had forthcome the supply was automatically shut off. “A +penny gawn in no time,” she explained, “an’ the cookin’ +not arf done!” +</p> + +<p> +Incipient starvation had been their portion for years. Month +in and month out, they had arisen from the table able and willing to +eat more. And when once on the downward slope, chronic innutrition +is an important factor in sapping vitality and hastening the descent. +</p> + +<p> +Yet this woman was a hard worker. From 4.30 in the morning +till the last light at night, she said, she had toiled at making cloth +dress-skirts, lined up and with two flounces, for seven shillings a +dozen. Cloth dress-skirts, mark you, lined up with two flounces, +for seven shillings a dozen! This is equal to $1.75 per dozen, +or 14.75 cents per skirt. +</p> + +<p> +The husband, in order to obtain employment, had to belong to the +union, which collected one shilling and sixpence from him each week. +Also, when strikes were afoot and he chanced to be working, he had at +times been compelled to pay as high as seventeen shillings into the +union’s coffers for the relief fund. +</p> + +<p> +One daughter, the elder, had worked as green hand for a dressmaker, +for one shilling and sixpence per week—37.5 cents per week, or +a fraction over 5 cents per day. However, when the slack season +came she was discharged, though she had been taken on at such low pay +with the understanding that she was to learn the trade and work up. +After that she had been employed in a bicycle store for three years, +for which she received five shillings per week, walking two miles to +her work, and two back, and being fined for tardiness. +</p> + +<p> +As far as the man and woman were concerned, the game was played. +They had lost handhold and foothold, and were falling into the pit. +But what of the daughters? Living like swine, enfeebled by chronic +innutrition, being sapped mentally, morally, and physically, what chance +have they to crawl up and out of the Abyss into which they were born +falling? +</p> + +<p> +As I write this, and for an hour past, the air has been made hideous +by a free-for-all, rough-and-tumble fight going on in the yard that +is back to back with my yard. When the first sounds reached me +I took it for the barking and snarling of dogs, and some minutes were +required to convince me that human beings, and women at that, could +produce such a fearful clamour. +</p> + +<p> +Drunken women fighting! It is not nice to think of; it is far +worse to listen to. Something like this it runs— +</p> + +<p> +Incoherent babble, shrieked at the top of the lungs of several women; +a lull, in which is heard a child crying and a young girl’s voice +pleading tearfully; a woman’s voice rises, harsh and grating, +“You ’it me! Jest you ’it me!” then, swat! +challenge accepted and fight rages afresh. +</p> + +<p> +The back windows of the houses commanding the scene are lined with +enthusiastic spectators, and the sound of blows, and of oaths that make +one’s blood run cold, are borne to my ears. Happily, I cannot +see the combatants. +</p> + +<p> +A lull; “You let that child alone!” child, evidently +of few years, screaming in downright terror. “Awright,” +repeated insistently and at top pitch twenty times straight running; +“you’ll git this rock on the ’ead!” and then +rock evidently on the head from the shriek that goes up. +</p> + +<p> +A lull; apparently one combatant temporarily disabled and being resuscitated; +child’s voice audible again, but now sunk to a lower note of terror +and growing exhaustion. +</p> + +<p> +Voices begin to go up the scale, something like this:— +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +Sufficient affirmation on both sides, conflict again precipitated. +One combatant gets overwhelming advantage, and follows it up from the +way the other combatant screams bloody murder. Bloody murder gurgles +and dies out, undoubtedly throttled by a strangle hold. +</p> + +<p> +Entrance of new voices; a flank attack; strangle hold suddenly broken +from the way bloody murder goes up half an octave higher than before; +general hullaballoo, everybody fighting. +</p> + +<p> +Lull; new voice, young girl’s, “I’m goin’ +ter tyke my mother’s part;” dialogue, repeated about five +times, “I’ll do as I like, blankety, blank, blank!” +“I’d like ter see yer, blankety, blank, blank!” renewed +conflict, mothers, daughters, everybody, during which my landlady calls +her young daughter in from the back steps, while I wonder what will +be the effect of all that she has heard upon her moral fibre. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +FRYING-PAN ALLEY AND A GLIMPSE OF INFERNO</h2> + +<p> +Three of us walked down Mile End Road, and one was a hero. +He was a slender lad of nineteen, so slight and frail, in fact, that, +like Fra Lippo Lippi, a puff of wind might double him up and turn him +over. He was a burning young socialist, in the first throes of +enthusiasm and ripe for martyrdom. As platform speaker or chairman +he had taken an active and dangerous part in the many indoor and outdoor +pro-Boer meetings which have vexed the serenity of Merry England these +several years back. Little items he had been imparting to me as +he walked along; of being mobbed in parks and on tram-cars; of climbing +on the platform to lead the forlorn hope, when brother speaker after +brother speaker had been dragged down by the angry crowd and cruelly +beaten; of a siege in a church, where he and three others had taken +sanctuary, and where, amid flying missiles and the crashing of stained +glass, they had fought off the mob till rescued by platoons of constables; +of pitched and giddy battles on stairways, galleries, and balconies; +of smashed windows, collapsed stairways, wrecked lecture halls, and +broken heads and bones—and then, with a regretful sigh, he looked +at me and said: “How I envy you big, strong men! I’m +such a little mite I can’t do much when it comes to fighting.” +</p> + +<p> +And I, walking head and shoulders above my two companions, remembered +my own husky West, and the stalwart men it had been my custom, in turn, +to envy there. Also, as I looked at the mite of a youth with the +heart of a lion, I thought, this is the type that on occasion rears +barricades and shows the world that men have not forgotten how to die. +</p> + +<p> +But up spoke my other companion, a man of twenty-eight, who eked +out a precarious existence in a sweating den. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a ’earty man, I am,” he announced. +“Not like the other chaps at my shop, I ain’t. They +consider me a fine specimen of manhood. W’y, d’ ye +know, I weigh ten stone!” +</p> + +<p> +I was ashamed to tell him that I weighed one hundred and seventy +pounds, or over twelve stone, so I contented myself with taking his +measure. Poor, misshapen little man! His skin an unhealthy +colour, body gnarled and twisted out of all decency, contracted chest, +shoulders bent prodigiously from long hours of toil, and head hanging +heavily forward and out of place! A “’earty man,’ +’e was!” +</p> + +<p> +“How tall are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five foot two,” he answered proudly; “an’ +the chaps at the shop . . . ” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see that shop,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +The shop was idle just then, but I still desired to see it. +Passing Leman Street, we cut off to the left into Spitalfields, and +dived into Frying-pan Alley. A spawn of children cluttered the +slimy pavement, for all the world like tadpoles just turned frogs on +the bottom of a dry pond. In a narrow doorway, so narrow that +perforce we stepped over her, sat a woman with a young babe, nursing +at breasts grossly naked and libelling all the sacredness of motherhood. +In the black and narrow hall behind her we waded through a mess of young +life, and essayed an even narrower and fouler stairway. Up we +went, three flights, each landing two feet by three in area, and heaped +with filth and refuse. +</p> + +<p> +There were seven rooms in this abomination called a house. +In six of the rooms, twenty-odd people, of both sexes and all ages, +cooked, ate, slept, and worked. In size the rooms averaged eight +feet by eight, or possibly nine. The seventh room we entered. +It was the den in which five men “sweated.” It was +seven feet wide by eight long, and the table at which the work was performed +took up the major portion of the space. On this table were five +lasts, and there was barely room for the men to stand to their work, +for the rest of the space was heaped with cardboard, leather, bundles +of shoe uppers, and a miscellaneous assortment of materials used in +attaching the uppers of shoes to their soles. +</p> + +<p> +In the adjoining room lived a woman and six children. In another +vile hole lived a widow, with an only son of sixteen who was dying of +consumption. The woman hawked sweetmeats on the street, I was +told, and more often failed than not to supply her son with the three +quarts of milk he daily required. Further, this son, weak and +dying, did not taste meat oftener than once a week; and the kind and +quality of this meat cannot possibly be imagined by people who have +never watched human swine eat. +</p> + +<p> +“The w’y ’e coughs is somethin’ terrible,” +volunteered my sweated friend, referring to the dying boy. “We +’ear ’im ’ere, w’ile we’re workin’, +an’ it’s terrible, I say, terrible!” +</p> + +<p> +And, what of the coughing and the sweetmeats, I found another menace +added to the hostile environment of the children of the slum. +</p> + +<p> +My sweated friend, when work was to be had, toiled with four other +men in his eight-by-seven room. In the winter a lamp burned nearly +all the day and added its fumes to the over-loaded air, which was breathed, +and breathed, and breathed again. +</p> + +<p> +In good times, when there was a rush of work, this man told me that +he could earn as high as “thirty bob a week.”—Thirty +shillings! Seven dollars and a half! +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s only the best of us can do it,” he qualified. +“An’ then we work twelve, thirteen, and fourteen hours a +day, just as fast as we can. An’ you should see us sweat! +Just running from us! If you could see us, it’d dazzle your +eyes—tacks flyin’ out of mouth like from a machine. +Look at my mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked. The teeth were worn down by the constant friction +of the metallic brads, while they were coal-black and rotten. +</p> + +<p> +“I clean my teeth,” he added, “else they’d +be worse.” +</p> + +<p> +After he had told me that the workers had to furnish their own tools, +brads, “grindery,” cardboard, rent, light, and what not, +it was plain that his thirty bob was a diminishing quantity. +</p> + +<p> +“But how long does the rush season last, in which you receive +this high wage of thirty bob?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Four months,” was the answer; and for the rest of the +year, he informed me, they average from “half a quid” to +a “quid” a week, which is equivalent to from two dollars +and a half to five dollars. The present week was half gone, and +he had earned four bob, or one dollar. And yet I was given to +understand that this was one of the better grades of sweating. +</p> + +<p> +I looked out of the window, which should have commanded the back +yards of the neighbouring buildings. But there were no back yards, +or, rather, they were covered with one-storey hovels, cowsheds, in which +people lived. The roofs of these hovels were covered with deposits +of filth, in some places a couple of feet deep—the contributions +from the back windows of the second and third storeys. I could +make out fish and meat bones, garbage, pestilential rags, old boots, +broken earthenware, and all the general refuse of a human sty. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the last year of this trade; they’re getting +machines to do away with us,” said the sweated one mournfully, +as we stepped over the woman with the breasts grossly naked and waded +anew through the cheap young life. +</p> + +<p> +We next visited the municipal dwellings erected by the London County +Council on the site of the slums where lived Arthur Morrison’s +“Child of the Jago.” While the buildings housed more +people than before, it was much healthier. But the dwellings were +inhabited by the better-class workmen and artisans. The slum people +had simply drifted on to crowd other slums or to form new slums. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ now,” said the sweated one, the ’earty +man who worked so fast as to dazzle one’s eyes, “I’ll +show you one of London’s lungs. This is Spitalfields Garden.” +And he mouthed the word “garden” with scorn. +</p> + +<p> +The shadow of Christ’s Church falls across Spitalfields Garden, +and in the shadow of Christ’s Church, at three o’clock in +the afternoon, I saw a sight I never wish to see again. There +are no flowers in this garden, which is smaller than my own rose garden +at home. Grass only grows here, and it is surrounded by a sharp-spiked +iron fencing, as are all the parks of London Town, so that homeless +men and women may not come in at night and sleep upon it. +</p> + +<p> +As we entered the garden, an old woman, between fifty and sixty, +passed us, striding with sturdy intention if somewhat rickety action, +with two bulky bundles, covered with sacking, slung fore and aft upon +her. She was a woman tramp, a houseless soul, too independent +to drag her failing carcass through the workhouse door. Like the +snail, she carried her home with her. In the two sacking-covered +bundles were her household goods, her wardrobe, linen, and dear feminine +possessions. +</p> + +<p> +We went up the narrow gravelled walk. On the benches on either +side arrayed a mass of miserable and distorted humanity, the sight of +which would have impelled Doré to more diabolical flights of +fancy than he ever succeeded in achieving. It was a welter of +rags and filth, of all manner of loathsome skin diseases, open sores, +bruises, grossness, indecency, leering monstrosities, and bestial faces. +A chill, raw wind was blowing, and these creatures huddled there in +their rags, sleeping for the most part, or trying to sleep. Here +were a dozen women, ranging in age from twenty years to seventy. +Next a babe, possibly of nine months, lying asleep, flat on the hard +bench, with neither pillow nor covering, nor with any one looking after +it. Next half-a-dozen men, sleeping bolt upright or leaning against +one another in their sleep. In one place a family group, a child +asleep in its sleeping mother’s arms, and the husband (or male +mate) clumsily mending a dilapidated shoe. On another bench a +woman trimming the frayed strips of her rags with a knife, and another +woman, with thread and needle, sewing up rents. Adjoining, a man +holding a sleeping woman in his arms. Farther on, a man, his clothing +caked with gutter mud, asleep, with head in the lap of a woman, not +more than twenty-five years old, and also asleep. +</p> + +<p> +It was this sleeping that puzzled me. Why were nine out of +ten of them asleep or trying to sleep? But it was not till afterwards +that I learned. <i>It is a law of the powers that be that the +homeless shall not sleep by night</i>. On the pavement, by the +portico of Christ’s Church, where the stone pillars rise toward +the sky in a stately row, were whole rows of men lying asleep or drowsing, +and all too deep sunk in torpor to rouse or be made curious by our intrusion. +</p> + +<p> +“A lung of London,” I said; “nay, an abscess, a +great putrescent sore.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, why did you bring me here?” demanded the burning +young socialist, his delicate face white with sickness of soul and stomach +sickness. +</p> + +<p> +“Those women there,” said our guide, “will sell +themselves for thru’pence, or tu’pence, or a loaf of stale +bread.” +</p> + +<p> +He said it with a cheerful sneer. +</p> + +<p> +But what more he might have said I do not know, for the sick man +cried, “For heaven’s sake let us get out of this.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +A WINNER OF THE VICTORIA CROSS</h2> + +<p> +I have found that it is not easy to get into the casual ward of the +workhouse. I have made two attempts now, and I shall shortly make +a third. The first time I started out at seven o’clock in +the evening with four shillings in my pocket. Herein I committed +two errors. In the first place, the applicant for admission to +the casual ward must be destitute, and as he is subjected to a rigorous +search, he must really be destitute; and fourpence, much less four shillings, +is sufficient affluence to disqualify him. In the second place, +I made the mistake of tardiness. Seven o’clock in the evening +is too late in the day for a pauper to get a pauper’s bed. +</p> + +<p> +For the benefit of gently nurtured and innocent folk, let me explain +what a ward is. It is a building where the homeless, bedless, +penniless man, if he be lucky, may <i>casually</i> rest his weary bones, +and then work like a navvy next day to pay for it. +</p> + +<p> +My second attempt to break into the casual ward began more auspiciously. +I started in the middle of the afternoon, accompanied by the burning +young socialist and another friend, and all I had in my pocket was thru’pence. +They piloted me to the Whitechapel Workhouse, at which I peered from +around a friendly corner. It was a few minutes past five in the +afternoon but already a long and melancholy line was formed, which strung +out around the corner of the building and out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +It was a most woeful picture, men and women waiting in the cold grey +end of the day for a pauper’s shelter from the night, and I confess +it almost unnerved me. Like the boy before the dentist’s +door, I suddenly discovered a multitude of reasons for being elsewhere. +Some hints of the struggle going on within must have shown in my face, +for one of my companions said, “Don’t funk; you can do it.” +</p> + +<p> +Of course I could do it, but I became aware that even thru’pence +in my pocket was too lordly a treasure for such a throng; and, in order +that all invidious distinctions might be removed, I emptied out the +coppers. Then I bade good-bye to my friends, and with my heart +going pit-a-pat, slouched down the street and took my place at the end +of the line. Woeful it looked, this line of poor folk tottering +on the steep pitch to death; how woeful it was I did not dream. +</p> + +<p> +Next to me stood a short, stout man. Hale and hearty, though +aged, strong-featured, with the tough and leathery skin produced by +long years of sunbeat and weatherbeat, his was the unmistakable sea +face and eyes; and at once there came to me a bit of Kipling’s +“Galley Slave”:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel;<br /> +By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal;<br /> +By eyes grown old with staring through the sun-wash on the brine,<br /> +I am paid in full for service . . . ” +</p> + +<p> +How correct I was in my surmise, and how peculiarly appropriate the +verse was, you shall learn. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t stand it much longer, I won’t,” +he was complaining to the man on the other side of him. “I’ll +smash a windy, a big ’un, an’ get run in for fourteen days. +Then I’ll have a good place to sleep, never fear, an’ better +grub than you get here. Though I’d miss my bit of baccy”—this +as an after-thought, and said regretfully and resignedly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been out two nights now,” he went on; “wet +to the skin night before last, an’ I can’t stand it much +longer. I’m gettin’ old, an’ some mornin’ +they’ll pick me up dead.” +</p> + +<p> +He whirled with fierce passion on me: “Don’t you ever +let yourself grow old, lad. Die when you’re young, or you’ll +come to this. I’m tellin’ you sure. Seven an’ +eighty years am I, an’ served my country like a man. Three +good-conduct stripes and the Victoria Cross, an’ this is what +I get for it. I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead. Can’t +come any too quick for me, I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +The moisture rushed into his eyes, but, before the other man could +comfort him, he began to hum a lilting sea song as though there was +no such thing as heartbreak in the world. +</p> + +<p> +Given encouragement, this is the story he told while waiting in line +at the workhouse after two nights of exposure in the streets. +</p> + +<p> +As a boy he had enlisted in the British navy, and for two score years +and more served faithfully and well. Names, dates, commanders, +ports, ships, engagements, and battles, rolled from his lips in a steady +stream, but it is beyond me to remember them all, for it is not quite +in keeping to take notes at the poorhouse door. He had been through +the “First War in China,” as he termed it; had enlisted +with the East India Company and served ten years in India; was back +in India again, in the English navy, at the time of the Mutiny; had +served in the Burmese War and in the Crimea; and all this in addition +to having fought and toiled for the English flag pretty well over the +rest of the globe. +</p> + +<p> +Then the thing happened. A little thing, it could only be traced +back to first causes: perhaps the lieutenant’s breakfast had not +agreed with him; or he had been up late the night before; or his debts +were pressing; or the commander had spoken brusquely to him. The +point is, that on this particular day the lieutenant was irritable. +The sailor, with others, was “setting up” the fore rigging. +</p> + +<p> +Now, mark you, the sailor had been over forty years in the navy, +had three good-conduct stripes, and possessed the Victoria Cross for +distinguished service in battle; so he could not have been such an altogether +bad sort of a sailorman. The lieutenant was irritable; the lieutenant +called him a name—well, not a nice sort of name. It referred +to his mother. When I was a boy it was our boys’ code to +fight like little demons should such an insult be given our mothers; +and many men have died in my part of the world for calling other men +this name. +</p> + +<p> +However, the lieutenant called the sailor this name. At that +moment it chanced the sailor had an iron lever or bar in his hands. +He promptly struck the lieutenant over the head with it, knocking him +out of the rigging and overboard. +</p> + +<p> +And then, in the man’s own words: “I saw what I had done. +I knew the Regulations, and I said to myself, ‘It’s all +up with you, Jack, my boy; so here goes.’ An’ I jumped +over after him, my mind made up to drown us both. An’ I’d +ha’ done it, too, only the pinnace from the flagship was just +comin’ alongside. Up we came to the top, me a hold of him +an’ punchin’ him. This was what settled for me. +If I hadn’t ben strikin’ him, I could have claimed that, +seein’ what I had done, I jumped over to save him.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came the court-martial, or whatever name a sea trial goes by. +He recited his sentence, word for word, as though memorised and gone +over in bitterness many times. And here it is, for the sake of +discipline and respect to officers not always gentlemen, the punishment +of a man who was guilty of manhood. To be reduced to the rank +of ordinary seaman; to be debarred all prize-money due him; to forfeit +all rights to pension; to resign the Victoria Cross; to be discharged +from the navy with a good character (this being his first offence); +to receive fifty lashes; and to serve two years in prison. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had drowned that day, I wish to God I had,” +he concluded, as the line moved up and we passed around the corner. +</p> + +<p> +At last the door came in sight, through which the paupers were being +admitted in bunches. And here I learned a surprising thing: <i>this +being Wednesday, none of us would be released till Friday morning</i>. +Furthermore, and oh, you tobacco users, take heed: <i>we would not be +permitted to take in any tobacco</i>. This we would have to surrender +as we entered. Sometimes, I was told, it was returned on leaving +and sometimes it was destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +The old man-of-war’s man gave me a lesson. Opening his +pouch, he emptied the tobacco (a pitiful quantity) into a piece of paper. +This, snugly and flatly wrapped, went down his sock inside his shoe. +Down went my piece of tobacco inside my sock, for forty hours without +tobacco is a hardship all tobacco users will understand. +</p> + +<p> +Again and again the line moved up, and we were slowly but surely +approaching the wicket. At the moment we happened to be standing +on an iron grating, and a man appearing underneath, the old sailor called +down to him,— +</p> + +<p> +“How many more do they want?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty-four,” came the answer. +</p> + +<p> +We looked ahead anxiously and counted. Thirty-four were ahead +of us. Disappointment and consternation dawned upon the faces +about me. It is not a nice thing, hungry and penniless, to face +a sleepless night in the streets. But we hoped against hope, till, +when ten stood outside the wicket, the porter turned us away. +</p> + +<p> +“Full up,” was what he said, as he banged the door. +</p> + +<p> +Like a flash, for all his eighty-seven years, the old sailor was +speeding away on the desperate chance of finding shelter elsewhere. +I stood and debated with two other men, wise in the knowledge of casual +wards, as to where we should go. They decided on the Poplar Workhouse, +three miles away, and we started off. +</p> + +<p> +As we rounded the corner, one of them said, “I could a’ +got in ’ere to-day. I come by at one o’clock, an’ +the line was beginnin’ to form then—pets, that’s what +they are. They let ’m in, the same ones, night upon night.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +THE CARTER AND THE CARPENTER</h2> + +<p> +The Carter, with his clean-cut face, chin beard, and shaved upper +lip, I should have taken in the United States for anything from a master +workman to a well-to-do farmer. The Carpenter—well, I should +have taken him for a carpenter. He looked it, lean and wiry, with +shrewd, observant eyes, and hands that had grown twisted to the handles +of tools through forty-seven years’ work at the trade. The +chief difficulty with these men was that they were old, and that their +children, instead of growing up to take care of them, had died. +Their years had told on them, and they had been forced out of the whirl +of industry by the younger and stronger competitors who had taken their +places. +</p> + +<p> +These two men, turned away from the casual ward of Whitechapel Workhouse, +were bound with me for Poplar Workhouse. Not much of a show, they +thought, but to chance it was all that remained to us. It was +Poplar, or the streets and night. Both men were anxious for a +bed, for they were “about gone,” as they phrased it. +The Carter, fifty-eight years of age, had spent the last three nights +without shelter or sleep, while the Carpenter, sixty-five years of age, +had been out five nights. +</p> + +<p> +But, O dear, soft people, full of meat and blood, with white beds +and airy rooms waiting you each night, how can I make you know what +it is to suffer as you would suffer if you spent a weary night on London’s +streets! Believe me, you would think a thousand centuries had +come and gone before the east paled into dawn; you would shiver till +you were ready to cry aloud with the pain of each aching muscle; and +you would marvel that you could endure so much and live. Should +you rest upon a bench, and your tired eyes close, depend upon it the +policeman would rouse you and gruffly order you to “move on.” +You may rest upon the bench, and benches are few and far between; but +if rest means sleep, on you must go, dragging your tired body through +the endless streets. Should you, in desperate slyness, seek some +forlorn alley or dark passageway and lie down, the omnipresent policeman +will rout you out just the same. It is his business to rout you +out. It is a law of the powers that be that you shall be routed +out. +</p> + +<p> +But when the dawn came, the nightmare over, you would hale you home +to refresh yourself, and until you died you would tell the story of +your adventure to groups of admiring friends. It would grow into +a mighty story. Your little eight-hour night would become an Odyssey +and you a Homer. +</p> + +<p> +Not so with these homeless ones who walked to Poplar Workhouse with +me. And there are thirty-five thousand of them, men and women, +in London Town this night. Please don’t remember it as you +go to bed; if you are as soft as you ought to be you may not rest so +well as usual. But for old men of sixty, seventy, and eighty, +ill-fed, with neither meat nor blood, to greet the dawn unrefreshed, +and to stagger through the day in mad search for crusts, with relentless +night rushing down upon them again, and to do this five nights and days—O +dear, soft people, full of meat and blood, how can you ever understand? +</p> + +<p> +I walked up Mile End Road between the Carter and the Carpenter. +Mile End Road is a wide thoroughfare, cutting the heart of East London, +and there were tens of thousands of people abroad on it. I tell +you this so that you may fully appreciate what I shall describe in the +next paragraph. As I say, we walked along, and when they grew +bitter and cursed the land, I cursed with them, cursed as an American +waif would curse, stranded in a strange and terrible land. And, +as I tried to lead them to believe, and succeeded in making them believe, +they took me for a “seafaring man,” who had spent his money +in riotous living, lost his clothes (no unusual occurrence with seafaring +men ashore), and was temporarily broke while looking for a ship. +This accounted for my ignorance of English ways in general and casual +wards in particular, and my curiosity concerning the same. +</p> + +<p> +The Carter was hard put to keep the pace at which we walked (he told +me that he had eaten nothing that day), but the Carpenter, lean and +hungry, his grey and ragged overcoat flapping mournfully in the breeze, +swung on in a long and tireless stride which reminded me strongly of +the plains wolf or coyote. Both kept their eyes upon the pavement +as they walked and talked, and every now and then one or the other would +stoop and pick something up, never missing the stride the while. +I thought it was cigar and cigarette stumps they were collecting, and +for some time took no notice. Then I did notice. +</p> + +<p> +<i>From the slimy, spittle-drenched, sidewalk, they were picking +up bits of orange peel, apple skin, and grape stems, and, they were +eating them. The pits of greengage plums they cracked between +their teeth for the kernels inside. They picked up stray bits +of bread the size of peas, apple cores so black and dirty one would +not take them to be apple cores, and these things these two men took +into their mouths, and chewed them, and swallowed them; and this, between +six and seven o’clock in the evening of August 20, year of our +Lord 1902, in the heart of the greatest, wealthiest, and most powerful +empire the world has ever seen</i>. +</p> + +<p> +These two men talked. They were not fools, they were merely +old. And, naturally, their guts a-reek with pavement offal, they +talked of bloody revolution. They talked as anarchists, fanatics, +and madmen would talk. And who shall blame them? In spite +of my three good meals that day, and the snug bed I could occupy if +I wished, and my social philosophy, and my evolutionary belief in the +slow development and metamorphosis of things—in spite of all this, +I say, I felt impelled to talk rot with them or hold my tongue. +Poor fools! Not of their sort are revolutions bred. And +when they are dead and dust, which will be shortly, other fools will +talk bloody revolution as they gather offal from the spittle-drenched +sidewalk along Mile End Road to Poplar Workhouse. +</p> + +<p> +Being a foreigner, and a young man, the Carter and the Carpenter +explained things to me and advised me. Their advice, by the way, +was brief, and to the point; it was to get out of the country. +“As fast as God’ll let me,” I assured them; “I’ll +hit only the high places, till you won’t be able to see my trail +for smoke.” They felt the force of my figures, rather than +understood them, and they nodded their heads approvingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Actually make a man a criminal against ’is will,” said the +Carpenter. “’Ere I am, old, younger men takin’ my place, my +clothes gettin’ shabbier an’ shabbier, an’ makin’ it +’arder every day to get a job. I go to the casual ward for a bed. Must be +there by two or three in the afternoon or I won’t get in. You saw what +happened to-day. What chance does that give me to look for work? S’pose I +do get into the casual ward? Keep me in all day to-morrow, let me out +mornin’ o’ next day. What then? The law sez I can’t get in +another casual ward that night less’n ten miles distant. Have to hurry +an’ walk to be there in time that day. What chance does that give me to +look for a job? S’pose I don’t walk. S’pose I look for a job? +In no time there’s night come, an’ no bed. No sleep all night, +nothin’ to eat, what shape am I in in the mornin’ to look for work? +Got to make up my sleep in the park somehow” (the vision of +Christ’s Church, Spitalfield, was strong on me) “an’ get +something to eat. An’ there I am! Old, down, an’ no chance to get +up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Used to be a toll-gate ’ere,” said the Carter. +“Many’s the time I’ve paid my toll ’ere in my +cartin’ days.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve ’ad three ’a’penny rolls in two +days,” the Carpenter announced, after a long pause in the conversation. +“Two of them I ate yesterday, an’ the third to-day,” +he concluded, after another long pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t ’ad anything to-day,” said the Carter. +“An’ I’m fagged out. My legs is hurtin’ +me something fearful.” +</p> + +<p> +“The roll you get in the ‘spike’ is that ’ard +you can’t eat it nicely with less’n a pint of water,” +said the Carpenter, for my benefit. And, on asking him what the +“spike” was, he answered, “The casual ward. +It’s a cant word, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +But what surprised me was that he should have the word “cant” +in his vocabulary, a vocabulary that I found was no mean one before +we parted. +</p> + +<p> +I asked them what I might expect in the way of treatment, if we succeeded +in getting into the Poplar Workhouse, and between them I was supplied +with much information. Having taken a cold bath on entering, I +would be given for supper six ounces of bread and “three parts +of skilly.” “Three parts” means three-quarters +of a pint, and “skilly” is a fluid concoction of three quarts +of oatmeal stirred into three buckets and a half of hot water. +</p> + +<p> +“Milk and sugar, I suppose, and a silver spoon?” I queried. +</p> + +<p> +“No fear. Salt’s what you’ll get, an’ +I’ve seen some places where you’d not get any spoon. +’Old ’er up an’ let ’er run down, that’s +’ow they do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do get good skilly at ’Ackney,” said the Carter. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, wonderful skilly, that,” praised the Carpenter, +and each looked eloquently at the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Flour an’ water at St. George’s in the East,” +said the Carter. +</p> + +<p> +The Carpenter nodded. He had tried them all. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what?” I demanded +</p> + +<p> +And I was informed that I was sent directly to bed. “Call +you at half after five in the mornin’, an’ you get up an’ +take a ‘sluice’—if there’s any soap. Then +breakfast, same as supper, three parts o’ skilly an’ a six-ounce +loaf.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tisn’t always six ounces,” corrected the +Carter. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tisn’t, no; an’ often that sour you can +’ardly eat it. When first I started I couldn’t eat +the skilly nor the bread, but now I can eat my own an’ another +man’s portion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could eat three other men’s portions,” said +the Carter. “I ’aven’t ’ad a bit this +blessed day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’ve got to do your task, pick four pounds of +oakum, or clean an’ scrub, or break ten to eleven hundredweight +o’ stones. I don’t ’ave to break stones; I’m +past sixty, you see. They’ll make you do it, though. +You’re young an’ strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“What I don’t like,” grumbled the Carter, “is +to be locked up in a cell to pick oakum. It’s too much like +prison.” +</p> + +<p> +“But suppose, after you’ve had your night’s sleep, +you refuse to pick oakum, or break stones, or do any work at all?” +I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No fear you’ll refuse the second time; they’ll +run you in,” answered the Carpenter. “Wouldn’t +advise you to try it on, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then comes dinner,” he went on. “Eight ounces of bread, one +and a arf ounces of cheese, an’ cold water. Then you finish your task +an’ ’ave supper, same as before, three parts o’ skilly +an’ six ounces o’ bread. Then to bed, six o’clock, an’ +next mornin’ you’re turned loose, provided you’ve finished +your task.” +</p> + +<p> +We had long since left Mile End Road, and after traversing a gloomy +maze of narrow, winding streets, we came to Poplar Workhouse. +On a low stone wall we spread our handkerchiefs, and each in his handkerchief +put all his worldly possessions, with the exception of the “bit +o’ baccy” down his sock. And then, as the last light +was fading from the drab-coloured sky, the wind blowing cheerless and +cold, we stood, with our pitiful little bundles in our hands, a forlorn +group at the workhouse door. +</p> + +<p> +Three working girls came along, and one looked pityingly at me; as +she passed I followed her with my eyes, and she still looked pityingly +back at me. The old men she did not notice. Dear Christ, +she pitied me, young and vigorous and strong, but she had no pity for +the two old men who stood by my side! She was a young woman, and +I was a young man, and what vague sex promptings impelled her to pity +me put her sentiment on the lowest plane. Pity for old men is +an altruistic feeling, and besides, the workhouse door is the accustomed +place for old men. So she showed no pity for them, only for me, +who deserved it least or not at all. Not in honour do grey hairs +go down to the grave in London Town. +</p> + +<p> +On one side the door was a bell handle, on the other side a press +button. +</p> + +<p> +“Ring the bell,” said the Carter to me. +</p> + +<p> +And just as I ordinarily would at anybody’s door, I pulled +out the handle and rang a peal. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Oh!” they cried in one terrified voice. +“Not so ’ard!” +</p> + +<p> +I let go, and they looked reproachfully at me, as though I had imperilled +their chance for a bed and three parts of skilly. Nobody came. +Luckily it was the wrong bell, and I felt better. +</p> + +<p> +“Press the button,” I said to the Carpenter. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, wait a bit,” the Carter hurriedly interposed. +</p> + +<p> +From all of which I drew the conclusion that a poorhouse porter, +who commonly draws a yearly salary of from seven to nine pounds, is +a very finicky and important personage, and cannot be treated too fastidiously +by—paupers. +</p> + +<p> +So we waited, ten times a decent interval, when the Carter stealthily +advanced a timid forefinger to the button, and gave it the faintest, +shortest possible push. I have looked at waiting men where life +or death was in the issue; but anxious suspense showed less plainly +on their faces than it showed on the faces of these two men as they +waited on the coming of the porter. +</p> + +<p> +He came. He barely looked at us. “Full up,” +he said and shut the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Another night of it,” groaned the Carpenter. In +the dim light the Carter looked wan and grey. +</p> + +<p> +Indiscriminate charity is vicious, say the professional philanthropists. +Well, I resolved to be vicious. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on; get your knife out and come here,” I said to +the Carter, drawing him into a dark alley. +</p> + +<p> +He glared at me in a frightened manner, and tried to draw back. +Possibly he took me for a latter-day Jack-the-Ripper, with a penchant +for elderly male paupers. Or he may have thought I was inveigling +him into the commission of some desperate crime. Anyway, he was +frightened. +</p> + +<p> +It will be remembered, at the outset, that I sewed a pound inside +my stoker’s singlet under the armpit. This was my emergency +fund, and I was now called upon to use it for the first time. +</p> + +<p> +Not until I had gone through the acts of a contortionist, and shown +the round coin sewed in, did I succeed in getting the Carter’s +help. Even then his hand was trembling so that I was afraid he +would cut me instead of the stitches, and I was forced to take the knife +away and do it myself. Out rolled the gold piece, a fortune in +their hungry eyes; and away we stampeded for the nearest coffee-house. +</p> + +<p> +Of course I had to explain to them that I was merely an investigator, +a social student, seeking to find out how the other half lived. +And at once they shut up like clams. I was not of their kind; +my speech had changed, the tones of my voice were different, in short, +I was a superior, and they were superbly class conscious. +</p> + +<p> +“What will you have?” I asked, as the waiter came for +the order. +</p> + +<p> +“Two slices an’ a cup of tea,” meekly said the +Carter. +</p> + +<p> +“Two slices an’ a cup of tea,” meekly said the +Carpenter. +</p> + +<p> +Stop a moment, and consider the situation. Here were two men, +invited by me into the coffee-house. They had seen my gold piece, +and they could understand that I was no pauper. One had eaten +a ha’penny roll that day, the other had eaten nothing. And +they called for “two slices an’ a cup of tea!” +Each man had given a tu’penny order. “Two slices,” +by the way, means two slices of bread and butter. +</p> + +<p> +This was the same degraded humility that had characterised their +attitude toward the poorhouse porter. But I wouldn’t have +it. Step by step I increased their order—eggs, rashers of +bacon, more eggs, more bacon, more tea, more slices and so forth—they +denying wistfully all the while that they cared for anything more, and +devouring it ravenously as fast as it arrived. +</p> + +<p> +“First cup o’ tea I’ve ’ad in a fortnight,” +said the Carter. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful tea, that,” said the Carpenter. +</p> + +<p> +They each drank two pints of it, and I assure you that it was slops. +It resembled tea less than lager beer resembles champagne. Nay, +it was “water-bewitched,” and did not resemble tea at all. +</p> + +<p> +It was curious, after the first shock, to notice the effect the food +had on them. At first they were melancholy, and talked of the +divers times they had contemplated suicide. The Carter, not a +week before, had stood on the bridge and looked at the water, and pondered +the question. Water, the Carpenter insisted with heat, was a bad +route. He, for one, he knew, would struggle. A bullet was +“’andier,” but how under the sun was he to get hold +of a revolver? That was the rub. +</p> + +<p> +They grew more cheerful as the hot “tea” soaked in, and +talked more about themselves. The Carter had buried his wife and +children, with the exception of one son, who grew to manhood and helped +him in his little business. Then the thing happened. The +son, a man of thirty-one, died of the smallpox. No sooner was +this over than the father came down with fever and went to the hospital +for three months. Then he was done for. He came out weak, +debilitated, no strong young son to stand by him, his little business +gone glimmering, and not a farthing. The thing had happened, and +the game was up. No chance for an old man to start again. +Friends all poor and unable to help. He had tried for work when +they were putting up the stands for the first Coronation parade. +“An’ I got fair sick of the answer: ‘No! no! no!’ +It rang in my ears at night when I tried to sleep, always the same, +‘No! no! no!’” Only the past week he had answered +an advertisement in Hackney, and on giving his age was told, “Oh, +too old, too old by far.” +</p> + +<p> +The Carpenter had been born in the army, where his father had served +twenty-two years. Likewise, his two brothers had gone into the +army; one, troop sergeant-major of the Seventh Hussars, dying in India +after the Mutiny; the other, after nine years under Roberts in the East, +had been lost in Egypt. The Carpenter had not gone into the army, +so here he was, still on the planet. +</p> + +<p> +“But ’ere, give me your ’and,” he said, ripping +open his ragged shirt. “I’m fit for the anatomist, +that’s all. I’m wastin’ away, sir, actually +wastin’ away for want of food. Feel my ribs an’ you’ll +see.” +</p> + +<p> +I put my hand under his shirt and felt. The skin was stretched +like parchment over the bones, and the sensation produced was for all +the world like running one’s hand over a washboard. +</p> + +<p> +“Seven years o’ bliss I ’ad,” he said. +“A good missus and three bonnie lassies. But they all died. +Scarlet fever took the girls inside a fortnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“After this, sir,” said the Carter, indicating the spread, +and desiring to turn the conversation into more cheerful channels; “after +this, I wouldn’t be able to eat a workhouse breakfast in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” agreed the Carpenter, and they fell to discussing +belly delights and the fine dishes their respective wives had cooked +in the old days. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve gone three days and never broke my fast,” +said the Carter. +</p> + +<p> +“And I, five,” his companion added, turning gloomy with +the memory of it. “Five days once, with nothing on my stomach +but a bit of orange peel, an’ outraged nature wouldn’t stand +it, sir, an’ I near died. Sometimes, walkin’ the streets +at night, I’ve ben that desperate I’ve made up my mind to +win the horse or lose the saddle. You know what I mean, sir—to +commit some big robbery. But when mornin’ come, there was +I, too weak from ’unger an’ cold to ’arm a mouse.” +</p> + +<p> +As their poor vitals warmed to the food, they began to expand and +wax boastful, and to talk politics. I can only say that they talked +politics as well as the average middle-class man, and a great deal better +than some of the middle-class men I have heard. What surprised +me was the hold they had on the world, its geography and peoples, and +on recent and contemporaneous history. As I say, they were not +fools, these two men. They were merely old, and their children +had undutifully failed to grow up and give them a place by the fire. +</p> + +<p> +One last incident, as I bade them good-bye on the corner, happy with +a couple of shillings in their pockets and the certain prospect of a +bed for the night. Lighting a cigarette, I was about to throw +away the burning match when the Carter reached for it. I proffered +him the box, but he said, “Never mind, won’t waste it, sir.” +And while he lighted the cigarette I had given him, the Carpenter hurried +with the filling of his pipe in order to have a go at the same match. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s wrong to waste,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I said, but I was thinking of the wash-board ribs +over which I had run my hand. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /> +THE SPIKE</h2> + +<p> +First of all, I must beg forgiveness of my body for the vileness +through which I have dragged it, and forgiveness of my stomach for the +vileness which I have thrust into it. I have been to the spike, +and slept in the spike, and eaten in the spike; also, I have run away +from the spike. +</p> + +<p> +After my two unsuccessful attempts to penetrate the Whitechapel casual +ward, I started early, and joined the desolate line before three o’clock +in the afternoon. They did not “let in” till six, +but at that early hour I was number twenty, while the news had gone +forth that only twenty-two were to be admitted. By four o’clock +there were thirty-four in line, the last ten hanging on in the slender +hope of getting in by some kind of a miracle. Many more came, +looked at the line, and went away, wise to the bitter fact that the +spike would be “full up.” +</p> + +<p> +Conversation was slack at first, standing there, till the man on +one side of me and the man on the other side of me discovered that they +had been in the smallpox hospital at the same time, though a full house +of sixteen hundred patients had prevented their becoming acquainted. +But they made up for it, discussing and comparing the more loathsome +features of their disease in the most cold-blooded, matter-of-fact way. +I learned that the average mortality was one in six, that one of them +had been in three months and the other three months and a half, and +that they had been “rotten wi’ it.” Whereat +my flesh began to creep and crawl, and I asked them how long they had +been out. One had been out two weeks, and the other three weeks. +Their faces were badly pitted (though each assured the other that this +was not so), and further, they showed me in their hands and under the +nails the smallpox “seeds” still working out. Nay, +one of them worked a seed out for my edification, and pop it went, right +out of his flesh into the air. I tried to shrink up smaller inside +my clothes, and I registered a fervent though silent hope that it had +not popped on me. +</p> + +<p> +In both instances, I found that the smallpox was the cause of their +being “on the doss,” which means on the tramp. Both +had been working when smitten by the disease, and both had emerged from +the hospital “broke,” with the gloomy task before them of +hunting for work. So far, they had not found any, and they had +come to the spike for a “rest up” after three days and nights +on the street. +</p> + +<p> +It seems that not only the man who becomes old is punished for his +involuntary misfortune, but likewise the man who is struck by disease +or accident. Later on, I talked with another man—“Ginger” +we called him—who stood at the head of the line—a sure indication +that he had been waiting since one o’clock. A year before, +one day, while in the employ of a fish dealer, he was carrying a heavy +box of fish which was too much for him. Result: “something +broke,” and there was the box on the ground, and he on the ground +beside it. +</p> + +<p> +At the first hospital, whither he was immediately carried, they said +it was a rupture, reduced the swelling, gave him some vaseline to rub +on it, kept him four hours, and told him to get along. But he +was not on the streets more than two or three hours when he was down +on his back again. This time he went to another hospital and was +patched up. But the point is, the employer did nothing, positively +nothing, for the man injured in his employment, and even refused him +“a light job now and again,” when he came out. As +far as Ginger is concerned, he is a broken man. His only chance +to earn a living was by heavy work. He is now incapable of performing +heavy work, and from now until he dies, the spike, the peg, and the +streets are all he can look forward to in the way of food and shelter. +The thing happened—that is all. He put his back under too +great a load of fish, and his chance for happiness in life was crossed +off the books. +</p> + +<p> +Several men in the line had been to the United States, and they were +wishing that they had remained there, and were cursing themselves for +their folly in ever having left. England had become a prison to +them, a prison from which there was no hope of escape. It was +impossible for them to get away. They could neither scrape together +the passage money, nor get a chance to work their passage. The +country was too overrun by poor devils on that “lay.” +</p> + +<p> +I was on the seafaring-man-who-had-lost-his-clothes-and-money tack, +and they all condoled with me and gave me much sound advice. To +sum it up, the advice was something like this: To keep out of all places +like the spike. There was nothing good in it for me. To +head for the coast and bend every effort to get away on a ship. +To go to work, if possible, and scrape together a pound or so, with +which I might bribe some steward or underling to give me chance to work +my passage. They envied me my youth and strength, which would +sooner or later get me out of the country. These they no longer +possessed. Age and English hardship had broken them, and for them +the game was played and up. +</p> + +<p> +There was one, however, who was still young, and who, I am sure, +will in the end make it out. He had gone to the United States +as a young fellow, and in fourteen years’ residence the longest +period he had been out of work was twelve hours. He had saved +his money, grown too prosperous, and returned to the mother-country. +Now he was standing in line at the spike. +</p> + +<p> +For the past two years, he told me, he had been working as a cook. +His hours had been from 7 a.m. to 10.30 p.m., and on Saturday to 12.30 +p.m.—ninety-five hours per week, for which he had received twenty +shillings, or five dollars. +</p> + +<p> +“But the work and the long hours was killing me,” he +said, “and I had to chuck the job. I had a little money +saved, but I spent it living and looking for another place.” +</p> + +<p> +This was his first night in the spike, and he had come in only to +get rested. As soon as he emerged, he intended to start for Bristol, +a one-hundred-and-ten-mile walk, where he thought he would eventually +get a ship for the States. +</p> + +<p> +But the men in the line were not all of this calibre. Some +were poor, wretched beasts, inarticulate and callous, but for all of +that, in many ways very human. I remember a carter, evidently +returning home after the day’s work, stopping his cart before +us so that his young hopeful, who had run to meet him, could climb in. +But the cart was big, the young hopeful little, and he failed in his +several attempts to swarm up. Whereupon one of the most degraded-looking +men stepped out of the line and hoisted him in. Now the virtue +and the joy of this act lies in that it was service of love, not hire. +The carter was poor, and the man knew it; and the man was standing in +the spike line, and the carter knew it; and the man had done the little +act, and the carter had thanked him, even as you and I would have done +and thanked. +</p> + +<p> +Another beautiful touch was that displayed by the “Hopper” +and his “ole woman.” He had been in line about half-an-hour +when the “ole woman” (his mate) came up to him. She +was fairly clad, for her class, with a weather-worn bonnet on her grey +head and a sacking-covered bundle in her arms. As she talked to +him, he reached forward, caught the one stray wisp of the white hair +that was flying wild, deftly twirled it between his fingers, and tucked +it back properly behind her ear. From all of which one may conclude +many things. He certainly liked her well enough to wish her to +be neat and tidy. He was proud of her, standing there in the spike +line, and it was his desire that she should look well in the eyes of +the other unfortunates who stood in the spike line. But last and +best, and underlying all these motives, it was a sturdy affection he +bore her; for man is not prone to bother his head over neatness and +tidiness in a woman for whom he does not care, nor is he likely to be +proud of such a woman. +</p> + +<p> +And I found myself questioning why this man and his mate, hard workers +I knew from their talk, should have to seek a pauper lodging. +He had pride, pride in his old woman and pride in himself. When +I asked him what he thought I, a greenhorn, might expect to earn at +“hopping,” he sized me up, and said that it all depended. +Plenty of people were too slow to pick hops and made a failure of it. +A man, to succeed, must use his head and be quick with his fingers, +must be exceeding quick with his fingers. Now he and his old woman +could do very well at it, working the one bin between them and not going +to sleep over it; but then, they had been at it for years. +</p> + +<p> +“I ’ad a mate as went down last year,” spoke up +a man. “It was ’is fust time, but ’e come back +wi’ two poun’ ten in ’is pockit, an’ ’e +was only gone a month.” +</p> + +<p> +“There you are,” said the Hopper, a wealth of admiration +in his voice. “’E was quick. ’E was jest +nat’rally born to it, ’e was.” +</p> + +<p> +Two pound ten—twelve dollars and a half—for a month’s +work when one is “jest nat’rally born to it!” +And in addition, sleeping out without blankets and living the Lord knows +how. There are moments when I am thankful that I was not “jest +nat’rally born” a genius for anything, not even hop-picking, +</p> + +<p> +In the matter of getting an outfit for “the hops,” the +Hopper gave me some sterling advice, to which same give heed, you soft +and tender people, in case you should ever be stranded in London Town. +</p> + +<p> +“If you ain’t got tins an’ cookin’ things, +all as you can get’ll be bread and cheese. No bloomin’ +good that! You must ’ave ’ot tea, an’ wegetables, +an’ a bit o’ meat, now an’ again, if you’re +goin’ to do work as is work. Cawn’t do it on cold +wittles. Tell you wot you do, lad. Run around in the mornin’ +an’ look in the dust pans. You’ll find plenty o’ +tins to cook in. Fine tins, wonderful good some o’ them. +Me an’ the ole woman got ours that way.” (He pointed +at the bundle she held, while she nodded proudly, beaming on me with +good-nature and consciousness of success and prosperity.) “This +overcoat is as good as a blanket,” he went on, advancing the skirt +of it that I might feel its thickness. “An’ ’oo +knows, I may find a blanket before long.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the old woman nodded and beamed, this time with the dead certainty +that he <i>would</i> find a blanket before long. +</p> + +<p> +“I call it a ’oliday, ’oppin’,” he +concluded rapturously. “A tidy way o’ gettin’ +two or three pounds together an’ fixin’ up for winter. +The only thing I don’t like”—and here was the rift +within the lute—“is paddin’ the ’oof down there.” +</p> + +<p> +It was plain the years were telling on this energetic pair, and while +they enjoyed the quick work with the fingers, “paddin’ the +’oof,” which is walking, was beginning to bear heavily upon +them. And I looked at their grey hairs, and ahead into the future +ten years, and wondered how it would be with them. +</p> + +<p> +I noticed another man and his old woman join the line, both of them +past fifty. The woman, because she was a woman, was admitted into +the spike; but he was too late, and, separated from his mate, was turned +away to tramp the streets all night. +</p> + +<p> +The street on which we stood, from wall to wall, was barely twenty +feet wide. The sidewalks were three feet wide. It was a +residence street. At least workmen and their families existed +in some sort of fashion in the houses across from us. And each +day and every day, from one in the afternoon till six, our ragged spike +line is the principal feature of the view commanded by their front doors +and windows. One workman sat in his door directly opposite us, +taking his rest and a breath of air after the toil of the day. +His wife came to chat with him. The doorway was too small for +two, so she stood up. Their babes sprawled before them. +And here was the spike line, less than a score of feet away—neither +privacy for the workman, nor privacy for the pauper. About our +feet played the children of the neighbourhood. To them our presence +was nothing unusual. We were not an intrusion. We were as +natural and ordinary as the brick walls and stone curbs of their environment. +They had been born to the sight of the spike line, and all their brief +days they had seen it. +</p> + +<p> +At six o’clock the line moved up, and we were admitted in groups +of three. Name, age, occupation, place of birth, condition of +destitution, and the previous night’s “doss,” were +taken with lightning-like rapidity by the superintendent; and as I turned +I was startled by a man’s thrusting into my hand something that +felt like a brick, and shouting into my ear, “any knives, matches, +or tobacco?” “No, sir,” I lied, as lied every +man who entered. As I passed downstairs to the cellar, I looked +at the brick in my hand, and saw that by doing violence to the language +it might be called “bread.” By its weight and hardness +it certainly must have been unleavened. +</p> + +<p> +The light was very dim down in the cellar, and before I knew it some +other man had thrust a pannikin into my other hand. Then I stumbled +on to a still darker room, where were benches and tables and men. +The place smelled vilely, and the sombre gloom, and the mumble of voices +from out of the obscurity, made it seem more like some anteroom to the +infernal regions. +</p> + +<p> +Most of the men were suffering from tired feet, and they prefaced +the meal by removing their shoes and unbinding the filthy rags with +which their feet were wrapped. This added to the general noisomeness, +while it took away from my appetite. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, I found that I had made a mistake. I had eaten a hearty +dinner five hours before, and to have done justice to the fare before +me I should have fasted for a couple of days. The pannikin contained +skilly, three-quarters of a pint, a mixture of Indian corn and hot water. +The men were dipping their bread into heaps of salt scattered over the +dirty tables. I attempted the same, but the bread seemed to stick +in my mouth, and I remembered the words of the Carpenter, “You +need a pint of water to eat the bread nicely.” +</p> + +<p> +I went over into a dark corner where I had observed other men going +and found the water. Then I returned and attacked the skilly. +It was coarse of texture, unseasoned, gross, and bitter. This +bitterness which lingered persistently in the mouth after the skilly +had passed on, I found especially repulsive. I struggled manfully, +but was mastered by my qualms, and half-a-dozen mouthfuls of skilly +and bread was the measure of my success. The man beside me ate +his own share, and mine to boot, scraped the pannikins, and looked hungrily +for more. +</p> + +<p> +“I met a ‘towny,’ and he stood me too good a dinner,” +I explained. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ I ’aven’t ’ad a bite since yesterday +mornin’,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“How about tobacco?” I asked. “Will the bloke +bother with a fellow now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” he answered me. “No bloomin’ +fear. This is the easiest spike goin’. Y’oughto +see some of them. Search you to the skin.” +</p> + +<p> +The pannikins scraped clean, conversation began to spring up. +“This super’tendent ’ere is always writin’ to +the papers ’bout us mugs,” said the man on the other side +of me. +</p> + +<p> +“What does he say?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ’e sez we’re no good, a lot o’ blackguards +an’ scoundrels as won’t work. Tells all the ole tricks +I’ve bin ’earin’ for twenty years an’ w’ich +I never seen a mug ever do. Las’ thing of ’is I see, +’e was tellin’ ’ow a mug gets out o’ the spike, +wi’ a crust in ’is pockit. An’ w’en ’e +sees a nice ole gentleman comin’ along the street ’e chucks +the crust into the drain, an’ borrows the old gent’s stick +to poke it out. An’ then the ole gent gi’es ’im +a tanner.” +</p> + +<p> +A roar of applause greeted the time-honoured yarn, and from somewhere +over in the deeper darkness came another voice, orating angrily: +</p> + +<p> +“Talk o’ the country bein’ good for tommy [food]; +I’d like to see it. I jest came up from Dover, an’ +blessed little tommy I got. They won’t gi’ ye a drink +o’ water, they won’t, much less tommy.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s mugs never go out of Kent,” spoke a second +voice, “they live bloomin’ fat all along.” +</p> + +<p> +“I come through Kent,” went on the first voice, still +more angrily, “an’ Gawd blimey if I see any tommy. +An’ I always notices as the blokes as talks about ’ow much +they can get, w’en they’re in the spike can eat my share +o’ skilly as well as their bleedin’ own.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s chaps in London,” said a man across the +table from me, “that get all the tommy they want, an’ they +never think o’ goin’ to the country. Stay in London +the year ’round. Nor do they think of lookin’ for +a kip [place to sleep], till nine or ten o’clock at night.” +</p> + +<p> +A general chorus verified this statement. +</p> + +<p> +“But they’re bloomin’ clever, them chaps,” +said an admiring voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Course they are,” said another voice. “But +it’s not the likes of me an’ you can do it. You got +to be born to it, I say. Them chaps ’ave ben openin’ +cabs an’ sellin’ papers since the day they was born, an’ +their fathers an’ mothers before ’em. It’s all +in the trainin’, I say, an’ the likes of me an’ you +’ud starve at it.” +</p> + +<p> +This also was verified by the general chorus, and likewise the statement +that there were “mugs as lives the twelvemonth ’round in +the spike an’ never get a blessed bit o’ tommy other than +spike skilly an’ bread.” +</p> + +<p> +“I once got arf a crown in the Stratford spike,” said +a new voice. Silence fell on the instant, and all listened to +the wonderful tale. “There was three of us breakin’ +stones. Winter-time, an’ the cold was cruel. T’other +two said they’d be blessed if they do it, an’ they didn’t; +but I kept wearin’ into mine to warm up, you know. An’ +then the guardians come, an’ t’other chaps got run in for +fourteen days, an’ the guardians, w’en they see wot I’d +been doin’, gives me a tanner each, five o’ them, an’ +turns me up.” +</p> + +<p> +The majority of these men, nay, all of them, I found, do not like +the spike, and only come to it when driven in. After the “rest +up” they are good for two or three days and nights on the streets, +when they are driven in again for another rest. Of course, this +continuous hardship quickly breaks their constitutions, and they realise +it, though only in a vague way; while it is so much the common run of +things that they do not worry about it. +</p> + +<p> +“On the doss,” they call vagabondage here, which corresponds +to “on the road” in the United States. The agreement +is that kipping, or dossing, or sleeping, is the hardest problem they +have to face, harder even than that of food. The inclement weather +and the harsh laws are mainly responsible for this, while the men themselves +ascribe their homelessness to foreign immigration, especially of Polish +and Russian Jews, who take their places at lower wages and establish +the sweating system. +</p> + +<p> +By seven o’clock we were called away to bathe and go to bed. +We stripped our clothes, wrapping them up in our coats and buckling +our belts about them, and deposited them in a heaped rack and on the +floor—a beautiful scheme for the spread of vermin. Then, +two by two, we entered the bathroom. There were two ordinary tubs, +and this I know: the two men preceding had washed in that water, we +washed in the same water, and it was not changed for the two men that +followed us. This I know; but I am also certain that the twenty-two +of us washed in the same water. +</p> + +<p> +I did no more than make a show of splashing some of this dubious +liquid at myself, while I hastily brushed it off with a towel wet from +the bodies of other men. My equanimity was not restored by seeing +the back of one poor wretch a mass of blood from attacks of vermin and +retaliatory scratching. +</p> + +<p> +A shirt was handed me—which I could not help but wonder how +many other men had worn; and with a couple of blankets under my arm +I trudged off to the sleeping apartment. This was a long, narrow +room, traversed by two low iron rails. Between these rails were +stretched, not hammocks, but pieces of canvas, six feet long and less +than two feet wide. These were the beds, and they were six inches +apart and about eight inches above the floor. The chief difficulty +was that the head was somewhat higher than the feet, which caused the +body constantly to slip down. Being slung to the same rails, when +one man moved, no matter how slightly, the rest were set rocking; and +whenever I dozed somebody was sure to struggle back to the position +from which he had slipped, and arouse me again. +</p> + +<p> +Many hours passed before I won to sleep. It was only seven +in the evening, and the voices of children, in shrill outcry, playing +in the street, continued till nearly midnight. The smell was frightful +and sickening, while my imagination broke loose, and my skin crept and +crawled till I was nearly frantic. Grunting, groaning, and snoring +arose like the sounds emitted by some sea monster, and several times, +afflicted by nightmare, one or another, by his shrieks and yells, aroused +the lot of us. Toward morning I was awakened by a rat or some +similar animal on my breast. In the quick transition from sleep +to waking, before I was completely myself, I raised a shout to wake +the dead. At any rate, I woke the living, and they cursed me roundly +for my lack of manners. +</p> + +<p> +But morning came, with a six o’clock breakfast of bread and +skilly, which I gave away, and we were told off to our various tasks. +Some were set to scrubbing and cleaning, others to picking oakum, and +eight of us were convoyed across the street to the Whitechapel Infirmary +where we were set at scavenger work. This was the method by which +we paid for our skilly and canvas, and I, for one, know that I paid +in full many times over. +</p> + +<p> +Though we had most revolting tasks to perform, our allotment was +considered the best and the other men deemed themselves lucky in being +chosen to perform it. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch it, mate, the nurse sez it’s deadly,” +warned my working partner, as I held open a sack into which he was emptying +a garbage can. +</p> + +<p> +It came from the sick wards, and I told him that I purposed neither +to touch it, nor to allow it to touch me. Nevertheless, I had +to carry the sack, and other sacks, down five flights of stairs and +empty them in a receptacle where the corruption was speedily sprinkled +with strong disinfectant. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps there is a wise mercy in all this. These men of the +spike, the peg, and the street, are encumbrances. They are of +no good or use to any one, nor to themselves. They clutter the +earth with their presence, and are better out of the way. Broken +by hardship, ill fed, and worse nourished, they are always the first +to be struck down by disease, as they are likewise the quickest to die. +</p> + +<p> +They feel, themselves, that the forces of society tend to hurl them out of +existence. We were sprinkling disinfectant by the mortuary, when the dead +waggon drove up and five bodies were packed into it. The conversation turned to +the “white potion” and “black jack,” and I found they +were all agreed that the poor person, man or woman, who in the Infirmary gave +too much trouble or was in a bad way, was “polished off.” That is +to say, the incurables and the obstreperous were given a dose of “black +jack” or the “white potion,” and sent over the divide. It +does not matter in the least whether this be actually so or not. The point is, +they have the feeling that it is so, and they have created the language with +which to express that feeling—“black jack,” “white +potion,” “polishing off.” +</p> + +<p> +At eight o’clock we went down into a cellar under the infirmary, +where tea was brought to us, and the hospital scraps. These were +heaped high on a huge platter in an indescribable mess—pieces +of bread, chunks of grease and fat pork, the burnt skin from the outside +of roasted joints, bones, in short, all the leavings from the fingers +and mouths of the sick ones suffering from all manner of diseases. +Into this mess the men plunged their hands, digging, pawing, turning +over, examining, rejecting, and scrambling for. It wasn’t +pretty. Pigs couldn’t have done worse. But the poor +devils were hungry, and they ate ravenously of the swill, and when they +could eat no more they bundled what was left into their handkerchiefs +and thrust it inside their shirts. +</p> + +<p> +“Once, w’en I was ’ere before, wot did I find out +there but a ’ole lot of pork-ribs,” said Ginger to me. +By “out there” he meant the place where the corruption was +dumped and sprinkled with strong disinfectant. “They was +a prime lot, no end o’ meat on ’em, an’ I ’ad +’em into my arms an’ was out the gate an’ down the +street, a-lookin’ for some ’un to gi’ ’em to. +Couldn’t see a soul, an’ I was runnin’ ’round +clean crazy, the bloke runnin’ after me an’ thinkin’ +I was ‘slingin’ my ’ook’ [running away]. +But jest before ’e got me, I got a ole woman an’ poked ’em +into ’er apron.” +</p> + +<p> +O Charity, O Philanthropy, descend to the spike and take a lesson +from Ginger. At the bottom of the Abyss he performed as purely +an altruistic act as was ever performed outside the Abyss. It +was fine of Ginger, and if the old woman caught some contagion from +the “no end o’ meat” on the pork-ribs, it was still +fine, though not so fine. But the most salient thing in this incident, +it seems to me, is poor Ginger, “clean crazy” at sight of +so much food going to waste. +</p> + +<p> +It is the rule of the casual ward that a man who enters must stay +two nights and a day; but I had seen sufficient for my purpose, had +paid for my skilly and canvas, and was preparing to run for it. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, let’s sling it,” I said to one of my +mates, pointing toward the open gate through which the dead waggon had +come. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ get fourteen days?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; get away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aw, I come ’ere for a rest,” he said complacently. +“An’ another night’s kip won’t ’urt me +none.” +</p> + +<p> +They were all of this opinion, so I was forced to “sling it” +alone. +</p> + +<p> +“You cawn’t ever come back ’ere again for a doss,” +they warned me. +</p> + +<p> +“No fear,” said I, with an enthusiasm they could not +comprehend; and, dodging out the gate, I sped down the street. +</p> + +<p> +Straight to my room I hurried, changed my clothes, and less than +an hour from my escape, in a Turkish bath, I was sweating out whatever +germs and other things had penetrated my epidermis, and wishing that +I could stand a temperature of three hundred and twenty rather than +two hundred and twenty. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /> +CARRYING THE BANNER</h2> + +<p> +“To carry the banner” means to walk the streets all night; +and I, with the figurative emblem hoisted, went out to see what I could +see. Men and women walk the streets at night all over this great +city, but I selected the West End, making Leicester Square my base, +and scouting about from the Thames Embankment to Hyde Park. +</p> + +<p> +The rain was falling heavily when the theatres let out, and the brilliant +throng which poured from the places of amusement was hard put to find cabs. The +streets were so many wild rivers of cabs, most of which were engaged, however; +and here I saw the desperate attempts of ragged men and boys to get a shelter +from the night by procuring cabs for the cabless ladies and gentlemen. I use +the word “desperate” advisedly, for these wretched, homeless ones +were gambling a soaking against a bed; and most of them, I took notice, got the +soaking and missed the bed. Now, to go through a stormy night with wet clothes, +and, in addition, to be ill nourished and not to have tasted meat for a week or +a month, is about as severe a hardship as a man can undergo. Well fed and well +clad, I have travelled all day with the spirit thermometer down to seventy-four +degrees below zero—one hundred and six degrees of frost<a href="#fn-1" name="fnref-1" id="fnref-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>; +and though I suffered, it was a mere nothing compared with carrying the banner +for a night, ill fed, ill clad, and soaking wet. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-1" id="fn-1"></a> <a href="#fnref-1">[1]</a> +This in the Klondike.—J. L. +</p> + +<p> +The streets grew very quiet and lonely after the theatre crowd had +gone home. Only were to be seen the ubiquitous policemen, flashing +their dark lanterns into doorways and alleys, and men and women and +boys taking shelter in the lee of buildings from the wind and rain. +Piccadilly, however, was not quite so deserted. Its pavements +were brightened by well-dressed women without escort, and there was +more life and action there than elsewhere, due to the process of finding +escort. But by three o’clock the last of them had vanished, +and it was then indeed lonely. +</p> + +<p> +At half-past one the steady downpour ceased, and only showers fell +thereafter. The homeless folk came away from the protection of +the buildings, and slouched up and down and everywhere, in order to +rush up the circulation and keep warm. +</p> + +<p> +One old woman, between fifty and sixty, a sheer wreck, I had noticed +earlier in the night standing in Piccadilly, not far from Leicester +Square. She seemed to have neither the sense nor the strength +to get out of the rain or keep walking, but stood stupidly, whenever +she got the chance, meditating on past days, I imagine, when life was +young and blood was warm. But she did not get the chance often. +She was moved on by every policeman, and it required an average of six +moves to send her doddering off one man’s beat and on to another’s. +By three o’clock, she had progressed as far as St. James Street, +and as the clocks were striking four I saw her sleeping soundly against +the iron railings of Green Park. A brisk shower was falling at +the time, and she must have been drenched to the skin. +</p> + +<p> +Now, said I, at one o’clock, to myself; consider that you are +a poor young man, penniless, in London Town, and that to-morrow you +must look for work. It is necessary, therefore, that you get some +sleep in order that you may have strength to look for work and to do +work in case you find it. +</p> + +<p> +So I sat down on the stone steps of a building. Five minutes +later a policeman was looking at me. My eyes were wide open, so +he only grunted and passed on. Ten minutes later my head was on +my knees, I was dozing, and the same policeman was saying gruffly, “’Ere, +you, get outa that!” +</p> + +<p> +I got. And, like the old woman, I continued to get; for every +time I dozed, a policeman was there to rout me along again. Not +long after, when I had given this up, I was walking with a young Londoner +(who had been out to the colonies and wished he were out to them again), +when I noticed an open passage leading under a building and disappearing +in darkness. A low iron gate barred the entrance. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on,” I said. “Let’s climb over +and get a good sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wot?” he answered, recoiling from me. “An’ +get run in fer three months! Blimey if I do!” +</p> + +<p> +Later on I was passing Hyde Park with a young boy of fourteen or +fifteen, a most wretched-looking youth, gaunt and hollow-eyed and sick. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go over the fence,” I proposed, “and +crawl into the shrubbery for a sleep. The bobbies couldn’t +find us there.” +</p> + +<p> +“No fear,” he answered. “There’s the +park guardians, and they’d run you in for six months.” +</p> + +<p> +Times have changed, alas! When I was a youngster I used to +read of homeless boys sleeping in doorways. Already the thing +has become a tradition. As a stock situation it will doubtless +linger in literature for a century to come, but as a cold fact it has +ceased to be. Here are the doorways, and here are the boys, but +happy conjunctions are no longer effected. The doorways remain +empty, and the boys keep awake and carry the banner. +</p> + +<p> +“I was down under the arches,” grumbled another young +fellow. By “arches” he meant the shore arches where +begin the bridges that span the Thames. “I was down under +the arches wen it was ryning its ’ardest, an’ a bobby comes +in an’ chyses me out. But I come back, an’ ’e +come too. ‘’Ere,’ sez ’e, ‘wot you +doin’ ’ere?’ An’ out I goes, but I sez, +‘Think I want ter pinch [steal] the bleedin’ bridge?’” +</p> + +<p> +Among those who carry the banner, Green Park has the reputation of +opening its gates earlier than the other parks, and at quarter-past +four in the morning, I, and many more, entered Green Park. It +was raining again, but they were worn out with the night’s walking, +and they were down on the benches and asleep at once. Many of +the men stretched out full length on the dripping wet grass, and, with +the rain falling steadily upon them, were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. +</p> + +<p> +And now I wish to criticise the powers that be. They <i>are</i> +the powers, therefore they may decree whatever they please; so I make +bold only to criticise the ridiculousness of their decrees. All +night long they make the homeless ones walk up and down. They +drive them out of doors and passages, and lock them out of the parks. +The evident intention of all this is to deprive them of sleep. +Well and good, the powers have the power to deprive them of sleep, or +of anything else for that matter; but why under the sun do they open +the gates of the parks at five o’clock in the morning and let +the homeless ones go inside and sleep? If it is their intention +to deprive them of sleep, why do they let them sleep after five in the +morning? And if it is not their intention to deprive them of sleep, +why don’t they let them sleep earlier in the night? +</p> + +<p> +In this connection, I will say that I came by Green Park that same +day, at one in the afternoon, and that I counted scores of the ragged +wretches asleep in the grass. It was Sunday afternoon, the sun +was fitfully appearing, and the well-dressed West Enders, with their +wives and progeny, were out by thousands, taking the air. It was +not a pleasant sight for them, those horrible, unkempt, sleeping vagabonds; +while the vagabonds themselves, I know, would rather have done their +sleeping the night before. +</p> + +<p> +And so, dear soft people, should you ever visit London Town, and +see these men asleep on the benches and in the grass, please do not +think they are lazy creatures, preferring sleep to work. Know +that the powers that be have kept them walking all the night long, and +that in the day they have nowhere else to sleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /> +THE PEG</h2> + +<p> +But, after carrying the banner all night, I did not sleep in Green +Park when morning dawned. I was wet to the skin, it is true, and +I had had no sleep for twenty-four hours; but, still adventuring as +a penniless man looking for work, I had to look about me, first for +a breakfast, and next for the work. +</p> + +<p> +During the night I had heard of a place over on the Surrey side of +the Thames, where the Salvation Army every Sunday morning gave away +a breakfast to the unwashed. (And, by the way, the men who carry +the banner are unwashed in the morning, and unless it is raining they +do not have much show for a wash, either.) This, thought I, is +the very thing—breakfast in the morning, and then the whole day +in which to look for work. +</p> + +<p> +It was a weary walk. Down St. James Street I dragged my tired +legs, along Pall Mall, past Trafalgar Square, to the Strand. I +crossed the Waterloo Bridge to the Surrey side, cut across to Blackfriars +Road, coming out near the Surrey Theatre, and arrived at the Salvation +Army barracks before seven o’clock. This was “the +peg.” And by “the peg,” in the argot, is meant +the place where a free meal may be obtained. +</p> + +<p> +Here was a motley crowd of woebegone wretches who had spent the night +in the rain. Such prodigious misery! and so much of it! +Old men, young men, all manner of men, and boys to boot, and all manner +of boys. Some were drowsing standing up; half a score of them +were stretched out on the stone steps in most painful postures, all +of them sound asleep, the skin of their bodies showing red through the +holes, and rents in their rags. And up and down the street and +across the street for a block either way, each doorstep had from two +to three occupants, all asleep, their heads bent forward on their knees. +And, it must be remembered, these are not hard times in England. +Things are going on very much as they ordinarily do, and times are neither +hard nor easy. +</p> + +<p> +And then came the policeman. “Get outa that, you bloomin’ +swine! Eigh! eigh! Get out now!” And like swine +he drove them from the doorways and scattered them to the four winds +of Surrey. But when he encountered the crowd asleep on the steps +he was astounded. “Shocking!” he exclaimed. +“Shocking! And of a Sunday morning! A pretty sight! +Eigh! eigh! Get outa that, you bleeding nuisances!” +</p> + +<p> +Of course it was a shocking sight, I was shocked myself. And +I should not care to have my own daughter pollute her eyes with such +a sight, or come within half a mile of it; but—and there we were, +and there you are, and “but” is all that can be said. +</p> + +<p> +The policeman passed on, and back we clustered, like flies around +a honey jar. For was there not that wonderful thing, a breakfast, +awaiting us? We could not have clustered more persistently and +desperately had they been giving away million-dollar bank-notes. +Some were already off to sleep, when back came the policeman and away +we scattered only to return again as soon as the coast was clear. +</p> + +<p> +At half-past seven a little door opened, and a Salvation Army soldier +stuck out his head. “Ayn’t no sense blockin’ +the wy up that wy,” he said. “Those as ’as tickets +cawn come hin now, an’ those as ’asn’t cawn’t +come hin till nine.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, that breakfast! Nine o’clock! An hour and a +half longer! The men who held tickets were greatly envied. +They were permitted to go inside, have a wash, and sit down and rest +until breakfast, while we waited for the same breakfast on the street. +The tickets had been distributed the previous night on the streets and +along the Embankment, and the possession of them was not a matter of +merit, but of chance. +</p> + +<p> +At eight-thirty, more men with tickets were admitted, and by nine +the little gate was opened to us. We crushed through somehow, +and found ourselves packed in a courtyard like sardines. On more +occasions than one, as a Yankee tramp in Yankeeland, I have had to work +for my breakfast; but for no breakfast did I ever work so hard as for +this one. For over two hours I had waited outside, and for over +another hour I waited in this packed courtyard. I had had nothing +to eat all night, and I was weak and faint, while the smell of the soiled +clothes and unwashed bodies, steaming from pent animal heat, and blocked +solidly about me, nearly turned my stomach. So tightly were we +packed, that a number of the men took advantage of the opportunity and +went soundly asleep standing up. +</p> + +<p> +Now, about the Salvation Army in general I know nothing, and whatever +criticism I shall make here is of that particular portion of the Salvation +Army which does business on Blackfriars Road near the Surrey Theatre. +In the first place, this forcing of men who have been up all night to +stand on their feet for hours longer, is as cruel as it is needless. +We were weak, famished, and exhausted from our night’s hardship +and lack of sleep, and yet there we stood, and stood, and stood, without +rhyme or reason. +</p> + +<p> +Sailors were very plentiful in this crowd. It seemed to me +that one man in four was looking for a ship, and I found at least a +dozen of them to be American sailors. In accounting for their +being “on the beach,” I received the same story from each +and all, and from my knowledge of sea affairs this story rang true. +English ships sign their sailors for the voyage, which means the round +trip, sometimes lasting as long as three years; and they cannot sign +off and receive their discharges until they reach the home port, which +is England. Their wages are low, their food is bad, and their +treatment worse. Very often they are really forced by their captains +to desert in the New World or the colonies, leaving a handsome sum of +wages behind them—a distinct gain, either to the captain or the +owners, or to both. But whether for this reason alone or not, +it is a fact that large numbers of them desert. Then, for the +home voyage, the ship engages whatever sailors it can find on the beach. +These men are engaged at the somewhat higher wages that obtain in other +portions of the world, under the agreement that they shall sign off +on reaching England. The reason for this is obvious; for it would +be poor business policy to sign them for any longer time, since seamen’s +wages are low in England, and England is always crowded with sailormen +on the beach. So this fully accounted for the American seamen +at the Salvation Army barracks. To get off the beach in other +outlandish places they had come to England, and gone on the beach in +the most outlandish place of all. +</p> + +<p> +There were fully a score of Americans in the crowd, the non-sailors +being “tramps royal,” the men whose “mate is the wind +that tramps the world.” They were all cheerful, facing things +with the pluck which is their chief characteristic and which seems never +to desert them, withal they were cursing the country with lurid metaphors +quite refreshing after a month of unimaginative, monotonous Cockney +swearing. The Cockney has one oath, and one oath only, the most +indecent in the language, which he uses on any and every occasion. +Far different is the luminous and varied Western swearing, which runs +to blasphemy rather than indecency. And after all, since men will +swear, I think I prefer blasphemy to indecency; there is an audacity +about it, an adventurousness and defiance that is better than sheer +filthiness. +</p> + +<p> +There was one American tramp royal whom I found particularly enjoyable. +I first noticed him on the street, asleep in a doorway, his head on +his knees, but a hat on his head that one does not meet this side of +the Western Ocean. When the policeman routed him out, he got up +slowly and deliberately, looked at the policeman, yawned and stretched +himself, looked at the policeman again as much as to say he didn’t +know whether he would or wouldn’t, and then sauntered leisurely +down the sidewalk. At the outset I was sure of the hat, but this +made me sure of the wearer of the hat. +</p> + +<p> +In the jam inside I found myself alongside of him, and we had quite +a chat. He had been through Spain, Italy, Switzerland, and France, +and had accomplished the practically impossible feat of beating his +way three hundred miles on a French railway without being caught at +the finish. Where was I hanging out? he asked. And how did +I manage for “kipping”?—which means sleeping. +Did I know the rounds yet? He was getting on, though the country +was “horstyl” and the cities were “bum.” +Fierce, wasn’t it? Couldn’t “batter” (beg) +anywhere without being “pinched.” But he wasn’t +going to quit it. Buffalo Bill’s Show was coming over soon, +and a man who could drive eight horses was sure of a job any time. +These mugs over here didn’t know beans about driving anything +more than a span. What was the matter with me hanging on and waiting +for Buffalo Bill? He was sure I could ring in somehow. +</p> + +<p> +And so, after all, blood is thicker than water. We were fellow-countrymen +and strangers in a strange land. I had warmed to his battered +old hat at sight of it, and he was as solicitous for my welfare as if +we were blood brothers. We swapped all manner of useful information +concerning the country and the ways of its people, methods by which +to obtain food and shelter and what not, and we parted genuinely sorry +at having to say good-bye. +</p> + +<p> +One thing particularly conspicuous in this crowd was the shortness +of stature. I, who am but of medium height, looked over the heads +of nine out of ten. The natives were all short, as were the foreign +sailors. There were only five or six in the crowd who could be +called fairly tall, and they were Scandinavians and Americans. +The tallest man there, however, was an exception. He was an Englishman, +though not a Londoner. “Candidate for the Life Guards,” +I remarked to him. “You’ve hit it, mate,” was +his reply; “I’ve served my bit in that same, and the way +things are I’ll be back at it before long.” +</p> + +<p> +For an hour we stood quietly in this packed courtyard. Then +the men began to grow restless. There was pushing and shoving +forward, and a mild hubbub of voices. Nothing rough, however, +nor violent; merely the restlessness of weary and hungry men. +At this juncture forth came the adjutant. I did not like him. +His eyes were not good. There was nothing of the lowly Galilean +about him, but a great deal of the centurion who said: “For I +am a man in authority, having soldiers under me; and I say to this man, +Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, +Do this, and he doeth it.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, he looked at us in just that way, and those nearest to him +quailed. Then he lifted his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop this ’ere, now, or I’ll turn you the other +wy an’ march you out, an’ you’ll get no breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +I cannot convey by printed speech the insufferable way in which he +said this. He seemed to me to revel in that he was a man in authority, +able to say to half a thousand ragged wretches, “you may eat or +go hungry, as I elect.” +</p> + +<p> +To deny us our breakfast after standing for hours! It was an +awful threat, and the pitiful, abject silence which instantly fell attested +its awfulness. And it was a cowardly threat. We could not +strike back, for we were starving; and it is the way of the world that +when one man feeds another he is that man’s master. But +the centurion—I mean the adjutant—was not satisfied. +In the dead silence he raised his voice again, and repeated the threat, +and amplified it. +</p> + +<p> +At last we were permitted to enter the feasting hall, where we found +the “ticket men” washed but unfed. All told, there +must have been nearly seven hundred of us who sat down—not to +meat or bread, but to speech, song, and prayer. From all of which +I am convinced that Tantalus suffers in many guises this side of the +infernal regions. The adjutant made the prayer, but I did not +take note of it, being too engrossed with the massed picture of misery +before me. But the speech ran something like this: “You +will feast in Paradise. No matter how you starve and suffer here, +you will feast in Paradise, that is, if you will follow the directions.” +And so forth and so forth. A clever bit of propaganda, I took +it, but rendered of no avail for two reasons. First, the men who +received it were unimaginative and materialistic, unaware of the existence +of any Unseen, and too inured to hell on earth to be frightened by hell +to come. And second, weary and exhausted from the night’s +sleeplessness and hardship, suffering from the long wait upon their +feet, and faint from hunger, they were yearning, not for salvation, +but for grub. The “soul-snatchers” (as these men call +all religious propagandists), should study the physiological basis of +psychology a little, if they wish to make their efforts more effective. +</p> + +<p> +All in good time, about eleven o’clock, breakfast arrived. +It arrived, not on plates, but in paper parcels. I did not have +all I wanted, and I am sure that no man there had all he wanted, or +half of what he wanted or needed. I gave part of my bread to the +tramp royal who was waiting for Buffalo Bill, and he was as ravenous +at the end as he was in the beginning. This is the breakfast: +two slices of bread, one small piece of bread with raisins in it and +called “cake,” a wafer of cheese, and a mug of “water +bewitched.” Numbers of the men had been waiting since five +o’clock for it, while all of us had waited at least four hours; +and in addition, we had been herded like swine, packed like sardines, +and treated like curs, and been preached at, and sung to, and prayed +for. Nor was that all. +</p> + +<p> +No sooner was breakfast over (and it was over almost as quickly as +it takes to tell), than the tired heads began to nod and droop, and +in five minutes half of us were sound asleep. There were no signs +of our being dismissed, while there were unmistakable signs of preparation +for a meeting. I looked at a small clock hanging on the wall. +It indicated twenty-five minutes to twelve. Heigh-ho, thought +I, time is flying, and I have yet to look for work. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to go,” I said to a couple of waking men near +me. +</p> + +<p> +“Got ter sty fer the service,” was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to stay?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +They shook their heads. +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us go and tell them we want to get out,” I +continued. “Come on.” +</p> + +<p> +But the poor creatures were aghast. So I left them to their +fate, and went up to the nearest Salvation Army man. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to go,” I said. “I came here for +breakfast in order that I might be in shape to look for work. +I didn’t think it would take so long to get breakfast. I +think I have a chance for work in Stepney, and the sooner I start, the +better chance I’ll have of getting it.” +</p> + +<p> +He was really a good fellow, though he was startled by my request. +“Wy,” he said, “we’re goin’ to ’old +services, and you’d better sty.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that will spoil my chances for work,” I urged. +“And work is the most important thing for me just now.” +</p> + +<p> +As he was only a private, he referred me to the adjutant, and to +the adjutant I repeated my reasons for wishing to go, and politely requested +that he let me go. +</p> + +<p> +“But it cawn’t be done,” he said, waxing virtuously +indignant at such ingratitude. “The idea!” he snorted. +“The idea!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say that I can’t get out of here?” +I demanded. “That you will keep me here against my will?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he snorted. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know what might have happened, for I was waxing indignant +myself; but the “congregation” had “piped” the +situation, and he drew me over to a corner of the room, and then into +another room. Here he again demanded my reasons for wishing to +go. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to go,” I said, “because I wish to look +for work over in Stepney, and every hour lessens my chance of finding +work. It is now twenty-five minutes to twelve. I did not +think when I came in that it would take so long to get a breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ’ave business, eh?” he sneered. “A +man of business you are, eh? Then wot did you come ’ere +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was out all night, and I needed a breakfast in order to +strengthen me to find work. That is why I came here.” +</p> + +<p> +“A nice thing to do,” he went on in the same sneering +manner. “A man with business shouldn’t come ’ere. +You’ve tyken some poor man’s breakfast ’ere this morning, +that’s wot you’ve done.” +</p> + +<p> +Which was a lie, for every mother’s son of us had come in. +</p> + +<p> +Now I submit, was this Christian-like, or even honest?—after +I had plainly stated that I was homeless and hungry, and that I wished +to look for work, for him to call my looking for work “business,” +to call me therefore a business man, and to draw the corollary that +a man of business, and well off, did not require a charity breakfast, +and that by taking a charity breakfast I had robbed some hungry waif +who was not a man of business. +</p> + +<p> +I kept my temper, but I went over the facts again, and clearly and +concisely demonstrated to him how unjust he was and how he had perverted +the facts. As I manifested no signs of backing down (and I am +sure my eyes were beginning to snap), he led me to the rear of the building +where, in an open court, stood a tent. In the same sneering tone +he informed a couple of privates standing there that “’ere +is a fellow that ’as business an’ ’e wants to go before +services.” +</p> + +<p> +They were duly shocked, of course, and they looked unutterable horror +while he went into the tent and brought out the major. Still in +the same sneering manner, laying particular stress on the “business,” +he brought my case before the commanding officer. The major was +of a different stamp of man. I liked him as soon as I saw him, +and to him I stated my case in the same fashion as before. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you know you had to stay for services?” +he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” I answered, “or I should have +gone without my breakfast. You have no placards posted to that +effect, nor was I so informed when I entered the place.” +</p> + +<p> +He meditated a moment. “You can go,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was twelve o’clock when I gained the street, and I couldn’t +quite make up my mind whether I had been in the army or in prison. +The day was half gone, and it was a far fetch to Stepney. And +besides, it was Sunday, and why should even a starving man look for +work on Sunday? Furthermore, it was my judgment that I had done +a hard night’s work walking the streets, and a hard day’s +work getting my breakfast; so I disconnected myself from my working +hypothesis of a starving young man in search of employment, hailed a +bus, and climbed aboard. +</p> + +<p> +After a shave and a bath, with my clothes all off, I got in between +clean white sheets and went to sleep. It was six in the evening +when I closed my eyes. When they opened again, the clocks were +striking nine next morning. I had slept fifteen straight hours. +And as I lay there drowsily, my mind went back to the seven hundred +unfortunates I had left waiting for services. No bath, no shave +for them, no clean white sheets and all clothes off, and fifteen hours’ +straight sleep. Services over, it was the weary streets again, +the problem of a crust of bread ere night, and the long sleepless night +in the streets, and the pondering of the problem of how to obtain a +crust at dawn. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /> +CORONATION DAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O thou that sea-walls sever<br /> +From lands unwalled by seas!<br /> +Wilt thou endure forever,<br /> +O Milton’s England, these?<br /> +Thou that wast his Republic,<br /> +Wilt thou clasp their knees?<br /> +These royalties rust-eaten,<br /> +These worm-corroded lies<br /> +That keep thy head storm-beaten,<br /> +And sun-like strength of eyes<br /> +From the open air and heaven<br /> +Of intercepted skies! +</p> + +<p class="right"> +SWINBURNE. +</p> + +<p> +Vivat Rex Eduardus! They crowned a king this day, and there +has been great rejoicing and elaborate tomfoolery, and I am perplexed +and saddened. I never saw anything to compare with the pageant, +except Yankee circuses and Alhambra ballets; nor did I ever see anything +so hopeless and so tragic. +</p> + +<p> +To have enjoyed the Coronation procession, I should have come straight +from America to the Hotel Cecil, and straight from the Hotel Cecil to +a five-guinea seat among the washed. My mistake was in coming +from the unwashed of the East End. There were not many who came +from that quarter. The East End, as a whole, remained in the East +End and got drunk. The Socialists, Democrats, and Republicans +went off to the country for a breath of fresh air, quite unaffected +by the fact that four hundred millions of people were taking to themselves +a crowned and anointed ruler. Six thousand five hundred prelates, +priests, statesmen, princes, and warriors beheld the crowning and anointing, +and the rest of us the pageant as it passed. +</p> + +<p> +I saw it at Trafalgar Square, “the most splendid site in Europe,” +and the very innermost heart of the empire. There were many thousands +of us, all checked and held in order by a superb display of armed power. +The line of march was double-walled with soldiers. The base of +the Nelson Column was triple-fringed with bluejackets. Eastward, +at the entrance to the square, stood the Royal Marine Artillery. +In the triangle of Pall Mall and Cockspur Street, the statue of George +III. was buttressed on either side by the Lancers and Hussars. +To the west were the red-coats of the Royal Marines, and from the Union +Club to the embouchure of Whitehall swept the glittering, massive curve +of the 1st Life Guards—gigantic men mounted on gigantic chargers, +steel-breastplated, steel-helmeted, steel-caparisoned, a great war-sword +of steel ready to the hand of the powers that be. And further, +throughout the crowd, were flung long lines of the Metropolitan Constabulary, +while in the rear were the reserves—tall, well-fed men, with weapons +to wield and muscles to wield them in ease of need. +</p> + +<p> +And as it was thus at Trafalgar Square, so was it along the whole +line of march—force, overpowering force; myriads of men, splendid +men, the pick of the people, whose sole function in life is blindly +to obey, and blindly to kill and destroy and stamp out life. And +that they should be well fed, well clothed, and well armed, and have +ships to hurl them to the ends of the earth, the East End of London, +and the “East End” of all England, toils and rots and dies. +</p> + +<p> +There is a Chinese proverb that if one man lives in laziness another will die +of hunger; and Montesquieu has said, “The fact that many men are occupied +in making clothes for one individual is the cause of there being many people +without clothes.” So one explains the other. We cannot understand the +starved and runty<a href="#fn-2" name="fnref-2" id="fnref-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> +toiler of the East End (living with his family in a one-room den, and letting +out the floor space for lodgings to other starved and runty toilers) till we +look at the strapping Life Guardsmen of the West End, and come to know that the +one must feed and clothe and groom the other. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-2" id="fn-2"></a> <a href="#fnref-2">[2]</a> +“Runt” in America is the equivalent of the English +“crowl,” the dwarf of a litter. +</p> + +<p> +And while in Westminster Abbey the people were taking unto themselves +a king, I, jammed between the Life Guards and Constabulary of Trafalgar +Square, was dwelling upon the time when the people of Israel first took +unto themselves a king. You all know how it runs. The elders +came to the prophet Samuel, and said: “Make us a king to judge +us like all the nations.” +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +And the Lord said unto Samuel: Now therefore hearken +unto their voice; howbeit thou shalt show them the manner of the king +that shall reign over them. +</p> + +<p> +And Samuel told all the words of the Lord unto the people that asked +of him a king, and he said: +</p> + +<p> +This will be the manner of the king that shall reign over you; he +will take your sons, and appoint them unto him, for his chariots, and +to be his horsemen, and they shall run before his chariots. +</p> + +<p> +And he will appoint them unto him for captains of thousands, and +captains of fifties; and he will set some to plough his ground, and +to reap his harvest, and to make his instruments of war, and the instruments +of his chariots. +</p> + +<p> +And he will take your daughters to be confectionaries, and to be +cooks, and to be bakers. +</p> + +<p> +And he will take your fields and your vineyards, and your oliveyards, +even the best of them, and give them to his servants. +</p> + +<p> +And he will take a tenth of your seed, and of your vineyards, and +give to his officers, and to his servants. +</p> + +<p> +And he will take your menservants, and your maidservants, and your +goodliest young men, and your asses, and put them to his work. +</p> + +<p> +He will take a tenth of your flocks; and ye shall be his servants. +</p> + +<p> +And ye shall call out in that day because of your king which ye shall +have chosen you; and the Lord will not answer you in that day. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +All of which came to pass in that ancient day, and they did cry out +to Samuel, saying: “Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, +that we die not; for we have added unto all our sins this evil, to ask +us a king.” And after Saul, David, and Solomon, came Rehoboam, +who “answered the people roughly, saying: My father made your +yoke heavy, but I will add to your yoke; my father chastised you with +whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions.” +</p> + +<p> +And in these latter days, five hundred hereditary peers own one-fifth +of England; and they, and the officers and servants under the King, +and those who go to compose the powers that be, yearly spend in wasteful +luxury $1,850,000,000, or £370,000,000, which is thirty-two per +cent. of the total wealth produced by all the toilers of the country. +</p> + +<p> +At the Abbey, clad in wonderful golden raiment, amid fanfare of trumpets and +throbbing of music, surrounded by a brilliant throng of masters, lords, and +rulers, the King was being invested with the insignia of his sovereignty. The +spurs were placed to his heels by the Lord Great Chamberlain, and a sword of +state, in purple scabbard, was presented him by the Archbishop of Canterbury, +with these words:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Receive this kingly sword brought now from the altar of God, and delivered to +you by the hands of the bishops and servants of God, though unworthy. +</p> + + +<p> +Whereupon, being girded, he gave heed to the Archbishop’s +exhortation:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +With this sword do justice, stop the growth of iniquity, protect the Holy +Church of God, help and defend widows and orphans, restore the things that are +gone to decay, maintain the things that are restored, punish and reform what is +amiss, and confirm what is in good order. +</p> + +<p> +But hark! There is cheering down Whitehall; the crowd sways, +the double walls of soldiers come to attention, and into view swing +the King’s watermen, in fantastic mediaeval garbs of red, for +all the world like the van of a circus parade. Then a royal carriage, +filled with ladies and gentlemen of the household, with powdered footmen +and coachmen most gorgeously arrayed. More carriages, lords, and +chamberlains, viscounts, mistresses of the robes—lackeys all. +Then the warriors, a kingly escort, generals, bronzed and worn, from +the ends of the earth come up to London Town, volunteer officers, officers +of the militia and regular forces; Spens and Plumer, Broadwood and Cooper +who relieved Ookiep, Mathias of Dargai, Dixon of Vlakfontein; General +Gaselee and Admiral Seymour of China; Kitchener of Khartoum; Lord Roberts +of India and all the world—the fighting men of England, masters +of destruction, engineers of death! Another race of men from those +of the shops and slums, a totally different race of men. +</p> + +<p> +But here they come, in all the pomp and certitude of power, and still +they come, these men of steel, these war lords and world harnessers. +Pell-mell, peers and commoners, princes and maharajahs, Equerries to +the King and Yeomen of the Guard. And here the colonials, lithe +and hardy men; and here all the breeds of all the world-soldiers from +Canada, Australia, New Zealand; from Bermuda, Borneo, Fiji, and the +Gold Coast; from Rhodesia, Cape Colony, Natal, Sierra Leone and Gambia, +Nigeria, and Uganda; from Ceylon, Cyprus, Hong-Kong, Jamaica, and Wei-Hai-Wei; +from Lagos, Malta, St. Lucia, Singapore, Trinidad. And here the +conquered men of Ind, swarthy horsemen and sword wielders, fiercely +barbaric, blazing in crimson and scarlet, Sikhs, Rajputs, Burmese, province +by province, and caste by caste. +</p> + +<p> +And now the Horse Guards, a glimpse of beautiful cream ponies, and +a golden panoply, a hurricane of cheers, the crashing of bands—“The +King! the King! God save the King!” Everybody has +gone mad. The contagion is sweeping me off my feet—I, too, +want to shout, “The King! God save the King!” +Ragged men about me, tears in their eyes, are tossing up their hats +and crying ecstatically, “Bless ’em! Bless ’em! +Bless ’em!” See, there he is, in that wondrous golden +coach, the great crown flashing on his head, the woman in white beside +him likewise crowned. +</p> + +<p> +And I check myself with a rush, striving to convince myself that +it is all real and rational, and not some glimpse of fairyland. +This I cannot succeed in doing, and it is better so. I much prefer +to believe that all this pomp, and vanity, and show, and mumbo-jumbo +foolery has come from fairyland, than to believe it the performance +of sane and sensible people who have mastered matter and solved the +secrets of the stars. +</p> + +<p> +Princes and princelings, dukes, duchesses, and all manner of coroneted folk of +the royal train are flashing past; more warriors, and lackeys, and conquered +peoples, and the pageant is over. I drift with the crowd out of the square into +a tangle of narrow streets, where the public-houses are a-roar with +drunkenness, men, women, and children mixed together in colossal debauch. And +on every side is rising the favourite song of the Coronation:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Oh! on Coronation Day, on Coronation Day,<br /> +We’ll have a spree, a jubilee, and shout, Hip, hip, hooray,<br /> +For we’ll all be merry, drinking whisky, wine, and sherry,<br /> +We’ll all be merry on Coronation Day.” +</p> + +<p> +The rain is pouring down. Up the street come troops of the +auxiliaries, black Africans and yellow Asiatics, beturbaned and befezed, +and coolies swinging along with machine guns and mountain batteries +on their heads, and the bare feet of all, in quick rhythm, going <i>slish, +slish, slish</i> through the pavement mud. The public-houses empty +by magic, and the swarthy allegiants are cheered by their British brothers, +who return at once to the carouse. +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you like the procession, mate?” I asked +an old man on a bench in Green Park. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ow did I like it? A bloomin’ good chawnce, +sez I to myself, for a sleep, wi’ all the coppers aw’y, +so I turned into the corner there, along wi’ fifty others. +But I couldn’t sleep, a-lyin’ there an’ thinkin’ +’ow I’d worked all the years o’ my life an’ +now ’ad no plyce to rest my ’ead; an’ the music comin’ +to me, an’ the cheers an’ cannon, till I got almost a hanarchist +an’ wanted to blow out the brains o’ the Lord Chamberlain.” +</p> + +<p> +Why the Lord Chamberlain I could not precisely see, nor could he, but that was +the way he felt, he said conclusively, and there was no more discussion. +</p> + +<p> +As night drew on, the city became a blaze of light. Splashes +of colour, green, amber, and ruby, caught the eye at every point, and +“E. R.,” in great crystal letters and backed by flaming +gas, was everywhere. The crowds in the streets increased by hundreds +of thousands, and though the police sternly put down mafficking, drunkenness +and rough play abounded. The tired workers seemed to have gone +mad with the relaxation and excitement, and they surged and danced down +the streets, men and women, old and young, with linked arms and in long +rows, singing, “I may be crazy, but I love you,” “Dolly +Gray,” and “The Honeysuckle and the Bee”—the +last rendered something like this:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Yew aw the enny, ennyseckle, Oi em ther bee,<br /> +Oi’d like ter sip ther enny from those red lips, yew see.” +</p> + +<p> +I sat on a bench on the Thames Embankment, looking across the illuminated +water. It was approaching midnight, and before me poured the better +class of merrymakers, shunning the more riotous streets and returning +home. On the bench beside me sat two ragged creatures, a man and +a woman, nodding and dozing. The woman sat with her arms clasped +across the breast, holding tightly, her body in constant play—now +dropping forward till it seemed its balance would be overcome and she +would fall to the pavement; now inclining to the left, sideways, till +her head rested on the man’s shoulder; and now to the right, stretched +and strained, till the pain of it awoke her and she sat bolt upright. +Whereupon the dropping forward would begin again and go through its +cycle till she was aroused by the strain and stretch. +</p> + +<p> +Every little while boys and young men stopped long enough to go behind +the bench and give vent to sudden and fiendish shouts. This always +jerked the man and woman abruptly from their sleep; and at sight of +the startled woe upon their faces the crowd would roar with laughter +as it flooded past. +</p> + +<p> +This was the most striking thing, the general heartlessness exhibited +on every hand. It is a commonplace, the homeless on the benches, +the poor miserable folk who may be teased and are harmless. Fifty +thousand people must have passed the bench while I sat upon it, and +not one, on such a jubilee occasion as the crowning of the King, felt +his heart-strings touched sufficiently to come up and say to the woman: +“Here’s sixpence; go and get a bed.” But the +women, especially the young women, made witty remarks upon the woman +nodding, and invariably set their companions laughing. +</p> + +<p> +To use a Briticism, it was “cruel”; the corresponding +Americanism was more appropriate—it was “fierce.” +I confess I began to grow incensed at this happy crowd streaming by, +and to extract a sort of satisfaction from the London statistics which +demonstrate that one in every four adults is destined to die on public +charity, either in the workhouse, the infirmary, or the asylum. +</p> + +<p> +I talked with the man. He was fifty-four and a broken-down +docker. He could only find odd work when there was a large demand +for labour, for the younger and stronger men were preferred when times +were slack. He had spent a week, now, on the benches of the Embankment; +but things looked brighter for next week, and he might possibly get +in a few days’ work and have a bed in some doss-house. He +had lived all his life in London, save for five years, when, in 1878, +he saw foreign service in India. +</p> + +<p> +Of course he would eat; so would the girl. Days like this were +uncommon hard on such as they, though the coppers were so busy poor +folk could get in more sleep. I awoke the girl, or woman, rather, +for she was “Eyght an’ twenty, sir,” and we started +for a coffee-house. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot a lot o’ work puttin’ up the lights,” +said the man at sight of some building superbly illuminated. This +was the keynote of his being. All his life he had worked, and +the whole objective universe, as well as his own soul, he could express +in terms only of work. “Coronations is some good,” +he went on. “They give work to men.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your belly is empty,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered. “I tried, but there wasn’t +any chawnce. My age is against me. Wot do you work at? +Seafarin’ chap, eh? I knew it from yer clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know wot you are,” said the girl, “an Eyetalian.” +</p> + +<p> +“No ’e ayn’t,” the man cried heatedly. +“’E’s a Yank, that’s wot ’e is. +I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord lumme, look a’ that,” she exclaimed, as we debouched +upon the Strand, choked with the roaring, reeling Coronation crowd, the men +bellowing and the girls singing in high throaty notes:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Oh! on Coronation D’y, on Coronation D’y,<br /> +We’ll ’ave a spree, a jubilee, an’ shout ’Ip, +’ip, ’ooray;<br /> +For we’ll all be merry, drinkin’ whisky, wine, and sherry,<br /> +We’ll all be merry on Coronation D’y.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Ow dirty I am, bein’ around the w’y I ’ave,” +the woman said, as she sat down in a coffee-house, wiping the sleep +and grime from the corners of her eyes. “An’ the sights +I ’ave seen this d’y, an’ I enjoyed it, though it +was lonesome by myself. An’ the duchesses an’ the +lydies ’ad sich gran’ w’ite dresses. They was +jest bu’ful, bu’ful.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m Irish,” she said, in answer to a question. +“My nyme’s Eyethorne.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Eyethorne, sir; Eyethorne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spell it.” +</p> + +<p> +“H-a-y-t-h-o-r-n-e, Eyethorne.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” I said, “Irish Cockney.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, London-born.” +</p> + +<p> +She had lived happily at home till her father died, killed in an +accident, when she had found herself on the world. One brother +was in the army, and the other brother, engaged in keeping a wife and +eight children on twenty shillings a week and unsteady employment, could +do nothing for her. She had been out of London once in her life, +to a place in Essex, twelve miles away, where she had picked fruit for +three weeks: “An’ I was as brown as a berry w’en I +come back. You won’t b’lieve it, but I was.” +</p> + +<p> +The last place in which she had worked was a coffee-house, hours +from seven in the morning till eleven at night, and for which she had +received five shillings a week and her food. Then she had fallen +sick, and since emerging from the hospital had been unable to find anything +to do. She wasn’t feeling up to much, and the last two nights +had been spent in the street. +</p> + +<p> +Between them they stowed away a prodigious amount of food, this man +and woman, and it was not till I had duplicated and triplicated their +original orders that they showed signs of easing down. +</p> + +<p> +Once she reached across and felt the texture of my coat and shirt, +and remarked upon the good clothes the Yanks wore. My rags good +clothes! It put me to the blush; but, on inspecting them more +closely and on examining the clothes worn by the man and woman, I began +to feel quite well dressed and respectable. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you expect to do in the end?” I asked them. +“You know you’re growing older every day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Work’ouse,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Gawd blimey if I do,” said she. “There’s +no ’ope for me, I know, but I’ll die on the streets. +No work’ouse for me, thank you. No, indeed,” she sniffed +in the silence that fell. +</p> + +<p> +“After you have been out all night in the streets,” I +asked, “what do you do in the morning for something to eat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try to get a penny, if you ’aven’t one saved over,” +the man explained. “Then go to a coffee-’ouse an’ +get a mug o’ tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t see how that is to feed you,” I objected. +</p> + +<p> +The pair smiled knowingly. +</p> + +<p> +“You drink your tea in little sips,” he went on, “making +it last its longest. An’ you look sharp, an’ there’s +some as leaves a bit be’ind ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s s’prisin’, the food wot some people +leaves,” the woman broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“The thing,” said the man judicially, as the trick dawned +upon me, “is to get ’old o’ the penny.” +</p> + +<p> +As we started to leave, Miss Haythorne gathered up a couple of crusts +from the neighbouring tables and thrust them somewhere into her rags. +</p> + +<p> +“Cawn’t wyste ’em, you know,” said she; to +which the docker nodded, tucking away a couple of crusts himself. +</p> + +<p> +At three in the morning I strolled up the Embankment. It was +a gala night for the homeless, for the police were elsewhere; and each +bench was jammed with sleeping occupants. There were as many women +as men, and the great majority of them, male and female, were old. +Occasionally a boy was to be seen. On one bench I noticed a family, +a man sitting upright with a sleeping babe in his arms, his wife asleep, +her head on his shoulder, and in her lap the head of a sleeping youngster. +The man’s eyes were wide open. He was staring out over the +water and thinking, which is not a good thing for a shelterless man +with a family to do. It would not be a pleasant thing to speculate +upon his thoughts; but this I know, and all London knows, that the cases +of out-of-works killing their wives and babies is not an uncommon happening. +</p> + +<p> +One cannot walk along the Thames Embankment, in the small hours of +morning, from the Houses of Parliament, past Cleopatra’s Needle, +to Waterloo Bridge, without being reminded of the sufferings, seven +and twenty centuries old, recited by the author of “Job”:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +There are that remove the landmarks; they violently take +away flocks and feed them. +</p> + +<p> +They drive away the ass of the fatherless, they take the widow’s +ox for a pledge. +</p> + +<p> +They turn the needy out of the way; the poor of the earth hide themselves +together. +</p> + +<p> +Behold, as wild asses in the desert they go forth to their work, +seeking diligently for meat; the wilderness yieldeth them food for their +children. +</p> + +<p> +They cut their provender in the field, and they glean the vintage +of the wicked. +</p> + +<p> +They lie all night naked without clothing, and have no covering in +the cold. +</p> + +<p> +They are wet with the showers of the mountains, and embrace the rock +for want of a shelter. +</p> + +<p> +There are that pluck the fatherless from the breast, and take a pledge +of the poor. +</p> + +<p> +So that they go about naked without clothing, and being an hungered +they carry the sheaves.—Job xxiv. 2-10. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Seven and twenty centuries agone! And it is all as true and +apposite to-day in the innermost centre of this Christian civilisation +whereof Edward VII. is king. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /> +DAN CULLEN, DOCKER</h2> + +<p> +I stood, yesterday, in a room in one of the “Municipal Dwellings,” +not far from Leman Street. If I looked into a dreary future and +saw that I would have to live in such a room until I died, I should +immediately go down, plump into the Thames, and cut the tenancy short. +</p> + +<p> +It was not a room. Courtesy to the language will no more permit +it to be called a room than it will permit a hovel to be called a mansion. +It was a den, a lair. Seven feet by eight were its dimensions, +and the ceiling was so low as not to give the cubic air space required +by a British soldier in barracks. A crazy couch, with ragged coverlets, +occupied nearly half the room. A rickety table, a chair, and a +couple of boxes left little space in which to turn around. Five +dollars would have purchased everything in sight. The floor was +bare, while the walls and ceiling were literally covered with blood +marks and splotches. Each mark represented a violent death—of +an insect, for the place swarmed with vermin, a plague with which no +person could cope single-handed. +</p> + +<p> +The man who had occupied this hole, one Dan Cullen, docker, was dying +in hospital. Yet he had impressed his personality on his miserable +surroundings sufficiently to give an inkling as to what sort of man +he was. On the walls were cheap pictures of Garibaldi, Engels, +Dan Burns, and other labour leaders, while on the table lay one of Walter +Besant’s novels. He knew his Shakespeare, I was told, and +had read history, sociology, and economics. And he was self-educated. +</p> + +<p> +On the table, amidst a wonderful disarray, lay a sheet of paper on +which was scrawled: <i>Mr. Cullen, please return the large white jug +and corkscrew I lent you</i>—articles loaned, during the first +stages of his sickness, by a woman neighbour, and demanded back in anticipation +of his death. A large white jug and a corkscrew are far too valuable +to a creature of the Abyss to permit another creature to die in peace. +To the last, Dan Cullen’s soul must be harrowed by the sordidness +out of which it strove vainly to rise. +</p> + +<p> +It is a brief little story, the story of Dan Cullen, but there is +much to read between the lines. He was born lowly, in a city and +land where the lines of caste are tightly drawn. All his days +he toiled hard with his body; and because he had opened the books, and +been caught up by the fires of the spirit, and could “write a +letter like a lawyer,” he had been selected by his fellows to +toil hard for them with his brain. He became a leader of the fruit-porters, +represented the dockers on the London Trades Council, and wrote trenchant +articles for the labour journals. +</p> + +<p> +He did not cringe to other men, even though they were his economic +masters, and controlled the means whereby he lived, and he spoke his +mind freely, and fought the good fight. In the “Great Dock +Strike” he was guilty of taking a leading part. And that +was the end of Dan Cullen. From that day he was a marked man, +and every day, for ten years and more, he was “paid off” +for what he had done. +</p> + +<p> +A docker is a casual labourer. Work ebbs and flows, and he +works or does not work according to the amount of goods on hand to be +moved. Dan Cullen was discriminated against. While he was +not absolutely turned away (which would have caused trouble, and which +would certainly have been more merciful), he was called in by the foreman +to do not more than two or three days’ work per week. This +is what is called being “disciplined,” or “drilled.” +It means being starved. There is no politer word. Ten years +of it broke his heart, and broken-hearted men cannot live. +</p> + +<p> +He took to his bed in his terrible den, which grew more terrible +with his helplessness. He was without kith or kin, a lonely old +man, embittered and pessimistic, fighting vermin the while and looking +at Garibaldi, Engels, and Dan Burns gazing down at him from the blood-bespattered +walls. No one came to see him in that crowded municipal barracks +(he had made friends with none of them), and he was left to rot. +</p> + +<p> +But from the far reaches of the East End came a cobbler and his son, +his sole friends. They cleansed his room, brought fresh linen +from home, and took from off his limbs the sheets, greyish-black with +dirt. And they brought to him one of the Queen’s Bounty +nurses from Aldgate. +</p> + +<p> +She washed his face, shook up his couch, and talked with him. It was +interesting to talk with him—until he learned her name. Oh, yes, Blank +was her name, she replied innocently, and Sir George Blank was her brother. Sir +George Blank, eh? thundered old Dan Cullen on his death-bed; Sir George Blank, +solicitor to the docks at Cardiff, who, more than any other man, had broken up +the Dockers’ Union of Cardiff, and was knighted? And she was his sister? +Thereupon Dan Cullen sat up on his crazy couch and pronounced anathema upon her +and all her breed; and she fled, to return no more, strongly impressed with the +ungratefulness of the poor. +</p> + +<p> +Dan Cullen’s feet became swollen with dropsy. He sat +up all day on the side of the bed (to keep the water out of his body), +no mat on the floor, a thin blanket on his legs, and an old coat around +his shoulders. A missionary brought him a pair of paper slippers, +worth fourpence (I saw them), and proceeded to offer up fifty prayers +or so for the good of Dan Cullen’s soul. But Dan Cullen +was the sort of man that wanted his soul left alone. He did not +care to have Tom, Dick, or Harry, on the strength of fourpenny slippers, +tampering with it. He asked the missionary kindly to open the +window, so that he might toss the slippers out. And the missionary +went away, to return no more, likewise impressed with the ungratefulness +of the poor. +</p> + +<p> +The cobbler, a brave old hero himself, though unannaled and unsung, went +privily to the head office of the big fruit brokers for whom Dan Cullen had +worked as a casual labourer for thirty years. Their system was such that the +work was almost entirely done by casual hands. The cobbler told them the +man’s desperate plight, old, broken, dying, without help or money, +reminded them that he had worked for them thirty years, and asked them to do +something for him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said the manager, remembering Dan Cullen without +having to refer to the books, “you see, we make it a rule never +to help casuals, and we can do nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Nor did they do anything, not even sign a letter asking for Dan Cullen’s +admission to a hospital. And it is not so easy to get into a hospital +in London Town. At Hampstead, if he passed the doctors, at least +four months would elapse before he could get in, there were so many +on the books ahead of him. The cobbler finally got him into the +Whitechapel Infirmary, where he visited him frequently. Here he +found that Dan Cullen had succumbed to the prevalent feeling, that, +being hopeless, they were hurrying him out of the way. A fair +and logical conclusion, one must agree, for an old and broken man to +arrive at, who has been resolutely “disciplined” and “drilled” +for ten years. When they sweated him for Bright’s disease +to remove the fat from the kidneys, Dan Cullen contended that the sweating +was hastening his death; while Bright’s disease, being a wasting +away of the kidneys, there was therefore no fat to remove, and the doctor’s +excuse was a palpable lie. Whereupon the doctor became wroth, +and did not come near him for nine days. +</p> + +<p> +Then his bed was tilted up so that his feet and legs were elevated. +At once dropsy appeared in the body, and Dan Cullen contended that the +thing was done in order to run the water down into his body from his +legs and kill him more quickly. He demanded his discharge, though +they told him he would die on the stairs, and dragged himself, more +dead than alive, to the cobbler’s shop. At the moment of +writing this, he is dying at the Temperance Hospital, into which place +his staunch friend, the cobbler, moved heaven and earth to have him +admitted. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Dan Cullen! A Jude the Obscure, who reached out after +knowledge; who toiled with his body in the day and studied in the watches +of the night; who dreamed his dream and struck valiantly for the Cause; +a patriot, a lover of human freedom, and a fighter unafraid; and in +the end, not gigantic enough to beat down the conditions which baffled +and stifled him, a cynic and a pessimist, gasping his final agony on +a pauper’s couch in a charity ward,—“For a man to +die who might have been wise and was not, this I call a tragedy.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /> +HOPS AND HOPPERS</h2> + +<p> +So far has the divorcement of the worker from the soil proceeded, +that the farming districts, the civilised world over, are dependent +upon the cities for the gathering of the harvests. Then it is, +when the land is spilling its ripe wealth to waste, that the street +folk, who have been driven away from the soil, are called back to it +again. But in England they return, not as prodigals, but as outcasts +still, as vagrants and pariahs, to be doubted and flouted by their country +brethren, to sleep in jails and casual wards, or under the hedges, and +to live the Lord knows how. +</p> + +<p> +It is estimated that Kent alone requires eighty thousand of the street +people to pick her hops. And out they come, obedient to the call, +which is the call of their bellies and of the lingering dregs of adventure-lust +still in them. Slum, stews, and ghetto pour them forth, and the +festering contents of slum, stews, and ghetto are undiminished. +Yet they overrun the country like an army of ghouls, and the country +does not want them. They are out of place. As they drag +their squat, misshapen bodies along the highways and byways, they resemble +some vile spawn from underground. Their very presence, the fact +of their existence, is an outrage to the fresh, bright sun and the green +and growing things. The clean, upstanding trees cry shame upon +them and their withered crookedness, and their rottenness is a slimy +desecration of the sweetness and purity of nature. +</p> + +<p> +Is the picture overdrawn? It all depends. For one who +sees and thinks life in terms of shares and coupons, it is certainly +overdrawn. But for one who sees and thinks life in terms of manhood +and womanhood, it cannot be overdrawn. Such hordes of beastly +wretchedness and inarticulate misery are no compensation for a millionaire +brewer who lives in a West End palace, sates himself with the sensuous +delights of London’s golden theatres, hobnobs with lordlings and +princelings, and is knighted by the king. Wins his spurs—God +forbid! In old time the great blonde beasts rode in the battle’s +van and won their spurs by cleaving men from pate to chine. And, +after all, it is finer to kill a strong man with a clean-slicing blow +of singing steel than to make a beast of him, and of his seed through +the generations, by the artful and spidery manipulation of industry +and politics. +</p> + +<p> +But to return to the hops. Here the divorcement from the soil +is as apparent as in every other agricultural line in England. +While the manufacture of beer steadily increases, the growth of hops +steadily decreases. In 1835 the acreage under hops was 71,327. +To-day it stands at 48,024, a decrease of 3103 from the acreage of last +year. +</p> + +<p> +Small as the acreage is this year, a poor summer and terrible storms reduced +the yield. This misfortune is divided between the people who own hops and the +people who pick hops. The owners perforce must put up with less of the nicer +things of life, the pickers with less grub, of which, in the best of times, +they never get enough. For weary weeks headlines like the following have +appeared in the London papers.— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +TRAMPS PLENTIFUL, BUT THE HOPS ARE FEW AND NOT YET READY. +</p> + +<p> +Then there have been numberless paragraphs like this:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +From the neighbourhood of the hop fields comes news of a distressing nature. +The bright outburst of the last two days has sent many hundreds of hoppers into +Kent, who will have to wait till the fields are ready for them. At Dover the +number of vagrants in the workhouse is treble the number there last year at +this time, and in other towns the lateness of the season is responsible for a +large increase in the number of casuals. +</p> + +<p> +To cap their wretchedness, when at last the picking had begun, hops +and hoppers were well-nigh swept away by a frightful storm of wind, +rain, and hail. The hops were stripped clean from the poles and +pounded into the earth, while the hoppers, seeking shelter from the +stinging hail, were close to drowning in their huts and camps on the +low-lying ground. Their condition after the storm was pitiable, +their state of vagrancy more pronounced than ever; for, poor crop that +it was, its destruction had taken away the chance of earning a few pennies, +and nothing remained for thousands of them but to “pad the hoof” +back to London. +</p> + +<p> +“We ayn’t crossin’-sweepers,” they said, +turning away from the ground, carpeted ankle-deep with hops. +</p> + +<p> +Those that remained grumbled savagely among the half-stripped poles +at the seven bushels for a shilling—a rate paid in good seasons +when the hops are in prime condition, and a rate likewise paid in bad +seasons by the growers because they cannot afford more. +</p> + +<p> +I passed through Teston and East and West Farleigh shortly after +the storm, and listened to the grumbling of the hoppers and saw the +hops rotting on the ground. At the hothouses of Barham Court, +thirty thousand panes of glass had been broken by the hail, while peaches, +plums, pears, apples, rhubarb, cabbages, mangolds, everything, had been +pounded to pieces and torn to shreds. +</p> + +<p> +All of which was too bad for the owners, certainly; but at the worst, +not one of them, for one meal, would have to go short of food or drink. +Yet it was to them that the newspapers devoted columns of sympathy, +their pecuniary losses being detailed at harrowing length. “Mr. +Herbert L--- calculates his loss at £8000;” “Mr. F---, +of brewery fame, who rents all the land in this parish, loses £10,000;” +and “Mr. L---, the Wateringbury brewer, brother to Mr. Herbert +L---, is another heavy loser.” As for the hoppers, they +did not count. Yet I venture to assert that the several almost-square +meals lost by underfed William Buggles, and underfed Mrs. Buggles, and +the underfed Buggles kiddies, was a greater tragedy than the £10,000 +lost by Mr. F---. And in addition, underfed William Buggles’ +tragedy might be multiplied by thousands where Mr. F---’s could +not be multiplied by five. +</p> + +<p> +To see how William Buggles and his kind fared, I donned my seafaring +togs and started out to get a job. With me was a young East London +cobbler, Bert, who had yielded to the lure of adventure and joined me +for the trip. Acting on my advice, he had brought his “worst +rags,” and as we hiked up the London road out of Maidstone he +was worrying greatly for fear we had come too ill-dressed for the business. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was he to be blamed. When we stopped in a tavern the publican +eyed us gingerly, nor did his demeanour brighten till we showed him +the colour of our cash. The natives along the coast were all dubious; +and “bean-feasters” from London, dashing past in coaches, +cheered and jeered and shouted insulting things after us. But +before we were done with the Maidstone district my friend found that +we were as well clad, if not better, than the average hopper. +Some of the bunches of rags we chanced upon were marvellous. +</p> + +<p> +“The tide is out,” called a gypsy-looking woman to her +mates, as we came up a long row of bins into which the pickers were +stripping the hops. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you twig?” Bert whispered. “She’s +on to you.” +</p> + +<p> +I twigged. And it must be confessed the figure was an apt one. +When the tide is out boats are left on the beach and do not sail, and +a sailor, when the tide is out, does not sail either. My seafaring +togs and my presence in the hop field proclaimed that I was a seaman +without a ship, a man on the beach, and very like a craft at low water. +</p> + +<p> +“Can yer give us a job, governor?” Bert asked the bailiff, +a kindly faced and elderly man who was very busy. +</p> + +<p> +His “No” was decisively uttered; but Bert clung on and +followed him about, and I followed after, pretty well all over the field. +Whether our persistency struck the bailiff as anxiety to work, or whether +he was affected by our hard-luck appearance and tale, neither Bert nor +I succeeded in making out; but in the end he softened his heart and +found us the one unoccupied bin in the place—a bin deserted by +two other men, from what I could learn, because of inability to make +living wages. +</p> + +<p> +“No bad conduct, mind ye,” warned the bailiff, as he +left us at work in the midst of the women. +</p> + +<p> +It was Saturday afternoon, and we knew quitting time would come early; +so we applied ourselves earnestly to the task, desiring to learn if +we could at least make our salt. It was simple work, woman’s +work, in fact, and not man’s. We sat on the edge of the +bin, between the standing hops, while a pole-puller supplied us with +great fragrant branches. In an hour’s time we became as +expert as it is possible to become. As soon as the fingers became +accustomed automatically to differentiate between hops and leaves and +to strip half-a-dozen blossoms at a time there was no more to learn. +</p> + +<p> +We worked nimbly, and as fast as the women themselves, though their +bins filled more rapidly because of their swarming children, each of +which picked with two hands almost as fast as we picked. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’tcher pick too clean, it’s against the rules,” +one of the women informed us; and we took the tip and were grateful. +</p> + +<p> +As the afternoon wore along, we realised that living wages could +not be made—by men. Women could pick as much as men, and +children could do almost as well as women; so it was impossible for +a man to compete with a woman and half-a-dozen children. For it +is the woman and the half-dozen children who count as a unit, and by +their combined capacity determine the unit’s pay. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, matey, I’m beastly hungry,” said I to Bert. +We had not had any dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“Blimey, but I could eat the ’ops,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon we both lamented our negligence in not rearing up a numerous +progeny to help us in this day of need. And in such fashion we +whiled away the time and talked for the edification of our neighbours. +We quite won the sympathy of the pole-puller, a young country yokel, +who now and again emptied a few picked blossoms into our bin, it being +part of his business to gather up the stray clusters torn off in the +process of pulling. +</p> + +<p> +With him we discussed how much we could “sub,” and were +informed that while we were being paid a shilling for seven bushels, +we could only “sub,” or have advanced to us, a shilling +for every twelve bushels. Which is to say that the pay for five +out of every twelve bushels was withheld—a method of the grower +to hold the hopper to his work whether the crop runs good or bad, and +especially if it runs bad. +</p> + +<p> +After all, it was pleasant sitting there in the bright sunshine, +the golden pollen showering from our hands, the pungent aromatic odour +of the hops biting our nostrils, and the while remembering dimly the +sounding cities whence these people came. Poor street people! +Poor gutter folk! Even they grow earth-hungry, and yearn vaguely +for the soil from which they have been driven, and for the free life +in the open, and the wind and rain and sun all undefiled by city smirches. +As the sea calls to the sailor, so calls the land to them; and, deep +down in their aborted and decaying carcasses, they are stirred strangely +by the peasant memories of their forbears who lived before cities were. +And in incomprehensible ways they are made glad by the earth smells +and sights and sounds which their blood has not forgotten though unremembered +by them. +</p> + +<p> +“No more ’ops, matey,” Bert complained. +</p> + +<p> +It was five o’clock, and the pole-pullers had knocked off, +so that everything could be cleaned up, there being no work on Sunday. +For an hour we were forced idly to wait the coming of the measurers, +our feet tingling with the frost which came on the heels of the setting +sun. In the adjoining bin, two women and half-a-dozen children +had picked nine bushels: so that the five bushels the measurers found +in our bin demonstrated that we had done equally well, for the half-dozen +children had ranged from nine to fourteen years of age. +</p> + +<p> +Five bushels! We worked it out to eight-pence ha’penny, +or seventeen cents, for two men working three hours and a half. +Fourpence farthing apiece! a little over a penny an hour! But +we were allowed only to “sub” fivepence of the total sum, +though the tally-keeper, short of change, gave us sixpence. Entreaty +was in vain. A hard-luck story could not move him. He proclaimed +loudly that we had received a penny more than our due, and went his +way. +</p> + +<p> +Granting, for the sake of the argument, that we were what we represented +ourselves to be—namely, poor men and broke—then here was our +position: night was coming on; we had had no supper, much less dinner; and we +possessed sixpence between us. I was hungry enough to eat three +sixpenn’orths of food, and so was Bert. One thing was patent. By doing +16.3 per cent. justice to our stomachs, we would expend the sixpence, and our +stomachs would still be gnawing under 83.3 per cent. injustice. Being broke +again, we could sleep under a hedge, which was not so bad, though the cold +would sap an undue portion of what we had eaten. But the morrow was Sunday, on +which we could do no work, though our silly stomachs would not knock off on +that account. Here, then, was the problem: how to get three meals on Sunday, +and two on Monday (for we could not make another “sub” till Monday +evening). +</p> + +<p> +We knew that the casual wards were overcrowded; also, that if we +begged from farmer or villager, there was a large likelihood of our +going to jail for fourteen days. What was to be done? We +looked at each other in despair— +</p> + +<p> +—Not a bit of it. We joyfully thanked God that we were +not as other men, especially hoppers, and went down the road to Maidstone, +jingling in our pockets the half-crowns and florins we had brought from +London. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /> +THE SEA WIFE</h2> + +<p> +You might not expect to find the Sea Wife in the heart of Kent, but +that is where I found her, in a mean street, in the poor quarter of +Maidstone. In her window she had no sign of lodgings to let, and +persuasion was necessary before she could bring herself to let me sleep +in her front room. In the evening I descended to the semi-subterranean +kitchen, and talked with her and her old man, Thomas Mugridge by name. +</p> + +<p> +And as I talked to them, all the subtleties and complexities of this +tremendous machine civilisation vanished away. It seemed that +I went down through the skin and the flesh to the naked soul of it, +and in Thomas Mugridge and his old woman gripped hold of the essence +of this remarkable English breed. I found there the spirit of +the wanderlust which has lured Albion’s sons across the zones; +and I found there the colossal unreckoning which has tricked the English +into foolish squabblings and preposterous fights, and the doggedness +and stubbornness which have brought them blindly through to empire and +greatness; and likewise I found that vast, incomprehensible patience +which has enabled the home population to endure under the burden of +it all, to toil without complaint through the weary years, and docilely +to yield the best of its sons to fight and colonise to the ends of the +earth. +</p> + +<p> +Thomas Mugridge was seventy-one years old and a little man. +It was because he was little that he had not gone for a soldier. +He had remained at home and worked. His first recollections were +connected with work. He knew nothing else but work. He had +worked all his days, and at seventy-one he still worked. Each +morning saw him up with the lark and afield, a day labourer, for as +such he had been born. Mrs. Mugridge was seventy-three. +From seven years of age she had worked in the fields, doing a boy’s +work at first, and later a man’s. She still worked, keeping +the house shining, washing, boiling, and baking, and, with my advent, +cooking for me and shaming me by making my bed. At the end of +threescore years and more of work they possessed nothing, had nothing +to look forward to save more work. And they were contented. +They expected nothing else, desired nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +They lived simply. Their wants were few—a pint of beer +at the end of the day, sipped in the semi-subterranean kitchen, a weekly +paper to pore over for seven nights hand-running, and conversation as +meditative and vacant as the chewing of a heifer’s cud. +From a wood engraving on the wall a slender, angelic girl looked down +upon them, and underneath was the legend: “Our Future Queen.” +And from a highly coloured lithograph alongside looked down a stout +and elderly lady, with underneath: “Our Queen—Diamond Jubilee.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you earn is sweetest,” quoth Mrs. Mugridge, when +I suggested that it was about time they took a rest. +</p> + +<p> +“No, an’ we don’t want help,” said Thomas +Mugridge, in reply to my question as to whether the children lent them +a hand. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll work till we dry up and blow away, mother an’ +me,” he added; and Mrs. Mugridge nodded her head in vigorous indorsement. +</p> + +<p> +Fifteen children she had borne, and all were away and gone, or dead. +The “baby,” however, lived in Maidstone, and she was twenty-seven. +When the children married they had their hands full with their own families +and troubles, like their fathers and mothers before them. +</p> + +<p> +Where were the children? Ah, where were they not? Lizzie +was in Australia; Mary was in Buenos Ayres; Poll was in New York; Joe +had died in India—and so they called them up, the living and the +dead, soldier and sailor, and colonist’s wife, for the traveller’s +sake who sat in their kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +They passed me a photograph. A trim young fellow, in soldier’s +garb looked out at me. +</p> + +<p> +“And which son is this?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +They laughed a hearty chorus. Son! Nay, grandson, just +back from Indian service and a soldier-trumpeter to the King. +His brother was in the same regiment with him. And so it ran, +sons and daughters, and grand sons and daughters, world-wanderers and +empire-builders, all of them, while the old folks stayed at home and +worked at building empire too. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,<br /> + And a wealthy wife is she;<br /> +She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men<br /> + And casts them over sea.<br /> +<br /> +“And some are drowned in deep water,<br /> + And some in sight of shore;<br /> +And word goes back to the weary wife,<br /> + And ever she sends more.” +</p> + +<p> +But the Sea Wife’s child-bearing is about done. The stock +is running out, and the planet is filling up. The wives of her +sons may carry on the breed, but her work is past. The erstwhile +men of England are now the men of Australia, of Africa, of America. +England has sent forth “the best she breeds” for so long, +and has destroyed those that remained so fiercely, that little remains +for her to do but to sit down through the long nights and gaze at royalty +on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +The true British merchant seaman has passed away. The merchant +service is no longer a recruiting ground for such sea dogs as fought +with Nelson at Trafalgar and the Nile. Foreigners largely man +the merchant ships, though Englishmen still continue to officer them +and to prefer foreigners for’ard. In South Africa the colonial +teaches the islander how to shoot, and the officers muddle and blunder; +while at home the street people play hysterically at mafficking, and +the War Office lowers the stature for enlistment. +</p> + +<p> +It could not be otherwise. The most complacent Britisher cannot +hope to draw off the life-blood, and underfeed, and keep it up forever. +The average Mrs. Thomas Mugridge has been driven into the city, and +she is not breeding very much of anything save an anæmic and sickly +progeny which cannot find enough to eat. The strength of the English-speaking +race to-day is not in the tight little island, but in the New World +overseas, where are the sons and daughters of Mrs. Thomas Mugridge. +The Sea Wife by the Northern Gate has just about done her work in the +world, though she does not realize it. She must sit down and rest +her tired loins for a space; and if the casual ward and the workhouse +do not await her, it is because of the sons and daughters she has reared +up against the day of her feebleness and decay. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /> +PROPERTY VERSUS PERSON</h2> + +<p> +In a civilisation frankly materialistic and based upon property, +not soul, it is inevitable that property shall be exalted over soul, +that crimes against property shall be considered far more serious than +crimes against the person. To pound one’s wife to a jelly +and break a few of her ribs is a trivial offence compared with sleeping +out under the naked stars because one has not the price of a doss. +The lad who steals a few pears from a wealthy railway corporation is +a greater menace to society than the young brute who commits an unprovoked +assault upon an old man over seventy years of age. While the young +girl who takes a lodging under the pretence that she has work commits +so dangerous an offence, that, were she not severely punished, she and +her kind might bring the whole fabric of property clattering to the +ground. Had she unholily tramped Piccadilly and the Strand after +midnight, the police would not have interfered with her, and she would +have been able to pay for her lodging. +</p> + +<p> +The following illustrative cases are culled from the police-court +reports for a single week:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +Widnes Police Court. Before Aldermen Gossage and +Neil. Thomas Lynch, charged with being drunk and disorderly and +with assaulting a constable. Defendant rescued a woman from custody, +kicked the constable, and threw stones at him. Fined 3s. 6d. for +the first offence, and 10s. and costs for the assault. +</p> + +<p> +Glasgow Queen’s Park Police Court. Before Baillie Norman +Thompson. John Kane pleaded guilty to assaulting his wife. +There were five previous convictions. Fined £2, 2s. +</p> + +<p> +Taunton County Petty Sessions. John Painter, a big, burly fellow, +described as a labourer, charged with assaulting his wife. The +woman received two severe black eyes, and her face was badly swollen. +Fined £1, 8s., including costs, and bound over to keep the peace. +</p> + +<p> +Widnes Police Court. Richard Bestwick and George Hunt, charged +with trespassing in search of game. Hunt fined £1 and costs, +Bestwick £2 and costs; in default, one month. +</p> + +<p> +Shaftesbury Police Court. Before the Mayor (Mr. A. T. Carpenter). +Thomas Baker, charged with sleeping out. Fourteen days. +</p> + +<p> +Glasgow Central Police Court. Before Bailie Dunlop. Edward +Morrison, a lad, convicted of stealing fifteen pears from a lorry at +the railroad station. Seven days. +</p> + +<p> +Doncaster Borough Police Court. Before Alderman Clark and other +magistrates. James M’Gowan, charged under the Poaching Prevention +Act with being found in possession of poaching implements and a number +of rabbits. Fined £2 and costs, or one month. +</p> + +<p> +Dunfermline Sheriff Court. Before Sheriff Gillespie. +John Young, a pit-head worker, pleaded guilty to assaulting Alexander +Storrar by beating him about the head and body with his fists, throwing +him on the ground, and also striking him with a pit prop. Fined +£1. +</p> + +<p> +Kirkcaldy Police Court. Before Bailie Dishart. Simon +Walker pleaded guilty to assaulting a man by striking and knocking him +down. It was an unprovoked assault, and the magistrate described +the accused as a perfect danger to the community. Fined 30s. +</p> + +<p> +Mansfield Police Court. Before the Mayor, Messrs. F. J. Turner, +J. Whitaker, F. Tidsbury, E. Holmes, and Dr. R. Nesbitt. Joseph +Jackson, charged with assaulting Charles Nunn. Without any provocation, +defendant struck the complainant a violent blow in the face, knocking +him down, and then kicked him on the side of the head. He was +rendered unconscious, and he remained under medical treatment for a +fortnight. Fined 21s. +</p> + +<p> +Perth Sheriff Court. Before Sheriff Sym. David Mitchell, +charged with poaching. There were two previous convictions, the +last being three years ago. The sheriff was asked to deal leniently +with Mitchell, who was sixty-two years of age, and who offered no resistance +to the gamekeeper. Four months. +</p> + +<p> +Dundee Sheriff Court. Before Hon. Sheriff-Substitute R. C. +Walker. John Murray, Donald Craig, and James Parkes, charged with +poaching. Craig and Parkes fined £1 each or fourteen days; +Murray, £5 or one month. +</p> + +<p> +Reading Borough Police Court. Before Messrs. W. B. Monck, F. +B. Parfitt, H. M. Wallis, and G. Gillagan. Alfred Masters, aged +sixteen, charged with sleeping out on a waste piece of ground and having +no visible means of subsistence. Seven days. +</p> + +<p> +Salisbury City Petty Sessions. Before the Mayor, Messrs. C. +Hoskins, G. Fullford, E. Alexander, and W. Marlow. James Moore, +charged with stealing a pair of boots from outside a shop. Twenty-one +days. +</p> + +<p> +Horncastle Police Court. Before the Rev. W. F. Massingberd, +the Rev. J. Graham, and Mr. N. Lucas Calcraft. George Brackenbury, +a young labourer, convicted of what the magistrates characterised as +an altogether unprovoked and brutal assault upon James Sargeant Foster, +a man over seventy years of age. Fined £1 and 5s. 6d. costs. +</p> + +<p> +Worksop Petty Sessions. Before Messrs. F. J. S. Foljambe, R. +Eddison, and S. Smith. John Priestley, charged with assaulting +the Rev. Leslie Graham. Defendant, who was drunk, was wheeling +a perambulator and pushed it in front of a lorry, with the result that +the perambulator was overturned and the baby in it thrown out. +The lorry passed over the perambulator, but the baby was uninjured. +Defendant then attacked the driver of the lorry, and afterwards assaulted +the complainant, who remonstrated with him upon his conduct. In +consequence of the injuries defendant inflicted, complainant had to +consult a doctor. Fined 40s. and costs. +</p> + +<p> +Rotherham West Riding Police Court. Before Messrs. C. Wright +and G. Pugh and Colonel Stoddart. Benjamin Storey, Thomas Brammer, +and Samuel Wilcock, charged with poaching. One month each. +</p> + +<p> +Southampton County Police Court. Before Admiral J. C. Rowley, +Mr. H. H. Culme-Seymour, and other magistrates. Henry Thorrington, +charged with sleeping out. Seven days. +</p> + +<p> +Eckington Police Court. Before Major L. B. Bowden, Messrs. +R. Eyre, and H. A. Fowler, and Dr. Court. Joseph Watts, charged +with stealing nine ferns from a garden. One month. +</p> + +<p> +Ripley Petty Sessions. Before Messrs. J. B. Wheeler, W. D. +Bembridge, and M. Hooper. Vincent Allen and George Hall, charged +under the Poaching Prevention Act with being found in possession of +a number of rabbits, and John Sparham, charged with aiding and abetting +them. Hall and Sparham fined £1, 17s. 4d., and Allen £2, +17s. 4d., including costs; the former committed for fourteen days and +the latter for one month in default of payment. +</p> + +<p> +South-western Police Court, London. Before Mr. Rose. +John Probyn, charged with doing grievous bodily harm to a constable. +Prisoner had been kicking his wife, and also assaulting another woman +who protested against his brutality. The constable tried to persuade +him to go inside his house, but prisoner suddenly turned upon him, knocking +him down by a blow on the face, kicking him as he lay on the ground, +and attempting to strangle him. Finally the prisoner deliberately +kicked the officer in a dangerous part, inflicting an injury which will +keep him off duty for a long time to come. Six weeks. +</p> + +<p> +Lambeth Police Court, London. Before Mr. Hopkins. “Baby” +Stuart, aged nineteen, described as a chorus girl, charged with obtaining +food and lodging to the value of 5s. by false pretences, and with intent +to defraud Emma Brasier. Emma Brasier, complainant, lodging-house +keeper of Atwell Road. Prisoner took apartments at her house on +the representation that she was employed at the Crown Theatre. +After prisoner had been in her house two or three days, Mrs. Brasier +made inquiries, and, finding the girl’s story untrue, gave her +into custody. Prisoner told the magistrate that she would have +worked had she not had such bad health. Six weeks’ hard +labour. +</p> +</blockquote> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /> +INEFFICIENCY</h2> + +<p> +I stopped a moment to listen to an argument on the Mile End Waste. +It was night-time, and they were all workmen of the better class. +They had surrounded one of their number, a pleasant-faced man of thirty, +and were giving it to him rather heatedly. +</p> + +<p> +“But ’ow about this ’ere cheap immigration?” +one of them demanded. “The Jews of Whitechapel, say, a-cutting +our throats right along?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t blame them,” was the answer. “They’re +just like us, and they’ve got to live. Don’t blame +the man who offers to work cheaper than you and gets your job.” +</p> + +<p> +“But ’ow about the wife an’ kiddies?” his +interlocutor demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are,” came the answer. “How about +the wife and kiddies of the man who works cheaper than you and gets +your job? Eh? How about his wife and kiddies? He’s +more interested in them than in yours, and he can’t see them starve. +So he cuts the price of labour and out you go. But you mustn’t +blame him, poor devil. He can’t help it. Wages always +come down when two men are after the same job. That’s the +fault of competition, not of the man who cuts the price.” +</p> + +<p> +“But wyges don’t come down where there’s a union,” +the objection was made. +</p> + +<p> +“And there you are again, right on the head. The union checks competition +among the labourers, but makes it harder where there are no unions. +There’s where your cheap labour of Whitechapel comes in. They’re +unskilled, and have no unions, and cut each other’s throats, and ours in +the bargain, if we don’t belong to a strong union.” +</p> + +<p> +Without going further into the argument, this man on the Mile End +Waste pointed the moral that when two men were after the one job wages +were bound to fall. Had he gone deeper into the matter, he would +have found that even the union, say twenty thousand strong, could not +hold up wages if twenty thousand idle men were trying to displace the +union men. This is admirably instanced, just now, by the return +and disbandment of the soldiers from South Africa. They find themselves, +by tens of thousands, in desperate straits in the army of the unemployed. +There is a general decline in wages throughout the land, which, giving +rise to labour disputes and strikes, is taken advantage of by the unemployed, +who gladly pick up the tools thrown down by the strikers. +</p> + +<p> +Sweating, starvation wages, armies of unemployed, and great numbers +of the homeless and shelterless are inevitable when there are more men +to do work than there is work for men to do. The men and women +I have met upon the streets, and in the spikes and pegs, are not there +because as a mode of life it may be considered a “soft snap.” +I have sufficiently outlined the hardships they undergo to demonstrate +that their existence is anything but “soft.” +</p> + +<p> +It is a matter of sober calculation, here in England, that it is +softer to work for twenty shillings a week, and have regular food, and +a bed at night, than it is to walk the streets. The man who walks +the streets suffers more, and works harder, for far less return. +I have depicted the nights they spend, and how, driven in by physical +exhaustion, they go to the casual ward for a “rest up.” +Nor is the casual ward a soft snap. To pick four pounds of oakum, +break twelve hundredweight of stones, or perform the most revolting +tasks, in return for the miserable food and shelter they receive, is +an unqualified extravagance on the part of the men who are guilty of +it. On the part of the authorities it is sheer robbery. +They give the men far less for their labour than do the capitalistic +employers. The wage for the same amount of labour, performed for +a private employer, would buy them better beds, better food, more good +cheer, and, above all, greater freedom. +</p> + +<p> +As I say, it is an extravagance for a man to patronise a casual ward. +And that they know it themselves is shown by the way these men shun +it till driven in by physical exhaustion. Then why do they do +it? Not because they are discouraged workers. The very opposite +is true; they are discouraged vagabonds. In the United States +the tramp is almost invariably a discouraged worker. He finds +tramping a softer mode of life than working. But this is not true +in England. Here the powers that be do their utmost to discourage +the tramp and vagabond, and he is, in all truth, a mightily discouraged +creature. He knows that two shillings a day, which is only fifty +cents, will buy him three fair meals, a bed at night, and leave him +a couple of pennies for pocket money. He would rather work for +those two shillings than for the charity of the casual ward; for he +knows that he would not have to work so hard, and that he would not +be so abominably treated. He does not do so, however, because +there are more men to do work than there is work for men to do. +</p> + +<p> +When there are more men than there is work to be done, a sifting-out +process must obtain. In every branch of industry the less efficient +are crowded out. Being crowded out because of inefficiency, they +cannot go up, but must descend, and continue to descend, until they +reach their proper level, a place in the industrial fabric where they +are efficient. It follows, therefore, and it is inexorable, that +the least efficient must descend to the very bottom, which is the shambles +wherein they perish miserably. +</p> + +<p> +A glance at the confirmed inefficients at the bottom demonstrates +that they are, as a rule, mental, physical, and moral wrecks. +The exceptions to the rule are the late arrivals, who are merely very +inefficient, and upon whom the wrecking process is just beginning to +operate. All the forces here, it must be remembered, are destructive. +The good body (which is there because its brain is not quick and capable) +is speedily wrenched and twisted out of shape; the clean mind (which +is there because of its weak body) is speedily fouled and contaminated. +</p> + +<p> +The mortality is excessive, but, even then, they die far too lingering +deaths. +</p> + +<p> +Here, then, we have the construction of the Abyss and the shambles. +Throughout the whole industrial fabric a constant elimination is going +on. The inefficient are weeded out and flung downward. Various +things constitute inefficiency. The engineer who is irregular +or irresponsible will sink down until he finds his place, say as a casual +labourer, an occupation irregular in its very nature and in which there +is little or no responsibility. Those who are slow and clumsy, +who suffer from weakness of body or mind, or who lack nervous, mental, +and physical stamina, must sink down, sometimes rapidly, sometimes step +by step, to the bottom. Accident, by disabling an efficient worker, +will make him inefficient, and down he must go. And the worker +who becomes aged, with failing energy and numbing brain, must begin +the frightful descent which knows no stopping-place short of the bottom +and death. +</p> + +<p> +In this last instance, the statistics of London tell a terrible tale. +The population of London is one-seventh of the total population of the +United Kingdom, and in London, year in and year out, one adult in every +four dies on public charity, either in the workhouse, the hospital, +or the asylum. When the fact that the well-to-do do not end thus +is taken into consideration, it becomes manifest that it is the fate +of at least one in every three adult workers to die on public charity. +</p> + +<p> +As an illustration of how a good worker may suddenly become inefficient, +and what then happens to him, I am tempted to give the case of M’Garry, +a man thirty-two years of age, and an inmate of the workhouse. +The extracts are quoted from the annual report of the trade union. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +I worked at Sullivan’s place in Widnes, better +known as the British Alkali Chemical Works. I was working in a +shed, and I had to cross the yard. It was ten o’clock at +night, and there was no light about. While crossing the yard I +felt something take hold of my leg and screw it off. I became +unconscious; I didn’t know what became of me for a day or two. +On the following Sunday night I came to my senses, and found myself +in the hospital. I asked the nurse what was to do with my legs, +and she told me both legs were off. +</p> + +<p> +There was a stationary crank in the yard, let into the ground; the +hole was 18 inches long, 15 inches deep, and 15 inches wide. The +crank revolved in the hole three revolutions a minute. There was +no fence or covering over the hole. Since my accident they have +stopped it altogether, and have covered the hole up with a piece of +sheet iron. . . . They gave me £25. They didn’t reckon +that as compensation; they said it was only for charity’s sake. +Out of that I paid £9 for a machine by which to wheel myself about. +</p> + +<p> +I was labouring at the time I got my legs off. I got twenty-four +shillings a week, rather better pay than the other men, because I used +to take shifts. When there was heavy work to be done I used to +be picked out to do it. Mr. Manton, the manager, visited me at +the hospital several times. When I was getting better, I asked +him if he would be able to find me a job. He told me not to trouble +myself, as the firm was not cold-hearted. I would be right enough +in any case . . . Mr. Manton stopped coming to see me; and the last +time, he said he thought of asking the directors to give me a fifty-pound +note, so I could go home to my friends in Ireland. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Poor M’Garry! He received rather better pay than the +other men because he was ambitious and took shifts, and when heavy work +was to be done he was the man picked out to do it. And then the +thing happened, and he went into the workhouse. The alternative +to the workhouse is to go home to Ireland and burden his friends for +the rest of his life. Comment is superfluous. +</p> + +<p> +It must be understood that efficiency is not determined by the workers +themselves, but is determined by the demand for labour. If three +men seek one position, the most efficient man will get it. The +other two, no matter how capable they may be, will none the less be +inefficients. If Germany, Japan, and the United States should +capture the entire world market for iron, coal, and textiles, at once +the English workers would be thrown idle by hundreds of thousands. +Some would emigrate, but the rest would rush their labour into the remaining +industries. A general shaking up of the workers from top to bottom +would result; and when equilibrium had been restored, the number of +the inefficients at the bottom of the Abyss would have been increased +by hundreds of thousands. On the other hand, conditions remaining +constant and all the workers doubling their efficiency, there would +still be as many inefficients, though each inefficient were twice as +capable as he had been and more capable than many of the efficients +had previously been. +</p> + +<p> +When there are more men to work than there is work for men to do, +just as many men as are in excess of work will be inefficients, and +as inefficients they are doomed to lingering and painful destruction. +It shall be the aim of future chapters to show, by their work and manner +of living, not only how the inefficients are weeded out and destroyed, +but to show how inefficients are being constantly and wantonly created +by the forces of industrial society as it exists to-day. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> +WAGES</h2> + +<p> +When I learned that in Lesser London there were 1,292,737 people +who received twenty-one shillings or less a week per family, I became +interested as to how the wages could best be spent in order to maintain +the physical efficiency of such families. Families of six, seven, +eight or ten being beyond consideration, I have based the following +table upon a family of five—a father, mother, and three children; +while I have made twenty-one shillings equivalent to $5.25, though actually, +twenty-one shillings are equivalent to about $5.11. +</p> + +<pre> +Rent $1.50 or 6/0 +Bread 1.00 ” 4/0 +Meat O.87.5 ” 3/6 +Vegetables O.62.5 ” 2/6 +Coals 0.25 ” 1/0 +Tea 0.18 ” 0/9 +Oil 0.16 ” 0/8 +Sugar 0.18 ” 0/9 +Milk 0.12 ” 0/6 +Soap 0.08 ” 0/4 +Butter 0.20 ” 0/10 +Firewood 0.08 ” 0/4 +Total $5.25 21/2 +</pre> + +<p> +An analysis of one item alone will show how little room there is for waste. +<i>Bread</i>, $1: for a family of five, for seven days, one dollar’s +worth of bread will give each a daily ration of 2.8 cents; and if they eat +three meals a day, each may consume per meal 9.5 mills’ worth of bread, a +little less than one halfpennyworth. Now bread is the heaviest item. They will +get less of meat per mouth each meal, and still less of vegetables; while the +smaller items become too microscopic for consideration. On the other hand, +these food articles are all bought at small retail, the most expensive and +wasteful method of purchasing. +</p> + +<p> +While the table given above will permit no extravagance, no overloading +of stomachs, it will be noticed that there is no surplus. The +whole guinea is spent for food and rent. There is no pocket-money +left over. Does the man buy a glass of beer, the family must eat +that much less; and in so far as it eats less, just that far will it +impair its physical efficiency. The members of this family cannot +ride in busses or trams, cannot write letters, take outings, go to a +“tu’penny gaff” for cheap vaudeville, join social +or benefit clubs, nor can they buy sweetmeats, tobacco, books, or newspapers. +</p> + +<p> +And further, should one child (and there are three) require a pair +of shoes, the family must strike meat for a week from its bill of fare. +And since there are five pairs of feet requiring shoes, and five heads +requiring hats, and five bodies requiring clothes, and since there are +laws regulating indecency, the family must constantly impair its physical +efficiency in order to keep warm and out of jail. For notice, +when rent, coals, oil, soap, and firewood are extracted from the weekly +income, there remains a daily allowance for food of 4.5d. to each person; +and that 4.5d. cannot be lessened by buying clothes without impairing +the physical efficiency. +</p> + +<p> +All of which is hard enough. But the thing happens; the husband +and father breaks his leg or his neck. No 4.5d. a day per mouth +for food is coming in; no halfpennyworth of bread per meal; and, at +the end of the week, no six shillings for rent. So out they must +go, to the streets or the workhouse, or to a miserable den, somewhere, +in which the mother will desperately endeavour to hold the family together +on the ten shillings she may possibly be able to earn. +</p> + +<p> +While in London there are 1,292,737 people who receive twenty-one +shillings or less a week per family, it must be remembered that we have +investigated a family of five living on a twenty-one shilling basis. +There are larger families, there are many families that live on less +than twenty-one shillings, and there is much irregular employment. +The question naturally arises, How do <i>they</i> live? The answer +is that they do not live. They do not know what life is. +They drag out a subterbestial existence until mercifully released by +death. +</p> + +<p> +Before descending to the fouler depths, let the case of the telephone +girls be cited. Here are clean, fresh English maids, for whom +a higher standard of living than that of the beasts is absolutely necessary. +Otherwise they cannot remain clean, fresh English maids. On entering +the service, a telephone girl receives a weekly wage of eleven shillings. +If she be quick and clever, she may, at the end of five years, attain +a minimum wage of one pound. Recently a table of such a girl’s +weekly expenditure was furnished to Lord Londonderry. Here it +is:— +</p> + +<pre> + s. d. +Rent, fire, and light 7 6 +Board at home 3 6 +Board at the office 4 6 +Street car fare 1 6 +Laundry 1 0 +Total 18 0 +</pre> + +<p> +This leaves nothing for clothes, recreation, or sickness. And +yet many of the girls are receiving, not eighteen shillings, but eleven +shillings, twelve shillings, and fourteen shillings per week. +They must have clothes and recreation, and— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Man to Man so oft unjust,<br /> +Is always so to Woman. +</p> + +<p> +At the Trades Union Congress now being held in London, the Gasworkers’ +Union moved that instructions be given the Parliamentary Committee to +introduce a Bill to prohibit the employment of children under fifteen +years of age. Mr. Shackleton, Member of Parliament and a representative +of the Northern Counties Weavers, opposed the resolution on behalf of +the textile workers, who, he said, could not dispense with the earnings +of their children and live on the scale of wages which obtained. +The representatives of 514,000 workers voted against the resolution, +while the representatives of 535,000 workers voted in favour of it. +When 514,000 workers oppose a resolution prohibiting child-labour under +fifteen, it is evident that a less-than-living wage is being paid to +an immense number of the adult workers of the country. +</p> + +<p> +I have spoken with women in Whitechapel who receive right along less +than one shilling for a twelve-hour day in the coat-making sweat shops; +and with women trousers finishers who receive an average princely and +weekly wage of three to four shillings. +</p> + +<p> +A case recently cropped up of men, in the employ of a wealthy business +house, receiving their board and six shillings per week for six working +days of sixteen hours each. The sandwich men get fourteenpence +per day and find themselves. The average weekly earnings of the +hawkers and costermongers are not more than ten to twelve shillings. +The average of all common labourers, outside the dockers, is less than +sixteen shillings per week, while the dockers average from eight to +nine shillings. These figures are taken from a royal commission +report and are authentic. +</p> + +<p> +Conceive of an old woman, broken and dying, supporting herself and four +children, and paying three shillings per week rent, by making match boxes at +2.25d. per gross. Twelve dozen boxes for 2.25d., and, in addition, finding her +own paste and thread! She never knew a day off, either for sickness, rest, or +recreation. Each day and every day, Sundays as well, she toiled fourteen hours. +Her day’s stint was seven gross, for which she received 1s. 3.75d. In the +week of ninety-eight hours’ work, she made 7066 match boxes, and earned +4s. 10.25d., less her paste and thread. +</p> + +<p> +Last year, Mr. Thomas Holmes, a police-court missionary of note, +after writing about the condition of the women workers, received the +following letter, dated April 18, 1901:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Sir,—Pardon the liberty I am taking, but, having read what you said about +poor women working fourteen hours a day for ten shillings per week, I beg to +state my case. I am a tie-maker, who, after working all the week, cannot earn +more than five shillings, and I have a poor afflicted husband to keep who +hasn’t earned a penny for more than ten years. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine a woman, capable of writing such a clear, sensible, grammatical +letter, supporting her husband and self on five shillings per week! +Mr. Holmes visited her. He had to squeeze to get into the room. +There lay her sick husband; there she worked all day long; there she +cooked, ate, washed, and slept; and there her husband and she performed +all the functions of living and dying. There was no space for +the missionary to sit down, save on the bed, which was partially covered +with ties and silk. The sick man’s lungs were in the last +stages of decay. He coughed and expectorated constantly, the woman +ceasing from her work to assist him in his paroxysms. The silken +fluff from the ties was not good for his sickness; nor was his sickness +good for the ties, and the handlers and wearers of the ties yet to come. +</p> + +<p> +Another case Mr. Holmes visited was that of a young girl, twelve +years of age, charged in the police court with stealing food. +He found her the deputy mother of a boy of nine, a crippled boy of seven, +and a younger child. Her mother was a widow and a blouse-maker. +She paid five shillings a week rent. Here are the last items in +her housekeeping account: Tea. 0.5d.; sugar, 0.5d.; bread, 0.25d.; margarine, +1d.; oil, 1.5d.; and firewood, 1d. Good housewives of the soft +and tender folk, imagine yourselves marketing and keeping house on such +a scale, setting a table for five, and keeping an eye on your deputy +mother of twelve to see that she did not steal food for her little brothers +and sisters, the while you stitched, stitched, stitched at a nightmare +line of blouses, which stretched away into the gloom and down to the +pauper’s coffin a-yawn for you. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /> +THE GHETTO</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the time,<br /> +City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?<br /> +There among the gloomy alleys Progress halts on palsied feet;<br /> +Crime and hunger cast out maidens by the thousand on the street;<br /> +<br /> +There the master scrimps his haggard seamstress of her daily bread;<br /> +There the single sordid attic holds the living and the dead;<br /> +There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,<br /> +And the crowded couch of incest, in the warrens of the poor. +</p> + +<p> +At one time the nations of Europe confined the undesirable Jews in +city ghettos. But to-day the dominant economic class, by less +arbitrary but none the less rigorous methods, has confined the undesirable +yet necessary workers into ghettos of remarkable meanness and vastness. +East London is such a ghetto, where the rich and the powerful do not +dwell, and the traveller cometh not, and where two million workers swarm, +procreate, and die. +</p> + +<p> +It must not be supposed that all the workers of London are crowded +into the East End, but the tide is setting strongly in that direction. +The poor quarters of the city proper are constantly being destroyed, +and the main stream of the unhoused is toward the east. In the +last twelve years, one district, “London over the Border,” +as it is called, which lies well beyond Aldgate, Whitechapel, and Mile +End, has increased 260,000, or over sixty per cent. The churches +in this district, by the way, can seat but one in every thirty-seven +of the added population. +</p> + +<p> +The City of Dreadful Monotony, the East End is often called, especially +by well-fed, optimistic sightseers, who look over the surface of things +and are merely shocked by the intolerable sameness and meanness of it +all. If the East End is worthy of no worse title than The City +of Dreadful Monotony, and if working people are unworthy of variety +and beauty and surprise, it would not be such a bad place in which to +live. But the East End does merit a worse title. It should +be called The City of Degradation. +</p> + +<p> +While it is not a city of slums, as some people imagine, it may well +be said to be one gigantic slum. From the standpoint of simple +decency and clean manhood and womanhood, any mean street, of all its +mean streets, is a slum. Where sights and sounds abound which +neither you nor I would care to have our children see and hear is a +place where no man’s children should live, and see, and hear. +Where you and I would not care to have our wives pass their lives is +a place where no other man’s wife should have to pass her life. +For here, in the East End, the obscenities and brute vulgarities of +life are rampant. There is no privacy. The bad corrupts +the good, and all fester together. Innocent childhood is sweet +and beautiful: but in East London innocence is a fleeting thing, and +you must catch them before they crawl out of the cradle, or you will +find the very babes as unholily wise as you. +</p> + +<p> +The application of the Golden Rule determines that East London is +an unfit place in which to live. Where you would not have your +own babe live, and develop, and gather to itself knowledge of life and +the things of life, is not a fit place for the babes of other men to +live, and develop, and gather to themselves knowledge of life and the +things of life. It is a simple thing, this Golden Rule, and all +that is required. Political economy and the survival of the fittest +can go hang if they say otherwise. What is not good enough for +you is not good enough for other men, and there’s no more to be +said. +</p> + +<p> +There are 300,000 people in London, divided into families, that live +in one-room tenements. Far, far more live in two and three rooms +and are as badly crowded, regardless of sex, as those that live in one +room. The law demands 400 cubic feet of space for each person. +In army barracks each soldier is allowed 600 cubic feet. Professor +Huxley, at one time himself a medical officer in East London, always +held that each person should have 800 cubic feet of space, and that +it should be well ventilated with pure air. Yet in London there +are 900,000 people living in less than the 400 cubic feet prescribed +by the law. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Charles Booth, who engaged in a systematic work of years in charting +and classifying the toiling city population, estimates that there are +1,800,000 people in London who are <i>poor</i> and <i>very poor</i>. +It is of interest to mark what he terms poor. By <i>poor</i> he +means families which have a total weekly income of from eighteen to +twenty-one shillings. The <i>very poor</i> fall greatly below +this standard. +</p> + +<p> +The workers, as a class, are being more and more segregated by their economic +masters; and this process, with its jamming and overcrowding, tends not so much +toward immorality as unmorality. Here is an extract from a recent meeting of +the London County Council, terse and bald, but with a wealth of horror to be +read between the lines:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Mr. Bruce asked the Chairman of the Public Health Committee whether his +attention had been called to a number of cases of serious overcrowding in the +East End. In St. Georges-in-the-East a man and his wife and their family of +eight occupied one small room. This family consisted of five daughters, aged +twenty, seventeen, eight, four, and an infant; and three sons, aged fifteen, +thirteen, and twelve. In Whitechapel a man and his wife and their three +daughters, aged sixteen, eight, and four, and two sons, aged ten and twelve +years, occupied a smaller room. In Bethnal Green a man and his wife, with four +sons, aged twenty-three, twenty-one, nineteen, and sixteen, and two daughters, +aged fourteen and seven, were also found in one room. He asked whether it was +not the duty of the various local authorities to prevent such serious +overcrowding. +</p> + +<p> +But with 900,000 people actually living under illegal conditions, +the authorities have their hands full. When the overcrowded folk +are ejected they stray off into some other hole; and, as they move their +belongings by night, on hand-barrows (one hand-barrow accommodating +the entire household goods and the sleeping children), it is next to +impossible to keep track of them. If the Public Health Act of +1891 were suddenly and completely enforced, 900,000 people would receive +notice to clear out of their houses and go on to the streets, and 500,000 +rooms would have to be built before they were all legally housed again. +</p> + +<p> +The mean streets merely look mean from the outside, but inside the +walls are to be found squalor, misery, and tragedy. While the +following tragedy may be revolting to read, it must not be forgotten +that the existence of it is far more revolting. +</p> + +<p> +In Devonshire Place, Lisson Grove, a short while back died an old +woman of seventy-five years of age. At the inquest the coroner’s +officer stated that “all he found in the room was a lot of old +rags covered with vermin. He had got himself smothered with the +vermin. The room was in a shocking condition, and he had never +seen anything like it. Everything was absolutely covered with +vermin.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor said: “He found deceased lying across the fender +on her back. She had one garment and her stockings on. The +body was quite alive with vermin, and all the clothes in the room were +absolutely grey with insects. Deceased was very badly nourished +and was very emaciated. She had extensive sores on her legs, and +her stockings were adherent to those sores. The sores were the +result of vermin.” +</p> + +<p> +A man present at the inquest wrote: “I had the evil fortune +to see the body of the unfortunate woman as it lay in the mortuary; +and even now the memory of that gruesome sight makes me shudder. +There she lay in the mortuary shell, so starved and emaciated that she +was a mere bundle of skin and bones. Her hair, which was matted +with filth, was simply a nest of vermin. Over her bony chest leaped +and rolled hundreds, thousands, myriads of vermin!” +</p> + +<p> +If it is not good for your mother and my mother so to die, then it +is not good for this woman, whosoever’s mother she might be, so +to die. +</p> + +<p> +Bishop Wilkinson, who has lived in Zululand, recently said, “No +human of an African village would allow such a promiscuous mixing of +young men and women, boys and girls.” He had reference to +the children of the overcrowded folk, who at five have nothing to learn +and much to unlearn which they will never unlearn. +</p> + +<p> +It is notorious that here in the Ghetto the houses of the poor are +greater profit earners than the mansions of the rich. Not only +does the poor worker have to live like a beast, but he pays proportionately +more for it than does the rich man for his spacious comfort. A +class of house-sweaters has been made possible by the competition of +the poor for houses. There are more people than there is room, +and numbers are in the workhouse because they cannot find shelter elsewhere. +Not only are houses let, but they are sublet, and sub-sublet down to +the very rooms. +</p> + +<p> +“A part of a room to let.” This notice was posted +a short while ago in a window not five minutes’ walk from St. +James’s Hall. The Rev. Hugh Price Hughes is authority for +the statement that beds are let on the three-relay system—that +is, three tenants to a bed, each occupying it eight hours, so that it +never grows cold; while the floor space underneath the bed is likewise +let on the three-relay system. Health officers are not at all +unused to finding such cases as the following: in one room having a +cubic capacity of 1000 feet, three adult females in the bed, and two +adult females under the bed; and in one room of 1650 cubic feet, one +adult male and two children in the bed, and two adult females under +the bed. +</p> + +<p> +Here is a typical example of a room on the more respectable two-relay +system. It is occupied in the daytime by a young woman employed +all night in a hotel. At seven o’clock in the evening she +vacates the room, and a bricklayer’s labourer comes in. +At seven in the morning he vacates, and goes to his work, at which time +she returns from hers. +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. W. N. Davies, rector of Spitalfields, took a census of some of the +alleys in his parish. He says:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +In one alley there are ten houses—fifty-one rooms, nearly all about 8 +feet by 9 feet—and 254 people. In six instances only do 2 people occupy +one room; and in others the number varied from 3 to 9. In another court with +six houses and twenty-two rooms were 84 people—again 6, 7, 8, and 9 being +the number living in one room, in several instances. In one house with eight +rooms are 45 people—one room containing 9 persons, one 8, two 7, and +another 6. +</p> + +<p> +This Ghetto crowding is not through inclination, but compulsion. +Nearly fifty per cent. of the workers pay from one-fourth to one-half +of their earnings for rent. The average rent in the larger part +of the East End is from four to six shillings per week for one room, +while skilled mechanics, earning thirty-five shillings per week, are +forced to part with fifteen shillings of it for two or three pokey little +dens, in which they strive desperately to obtain some semblance of home +life. And rents are going up all the time. In one street +in Stepney the increase in only two years has been from thirteen to +eighteen shillings; in another street from eleven to sixteen shillings; +and in another street, from eleven to fifteen shillings; while in Whitechapel, +two-room houses that recently rented for ten shillings are now costing +twenty-one shillings. East, west, north, and south the rents are +going up. When land is worth from £20,000 to £30,000 +an acre, some one must pay the landlord. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. W. C. Steadman, in the House of Commons, in a speech concerning his +constituency in Stepney, related the following:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +This morning, not a hundred yards from where I am myself living, a widow +stopped me. She has six children to support, and the rent of her house was +fourteen shillings per week. She gets her living by letting the house to +lodgers and doing a day’s washing or charring. That woman, with tears in +her eyes, told me that the landlord had increased the rent from fourteen +shillings to eighteen shillings. What could the woman do? There is no +accommodation in Stepney. Every place is taken up and overcrowded. +</p> + +<p> +Class supremacy can rest only on class degradation; and when the workers are +segregated in the Ghetto, they cannot escape the consequent degradation. A +short and stunted people is created—a breed strikingly differentiated +from their masters’ breed, a pavement folk, as it were, lacking stamina +and strength. The men become caricatures of what physical men ought to be, and +their women and children are pale and anæmic, with eyes ringed darkly, who +stoop and slouch, and are early twisted out of all shapeliness and beauty. +</p> + +<p> +To make matters worse, the men of the Ghetto are the men who are +left—a deteriorated stock, left to undergo still further deterioration. +For a hundred and fifty years, at least, they have been drained of their +best. The strong men, the men of pluck, initiative, and ambition, +have been faring forth to the fresher and freer portions of the globe, +to make new lands and nations. Those who are lacking, the weak +of heart and head and hand, as well as the rotten and hopeless, have +remained to carry on the breed. And year by year, in turn, the +best they breed are taken from them. Wherever a man of vigour +and stature manages to grow up, he is haled forthwith into the army. +A soldier, as Bernard Shaw has said, “ostensibly a heroic and +patriotic defender of his country, is really an unfortunate man driven +by destitution to offer himself as food for powder for the sake of regular +rations, shelter, and clothing.” +</p> + +<p> +This constant selection of the best from the workers has impoverished +those who are left, a sadly degraded remainder, for the great part, +which, in the Ghetto, sinks to the deepest depths. The wine of +life has been drawn off to spill itself in blood and progeny over the +rest of the earth. Those that remain are the lees, and they are +segregated and steeped in themselves. They become indecent and +bestial. When they kill, they kill with their hands, and then +stupidly surrender themselves to the executioners. There is no +splendid audacity about their transgressions. They gouge a mate +with a dull knife, or beat his head in with an iron pot, and then sit +down and wait for the police. Wife-beating is the masculine prerogative +of matrimony. They wear remarkable boots of brass and iron, and +when they have polished off the mother of their children with a black +eye or so, they knock her down and proceed to trample her very much +as a Western stallion tramples a rattlesnake. +</p> + +<p> +A woman of the lower Ghetto classes is as much the slave of her husband +as is the Indian squaw. And I, for one, were I a woman and had +but the two choices, should prefer being a squaw. The men are +economically dependent on their masters, and the women are economically +dependent on the men. The result is, the woman gets the beating +the man should give his master, and she can do nothing. There +are the kiddies, and he is the bread-winner, and she dare not send him +to jail and leave herself and children to starve. Evidence to +convict can rarely be obtained when such cases come into the courts; +as a rule, the trampled wife and mother is weeping and hysterically +beseeching the magistrate to let her husband off for the kiddies’ +sakes. +</p> + +<p> +The wives become screaming harridans or, broken-spirited and doglike, +lose what little decency and self-respect they have remaining over from +their maiden days, and all sink together, unheeding, in their degradation +and dirt. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes I become afraid of my own generalizations upon the massed +misery of this Ghetto life, and feel that my impressions are exaggerated, +that I am too close to the picture and lack perspective. At such +moments I find it well to turn to the testimony of other men to prove +to myself that I am not becoming over-wrought and addle-pated. +Frederick Harrison has always struck me as being a level-headed, well-controlled +man, and he says:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +To me, at least, it would be enough to condemn modern society as hardly an +advance on slavery or serfdom, if the permanent condition of industry were to +be that which we behold, that ninety per cent. of the actual producers of +wealth have no home that they can call their own beyond the end of the week; +have no bit of soil, or so much as a room that belongs to them; have nothing of +value of any kind, except as much old furniture as will go into a cart; have +the precarious chance of weekly wages, which barely suffice to keep them in +health; are housed, for the most part, in places that no man thinks fit for his +horse; are separated by so narrow a margin from destitution that a month of bad +trade, sickness, or unexpected loss brings them face to face with hunger and +pauperism . . . But below this normal state of the average workman in town and +country, there is found the great band of destitute outcasts—the camp +followers of the army of industry—at least one-tenth the whole +proletarian population, whose normal condition is one of sickening +wretchedness. If this is to be the permanent arrangement of modern society, +civilization must be held to bring a curse on the great majority of mankind. +</p> + +<p> +Ninety per cent.! The figures are appalling, yet Mr. Stopford +Brooke, after drawing a frightful London picture, finds himself compelled +to multiply it by half a million. Here it is:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +I often used to meet, when I was curate at Kensington, families drifting into +London along the Hammersmith Road. One day there came along a labourer and his +wife, his son and two daughters. Their family had lived for a long time on an +estate in the country, and managed, with the help of the common-land and their +labour, to get on. But the time came when the common was encroached upon, and +their labour was not needed on the estate, and they were quietly turned out of +their cottage. Where should they go? Of course to London, where work was +thought to be plentiful. They had a little savings, and they thought they could +get two decent rooms to live in. But the inexorable land question met them in +London. They tried the decent courts for lodgings, and found that two rooms +would cost ten shillings a week. Food was dear and bad, water was bad, and in a +short time their health suffered. Work was hard to get, and its wage was so low +that they were soon in debt. They became more ill and more despairing with the +poisonous surroundings, the darkness, and the long hours of work; and they were +driven forth to seek a cheaper lodging. They found it in a court I knew +well—a hotbed of crime and nameless horrors. In this they got a single +room at a cruel rent, and work was more difficult for them to get now, as they +came from a place of such bad repute, and they fell into the hands of those who +sweat the last drop out of man and woman and child, for wages which are the +food only of despair. And the darkness and the dirt, the bad food and the +sickness, and the want of water was worse than before; and the crowd and the +companionship of the court robbed them of the last shreds of self-respect. The +drink demon seized upon them. Of course there was a public-house at both ends +of the court. There they fled, one and all, for shelter, and warmth, and +society, and forgetfulness. And they came out in deeper debt, with inflamed +senses and burning brains, and an unsatisfied craving for drink they would do +anything to satiate. And in a few months the father was in prison, the wife +dying, the son a criminal, and the daughters on the street. <i>Multiply this by +half a million, and you will be beneath the truth</i>. +</p> + +<p> +No more dreary spectacle can be found on this earth than the whole +of the “awful East,” with its Whitechapel, Hoxton, Spitalfields, +Bethnal Green, and Wapping to the East India Docks. The colour +of life is grey and drab. Everything is helpless, hopeless, unrelieved, +and dirty. Bath tubs are a thing totally unknown, as mythical +as the ambrosia of the gods. The people themselves are dirty, +while any attempt at cleanliness becomes howling farce, when it is not +pitiful and tragic. Strange, vagrant odours come drifting along +the greasy wind, and the rain, when it falls, is more like grease than +water from heaven. The very cobblestones are scummed with grease. +</p> + +<p> +Here lives a population as dull and unimaginative as its long grey +miles of dingy brick. Religion has virtually passed it by, and +a gross and stupid materialism reigns, fatal alike to the things of +the spirit and the finer instincts of life. +</p> + +<p> +It used to be the proud boast that every Englishman’s home +was his castle. But to-day it is an anachronism. The Ghetto +folk have no homes. They do not know the significance and the +sacredness of home life. Even the municipal dwellings, where live +the better-class workers, are overcrowded barracks. They have +no home life. The very language proves it. The father returning +from work asks his child in the street where her mother is; and back +the answer comes, “In the buildings.” +</p> + +<p> +A new race has sprung up, a street people. They pass their +lives at work and in the streets. They have dens and lairs into +which to crawl for sleeping purposes, and that is all. One cannot +travesty the word by calling such dens and lairs “homes.” +The traditional silent and reserved Englishman has passed away. +The pavement folk are noisy, voluble, high-strung, excitable—when +they are yet young. As they grow older they become steeped and +stupefied in beer. When they have nothing else to do, they ruminate +as a cow ruminates. They are to be met with everywhere, standing +on curbs and corners, and staring into vacancy. Watch one of them. +He will stand there, motionless, for hours, and when you go away you +will leave him still staring into vacancy. It is most absorbing. +He has no money for beer, and his lair is only for sleeping purposes, +so what else remains for him to do? He has already solved the +mysteries of girl’s love, and wife’s love, and child’s +love, and found them delusions and shams, vain and fleeting as dew-drops, +quick-vanishing before the ferocious facts of life. +</p> + +<p> +As I say, the young are high-strung, nervous, excitable; the middle-aged +are empty-headed, stolid, and stupid. It is absurd to think for +an instant that they can compete with the workers of the New World. +Brutalised, degraded, and dull, the Ghetto folk will be unable to render +efficient service to England in the world struggle for industrial supremacy +which economists declare has already begun. Neither as workers +nor as soldiers can they come up to the mark when England, in her need, +calls upon them, her forgotten ones; and if England be flung out of +the world’s industrial orbit, they will perish like flies at the +end of summer. Or, with England critically situated, and with +them made desperate as wild beasts are made desperate, they may become +a menace and go “swelling” down to the West End to return +the “slumming” the West End has done in the East. +In which case, before rapid-fire guns and the modern machinery of warfare, +they will perish the more swiftly and easily. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /> +COFFEE-HOUSES AND DOSS-HOUSES</h2> + +<p> +Another phrase gone glimmering, shorn of romance and tradition and +all that goes to make phrases worth keeping! For me, henceforth, +“coffee-house” will possess anything but an agreeable connotation. +Over on the other side of the world, the mere mention of the word was +sufficient to conjure up whole crowds of its historic frequenters, and +to send trooping through my imagination endless groups of wits and dandies, +pamphleteers and bravos, and bohemians of Grub Street. +</p> + +<p> +But here, on this side of the world, alas and alack, the very name +is a misnomer. Coffee-house: a place where people drink coffee. +Not at all. You cannot obtain coffee in such a place for love +or money. True, you may call for coffee, and you will have brought +you something in a cup purporting to be coffee, and you will taste it +and be disillusioned, for coffee it certainly is not. +</p> + +<p> +And what is true of the coffee is true of the coffee-house. +Working-men, in the main, frequent these places, and greasy, dirty places +they are, without one thing about them to cherish decency in a man or +put self-respect into him. Table-cloths and napkins are unknown. +A man eats in the midst of the débris left by his predecessor, +and dribbles his own scraps about him and on the floor. In rush +times, in such places, I have positively waded through the muck and +mess that covered the floor, and I have managed to eat because I was +abominably hungry and capable of eating anything. +</p> + +<p> +This seems to be the normal condition of the working-man, from the zest with +which he addresses himself to the board. Eating is a necessity, and there are +no frills about it. He brings in with him a primitive voraciousness, and, I am +confident, carries away with him a fairly healthy appetite. When you see such a +man, on his way to work in the morning, order a pint of tea, which is no more +tea than it is ambrosia, pull a hunk of dry bread from his pocket, and wash the +one down with the other, depend upon it, that man has not the right sort of +stuff in his belly, nor enough of the wrong sort of stuff, to fit him for his +day’s work. And further, depend upon it, he and a thousand of his kind +will not turn out the quantity or quality of work that a thousand men will who +have eaten heartily of meat and potatoes, and drunk coffee that is coffee. +</p> + +<p> +As a vagrant in the “Hobo” of a California jail, I have +been served better food and drink than the London workman receives in +his coffee-houses; while as an American labourer I have eaten a breakfast +for twelvepence such as the British labourer would not dream of eating. +Of course, he will pay only three or four pence for his; which is, however, +as much as I paid, for I would be earning six shillings to his two or +two and a half. On the other hand, though, and in return, I would +turn out an amount of work in the course of the day that would put to +shame the amount he turned out. So there are two sides to it. +The man with the high standard of living will always do more work and +better than the man with the low standard of living. +</p> + +<p> +There is a comparison which sailormen make between the English and American +merchant services. In an English ship, they say, it is poor grub, poor pay, and +easy work; in an American ship, good grub, good pay, and hard work. And this is +applicable to the working populations of both countries. The ocean greyhounds +have to pay for speed and steam, and so does the workman. But if the workman is +not able to pay for it, he will not have the speed and steam, that is all. The +proof of it is when the English workman comes to America. He will lay more +bricks in New York than he will in London, still more bricks in St. Louis, and +still more bricks when he gets to San Francisco.<a href="#fn-3" name="fnref-3" id="fnref-3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> +His standard of living has been rising all the time. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-3" id="fn-3"></a> <a href="#fnref-3">[3]</a> +The San Francisco bricklayer receives twenty shillings per day, and at present +is on strike for twenty-four shillings. +</p> + +<p> +Early in the morning, along the streets frequented by workmen on +the way to work, many women sit on the sidewalk with sacks of bread +beside them. No end of workmen purchase these, and eat them as +they walk along. They do not even wash the dry bread down with +the tea to be obtained for a penny in the coffee-houses. It is +incontestable that a man is not fit to begin his day’s work on +a meal like that; and it is equally incontestable that the loss will +fall upon his employer and upon the nation. For some time, now, +statesmen have been crying, “Wake up, England!” It +would show more hard-headed common sense if they changed the tune to +“Feed up, England!” +</p> + +<p> +Not only is the worker poorly fed, but he is filthily fed. +I have stood outside a butcher-shop and watched a horde of speculative +housewives turning over the trimmings and scraps and shreds of beef +and mutton—dog-meat in the States. I would not vouch for +the clean fingers of these housewives, no more than I would vouch for +the cleanliness of the single rooms in which many of them and their +families lived; yet they raked, and pawed, and scraped the mess about +in their anxiety to get the worth of their coppers. I kept my +eye on one particularly offensive-looking bit of meat, and followed +it through the clutches of over twenty women, till it fell to the lot +of a timid-appearing little woman whom the butcher bluffed into taking +it. All day long this heap of scraps was added to and taken away +from, the dust and dirt of the street falling upon it, flies settling +on it, and the dirty fingers turning it over and over. +</p> + +<p> +The costers wheel loads of specked and decaying fruit around in the +barrows all day, and very often store it in their one living and sleeping +room for the night. There it is exposed to the sickness and disease, +the effluvia and vile exhalations of overcrowded and rotten life, and +next day it is carted about again to be sold. +</p> + +<p> +The poor worker of the East End never knows what it is to eat good, +wholesome meat or fruit—in fact, he rarely eats meat or fruit +at all; while the skilled workman has nothing to boast of in the way +of what he eats. Judging from the coffee-houses, which is a fair +criterion, they never know in all their lives what tea, coffee, or cocoa +tastes like. The slops and water-witcheries of the coffee-houses, +varying only in sloppiness and witchery, never even approximate or suggest +what you and I are accustomed to drink as tea and coffee. +</p> + +<p> +A little incident comes to me, connected with a coffee-house not +far from Jubilee Street on the Mile End Road. +</p> + +<p> +“Cawn yer let me ’ave somethin’ for this, daughter? +Anythin’, Hi don’t mind. Hi ’aven’t ’ad +a bite the blessed dy, an’ Hi’m that fynt . . . ” +</p> + +<p> +She was an old woman, clad in decent black rags, and in her hand +she held a penny. The one she had addressed as “daughter” +was a careworn woman of forty, proprietress and waitress of the house. +</p> + +<p> +I waited, possibly as anxiously as the old woman, to see how the +appeal would be received. It was four in the afternoon, and she +looked faint and sick. The woman hesitated an instant, then brought +a large plate of “stewed lamb and young peas.” I was +eating a plate of it myself, and it is my judgment that the lamb was +mutton and that the peas might have been younger without being youthful. +However, the point is, the dish was sold at sixpence, and the proprietress +gave it for a penny, demonstrating anew the old truth that the poor +are the most charitable. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, profuse in her gratitude, took a seat on the other +side of the narrow table and ravenously attacked the smoking stew. +We ate steadily and silently, the pair of us, when suddenly, explosively +and most gleefully, she cried out to me,— +</p> + +<p> +“Hi sold a box o’ matches! Yus,” she confirmed, +if anything with greater and more explosive glee. “Hi sold +a box o’ matches! That’s ’ow Hi got the penny.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be getting along in years,” I suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“Seventy-four yesterday,” she replied, and returned with +gusto to her plate. +</p> + +<p> +“Blimey, I’d like to do something for the old girl, that +I would, but this is the first I’ve ’ad to-dy,” the +young fellow alongside volunteered to me. “An’ I only +’ave this because I ’appened to make an odd shilling washin’ +out, Lord lumme! I don’t know ’ow many pots.” +</p> + +<p> +“No work at my own tryde for six weeks,” he said further, +in reply to my questions; “nothin’ but odd jobs a blessed +long wy between.” +</p> + +<p> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +One meets with all sorts of adventures in coffee-house, and I shall +not soon forget a Cockney Amazon in a place near Trafalgar Square, to +whom I tendered a sovereign when paying my score. (By the way, +one is supposed to pay before he begins to eat, and if he be poorly +dressed he is compelled to pay before he eats). +</p> + +<p> +The girl bit the gold piece between her teeth, rang it on the counter, +and then looked me and my rags witheringly up and down. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’d you find it?” she at length demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Some mug left it on the table when he went out, eh, don’t +you think?” I retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot’s yer gyme?” she queried, looking me calmly +in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I makes ’em,” quoth I. +</p> + +<p> +She sniffed superciliously and gave me the change in small silver, +and I had my revenge by biting and ringing every piece of it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you a ha’penny for another lump of sugar +in the tea,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see you in ’ell first,” came the retort +courteous. Also, she amplified the retort courteous in divers +vivid and unprintable ways. +</p> + +<p> +I never had much talent for repartee, but she knocked silly what +little I had, and I gulped down my tea a beaten man, while she gloated +after me even as I passed out to the street. +</p> + +<p> +While 300,000 people of London live in one-room tenements, and 900,000 +are illegally and viciously housed, 38,000 more are registered as living +in common lodging-houses—known in the vernacular as “doss-houses.” +There are many kinds of doss-houses, but in one thing they are all alike, +from the filthy little ones to the monster big ones paying five per +cent. and blatantly lauded by smug middle-class men who know but one +thing about them, and that one thing is their uninhabitableness. +By this I do not mean that the roofs leak or the walls are draughty; +but what I do mean is that life in them is degrading and unwholesome. +</p> + +<p> +“The poor man’s hotel,” they are often called, +but the phrase is caricature. Not to possess a room to one’s +self, in which sometimes to sit alone; to be forced out of bed willy-nilly, +the first thing in the morning; to engage and pay anew for a bed each +night; and never to have any privacy, surely is a mode of existence +quite different from that of hotel life. +</p> + +<p> +This must not be considered a sweeping condemnation of the big private +and municipal lodging-houses and working-men’s homes. Far +from it. They have remedied many of the atrocities attendant upon +the irresponsible small doss-houses, and they give the workman more +for his money than he ever received before; but that does not make them +as habitable or wholesome as the dwelling-place of a man should be who +does his work in the world. +</p> + +<p> +The little private doss-houses, as a rule, are unmitigated horrors. +I have slept in them, and I know; but let me pass them by and confine +myself to the bigger and better ones. Not far from Middlesex Street, +Whitechapel, I entered such a house, a place inhabited almost entirely +by working men. The entrance was by way of a flight of steps descending +from the sidewalk to what was properly the cellar of the building. +Here were two large and gloomily lighted rooms, in which men cooked +and ate. I had intended to do some cooking myself, but the smell +of the place stole away my appetite, or, rather, wrested it from me; +so I contented myself with watching other men cook and eat. +</p> + +<p> +One workman, home from work, sat down opposite me at the rough wooden +table, and began his meal. A handful of salt on the not over-clean +table constituted his butter. Into it he dipped his bread, mouthful +by mouthful, and washed it down with tea from a big mug. A piece +of fish completed his bill of fare. He ate silently, looking neither +to right nor left nor across at me. Here and there, at the various +tables, other men were eating, just as silently. In the whole +room there was hardly a note of conversation. A feeling of gloom +pervaded the ill-lighted place. Many of them sat and brooded over +the crumbs of their repast, and made me wonder, as Childe Roland wondered, +what evil they had done that they should be punished so. +</p> + +<p> +From the kitchen came the sounds of more genial life, and I ventured +into the range where the men were cooking. But the smell I had +noticed on entering was stronger here, and a rising nausea drove me +into the street for fresh air. +</p> + +<p> +On my return I paid fivepence for a “cabin,” took my +receipt for the same in the form of a huge brass check, and went upstairs +to the smoking-room. Here, a couple of small billiard tables and +several checkerboards were being used by young working-men, who waited +in relays for their turn at the games, while many men were sitting around, +smoking, reading, and mending their clothes. The young men were +hilarious, the old men were gloomy. In fact, there were two types +of men, the cheerful and the sodden or blue, and age seemed to determine +the classification. +</p> + +<p> +But no more than the two cellar rooms did this room convey the remotest +suggestion of home. Certainly there could be nothing home-like +about it to you and me, who know what home really is. On the walls +were the most preposterous and insulting notices regulating the conduct +of the guests, and at ten o’clock the lights were put out, and +nothing remained but bed. This was gained by descending again +to the cellar, by surrendering the brass check to a burly doorkeeper, +and by climbing a long flight of stairs into the upper regions. +I went to the top of the building and down again, passing several floors +filled with sleeping men. The “cabins” were the best +accommodation, each cabin allowing space for a tiny bed and room alongside +of it in which to undress. The bedding was clean, and with neither +it nor the bed do I find any fault. But there was no privacy about +it, no being alone. +</p> + +<p> +To get an adequate idea of a floor filled with cabins, you have merely +to magnify a layer of the pasteboard pigeon-holes of an egg-crate till +each pigeon-hole is seven feet in height and otherwise properly dimensioned, +then place the magnified layer on the floor of a large, barnlike room, +and there you have it. There are no ceilings to the pigeon-holes, +the walls are thin, and the snores from all the sleepers and every move +and turn of your nearer neighbours come plainly to your ears. +And this cabin is yours only for a little while. In the morning +out you go. You cannot put your trunk in it, or come and go when +you like, or lock the door behind you, or anything of the sort. +In fact, there is no door at all, only a doorway. If you care +to remain a guest in this poor man’s hotel, you must put up with +all this, and with prison regulations which impress upon you constantly +that you are nobody, with little soul of your own and less to say about +it. +</p> + +<p> +Now I contend that the least a man who does his day’s work +should have is a room to himself, where he can lock the door and be +safe in his possessions; where he can sit down and read by a window +or look out; where he can come and go whenever he wishes; where he can +accumulate a few personal belongings other than those he carries about +with him on his back and in his pockets; where he can hang up pictures +of his mother, sister, sweet-heart, ballet dancers, or bulldogs, as +his heart listeth—in short, one place of his own on the earth +of which he can say: “This is mine, my castle; the world stops +at the threshold; here am I lord and master.” He will be +a better citizen, this man; and he will do a better day’s work. +</p> + +<p> +I stood on one floor of the poor man’s hotel and listened. +I went from bed to bed and looked at the sleepers. They were young +men, from twenty to forty, most of them. Old men cannot afford +the working-man’s home. They go to the workhouse. +But I looked at the young men, scores of them, and they were not bad-looking +fellows. Their faces were made for women’s kisses, their +necks for women’s arms. They were lovable, as men are lovable. +They were capable of love. A woman’s touch redeems and softens, +and they needed such redemption and softening instead of each day growing +harsh and harsher. And I wondered where these women were, and +heard a “harlot’s ginny laugh.” Leman Street, +Waterloo Road, Piccadilly, The Strand, answered me, and I knew where +they were. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /> +THE PRECARIOUSNESS OF LIFE</h2> + +<p> +I was talking with a very vindictive man. In his opinion, his +wife had wronged him and the law had wronged him. The merits and +morals of the case are immaterial. The meat of the matter is that +she had obtained a separation, and he was compelled to pay ten shillings +each week for the support of her and the five children. “But +look you,” said he to me, “wot’ll ’appen to +’er if I don’t py up the ten shillings? S’posin’, +now, just s’posin’ a accident ’appens to me, so I +cawn’t work. S’posin’ I get a rupture, or the +rheumatics, or the cholera. Wot’s she goin’ to do, +eh? Wot’s she goin’ to do?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head sadly. “No ’ope for ’er. +The best she cawn do is the work’ouse, an’ that’s +’ell. An’ if she don’t go to the work’ouse, +it’ll be a worse ’ell. Come along ’ith me an’ +I’ll show you women sleepin’ in a passage, a dozen of ’em. +An’ I’ll show you worse, wot she’ll come to if anythin’ +’appens to me and the ten shillings.” +</p> + +<p> +The certitude of this man’s forecast is worthy of consideration. +He knew conditions sufficiently to know the precariousness of his wife’s +grasp on food and shelter. For her game was up when his working +capacity was impaired or destroyed. And when this state of affairs +is looked at in its larger aspect, the same will be found true of hundreds +of thousands and even millions of men and women living amicably together +and co-operating in the pursuit of food and shelter. +</p> + +<p> +The figures are appalling: 1,800,000 people in London live on the +poverty line and below it, and 1,000,000 live with one week’s +wages between them and pauperism. In all England and Wales, eighteen +per cent. of the whole population are driven to the parish for relief, +and in London, according to the statistics of the London County Council, +twenty-one per cent. of the whole population are driven to the parish +for relief. Between being driven to the parish for relief and +being an out-and-out pauper there is a great difference, yet London +supports 123,000 paupers, quite a city of folk in themselves. +One in every four in London dies on public charity, while 939 out of +every 1000 in the United Kingdom die in poverty; 8,000,000 simply struggle +on the ragged edge of starvation, and 20,000,000 more are not comfortable +in the simple and clean sense of the word. +</p> + +<p> +It is interesting to go more into detail concerning the London people +who die on charity. +</p> + +<p> +In 1886, and up to 1893, the percentage of pauperism to population +was less in London than in all England; but since 1893, and for every +succeeding year, the percentage of pauperism to population has been +greater in London than in all England. Yet, from the Registrar-General’s +Report for 1886, the following figures are taken:— +</p> + +<p> +Out of 81,951 deaths in London (1884):— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +In workhouses 9,909<br /> +In hospitals 6,559<br /> +In lunatic asylums 278<br /> +Total in public refuges 16,746 +</p> + +<p> +Commenting on these figures, a Fabian writer says: “Considering +that comparatively few of these are children, it is probable that one +in every three London adults will be driven into one of these refuges +to die, and the proportion in the case of the manual labour class must +of course be still larger.” +</p> + +<p> +These figures serve somewhat to indicate the proximity of the average +worker to pauperism. Various things make pauperism. An advertisement, +for instance, such as this, appearing in yesterday morning’s paper:— +</p> + +<p> +“Clerk wanted, with knowledge of shorthand, typewriting, and +invoicing: wages ten shillings ($2.50) a week. Apply by letter,” +&c. +</p> + +<p> +And in to-day’s paper I read of a clerk, thirty-five years +of age and an inmate of a London workhouse, brought before a magistrate +for non-performance of task. He claimed that he had done his various +tasks since he had been an inmate; but when the master set him to breaking +stones, his hands blistered, and he could not finish the task. +He had never been used to an implement heavier than a pen, he said. +The magistrate sentenced him and his blistered hands to seven days’ +hard labour. +</p> + +<p> +Old age, of course, makes pauperism. And then there is the +accident, the thing happening, the death or disablement of the husband, +father, and bread-winner. Here is a man, with a wife and three +children, living on the ticklish security of twenty shillings per week—and +there are hundreds of thousands of such families in London. Perforce, +to even half exist, they must live up to the last penny of it, so that +a week’s wages (one pound) is all that stands between this family +and pauperism or starvation. The thing happens, the father is +struck down, and what then? A mother with three children can do +little or nothing. Either she must hand her children over to society +as juvenile paupers, in order to be free to do something adequate for +herself, or she must go to the sweat-shops for work which she can perform +in the vile den possible to her reduced income. But with the sweat-shops, +married women who eke out their husband’s earnings, and single +women who have but themselves miserably to support, determine the scale +of wages. And this scale of wages, so determined, is so low that +the mother and her three children can live only in positive beastliness +and semi-starvation, till decay and death end their suffering. +</p> + +<p> +To show that this mother, with her three children to support, cannot +compete in the sweating industries, I instance from the current newspapers +the two following cases:— +</p> + +<p> +A father indignantly writes that his daughter and a girl companion +receive 8.5d. per gross for making boxes. They made each day four +gross. Their expenses were 8d. for car fare, 2d. for stamps, 2.5d. +for glue, and 1d. for string, so that all they earned between them was +1s. 9d., or a daily wage each of 10.5d. +</p> + +<p> +In the second case, before the Luton Guardians a few days ago, an old woman of +seventy-two appeared, asking for relief. “She was a straw-hat maker, but +had been compelled to give up the work owing to the price she obtained for +them—namely, 2.25d. each. For that price she had to provide plait +trimmings and make and finish the hats.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet this mother and her three children we are considering have done +no wrong that they should be so punished. They have not sinned. +The thing happened, that is all; the husband, father and bread-winner, +was struck down. There is no guarding against it. It is +fortuitous. A family stands so many chances of escaping the bottom +of the Abyss, and so many chances of falling plump down to it. +The chance is reducible to cold, pitiless figures, and a few of these +figures will not be out of place. +</p> + +<p> +Sir A. Forwood calculates that— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +1 of every 1400 workmen is killed annually.<br /> +1 of every 2500 workmen is totally disabled.<br /> +1 of every 300 workmen is permanently partially disabled.<br /> +1 of every 8 workmen is temporarily disabled 3 or 4 weeks. +</p> + +<p> +But these are only the accidents of industry. The high mortality +of the people who live in the Ghetto plays a terrible part. The +average age at death among the people of the West End is fifty-five +years; the average age at death among the people of the East End is +thirty years. That is to say, the person in the West End has twice +the chance for life that the person has in the East End. Talk +of war! The mortality in South Africa and the Philippines fades +away to insignificance. Here, in the heart of peace, is where +the blood is being shed; and here not even the civilised rules of warfare +obtain, for the women and children and babes in the arms are killed +just as ferociously as the men are killed. War! In England, +every year, 500,000 men, women, and children, engaged in the various +industries, are killed and disabled, or are injured to disablement by +disease. +</p> + +<p> +In the West End eighteen per cent. of the children die before five +years of age; in the East End fifty-five per cent. of the children die +before five years of age. And there are streets in London where +out of every one hundred children born in a year, fifty die during the +next year; and of the fifty that remain, twenty-five die before they +are five years old. Slaughter! Herod did not do quite so +badly. +</p> + +<p> +That industry causes greater havoc with human life than battle does +no better substantiation can be given than the following extract from +a recent report of the Liverpool Medical Officer, which is not applicable +to Liverpool alone:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +In many instances little if any sunlight could get to the courts, and the +atmosphere within the dwellings was always foul, owing largely to the saturated +condition of the walls and ceilings, which for so many years had absorbed the +exhalations of the occupants into their porous material. Singular testimony to +the absence of sunlight in these courts was furnished by the action of the +Parks and Gardens Committee, who desired to brighten the homes of the poorest +class by gifts of growing flowers and window-boxes; but these gifts could not +be made in courts such as these, <i>as flowers and plants were susceptible to +the unwholesome surroundings, and would not live</i>. +</p> + + +<p> +Mr. George Haw has compiled the following table on the three St. George’s +parishes (London parishes):— +</p> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td></td><td>Percentage of<br />Population<br />Overcrowded</td><td>Death-rate<br />per 1000</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>St. George’s West</td><td>10</td><td>13.2</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>St. George’s South</td><td>35</td><td>23.7</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>St. George’s East</td><td>40</td><td>26.4</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p class="p2"> +Then there are the “dangerous trades,” in which countless workers +are employed. Their hold on life is indeed precarious—far, far more +precarious than the hold of the twentieth-century soldier on life. In the linen +trade, in the preparation of the flax, wet feet and wet clothes cause an +unusual amount of bronchitis, pneumonia, and severe rheumatism; while in the +carding and spinning departments the fine dust produces lung disease in the +majority of cases, and the woman who starts carding at seventeen or eighteen +begins to break up and go to pieces at thirty. The chemical labourers, picked +from the strongest and most splendidly-built men to be found, live, on an +average, less than forty-eight years. +</p> + +<p> +Says Dr. Arlidge, of the potter’s trade: “Potter’s +dust does not kill suddenly, but settles, year after year, a little +more firmly into the lungs, until at length a case of plaster is formed. +Breathing becomes more and more difficult and depressed, and finally +ceases.” +</p> + +<p> +Steel dust, stone dust, clay dust, alkali dust, fluff dust, fibre +dust—all these things kill, and they are more deadly than machine-guns +and pom-poms. Worst of all is the lead dust in the white-lead +trades. Here is a description of the typical dissolution of a +young, healthy, well-developed girl who goes to work in a white-lead +factory:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Here, after a varying degree of exposure, she becomes anæmic. It may be that +her gums show a very faint blue line, or perchance her teeth and gums are +perfectly sound, and no blue line is discernible. Coincidently with the anaemia +she has been getting thinner, but so gradually as scarcely to impress itself +upon her or her friends. Sickness, however, ensues, and headaches, growing in +intensity, are developed. These are frequently attended by obscuration of +vision or temporary blindness. Such a girl passes into what appears to her +friends and medical adviser as ordinary hysteria. This gradually deepens +without warning, until she is suddenly seized with a convulsion, beginning in +one half of the face, then involving the arm, next the leg of the same side of +the body, until the convulsion, violent and purely epileptic form in character, +becomes universal. This is attended by loss of consciousness, out of which she +passes into a series of convulsions, gradually increasing in severity, in one +of which she dies—or consciousness, partial or perfect, is regained, +either, it may be, for a few minutes, a few hours, or days, during which +violent headache is complained of, or she is delirious and excited, as in acute +mania, or dull and sullen as in melancholia, and requires to be roused, when +she is found wandering, and her speech is somewhat imperfect. Without further +warning, save that the pulse, which has become soft, with nearly the normal +number of beats, all at once becomes low and hard; she is suddenly seized with +another convulsion, in which she dies, or passes into a state of coma from +which she never rallies. In another case the convulsions will gradually +subside, the headache disappears and the patient recovers, only to find that +she has completely lost her eyesight, a loss that may be temporary or +permanent. +</p> + +<p> +And here are a few specific cases of white-lead poisoning:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +Charlotte Rafferty, a fine, well-grown young woman with +a splendid constitution—who had never had a day’s illness +in her life—became a white-lead worker. Convulsions seized +her at the foot of the ladder in the works. Dr. Oliver examined +her, found the blue line along her gums, which shows that the system +is under the influence of the lead. He knew that the convulsions +would shortly return. They did so, and she died. +</p> + +<p> +Mary Ann Toler—a girl of seventeen, who had never had a fit +in her life—three times became ill, and had to leave off work +in the factory. Before she was nineteen she showed symptoms of +lead poisoning—had fits, frothed at the mouth, and died. +</p> + +<p> +Mary A., an unusually vigorous woman, was able to work in the lead +factory for <i>twenty years</i>, having colic once only during that +time. Her eight children all died in early infancy from convulsions. +One morning, whilst brushing her hair, this woman suddenly lost all +power in both her wrists. +</p> + +<p> +Eliza H., aged twenty-five, <i>after five months</i> at lead works, +was seized with colic. She entered another factory (after being +refused by the first one) and worked on uninterruptedly for two years. +Then the former symptoms returned, she was seized with convulsions, +and died in two days of acute lead poisoning. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Mr. Vaughan Nash, speaking of the unborn generation, says: “The +children of the white-lead worker enter the world, as a rule, only to +die from the convulsions of lead poisoning—they are either born +prematurely, or die within the first year.” +</p> + +<p> +And, finally, let me instance the case of Harriet A. Walker, a young +girl of seventeen, killed while leading a forlorn hope on the industrial +battlefield. She was employed as an enamelled ware brusher, wherein +lead poisoning is encountered. Her father and brother were both +out of employment. She concealed her illness, walked six miles +a day to and from work, earned her seven or eight shillings per week, +and died, at seventeen. +</p> + +<p> +Depression in trade also plays an important part in hurling the workers +into the Abyss. With a week’s wages between a family and +pauperism, a month’s enforced idleness means hardship and misery +almost indescribable, and from the ravages of which the victims do not +always recover when work is to be had again. Just now the daily +papers contain the report of a meeting of the Carlisle branch of the +Dockers’ Union, wherein it is stated that many of the men, for +months past, have not averaged a weekly income of more than from four +to five shillings. The stagnated state of the shipping industry +in the port of London is held accountable for this condition of affairs. +</p> + +<p> +To the young working-man or working-woman, or married couple, there +is no assurance of happy or healthy middle life, nor of solvent old +age. Work as they will, they cannot make their future secure. +It is all a matter of chance. Everything depends upon the thing +happening, the thing with which they have nothing to do. Precaution +cannot fend it off, nor can wiles evade it. If they remain on +the industrial battlefield they must face it and take their chance against +heavy odds. Of course, if they are favourably made and are not +tied by kinship duties, they may run away from the industrial battlefield. +In which event the safest thing the man can do is to join the army; +and for the woman, possibly, to become a Red Cross nurse or go into +a nunnery. In either case they must forego home and children and +all that makes life worth living and old age other than a nightmare. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /> +SUICIDE</h2> + +<p> +With life so precarious, and opportunity for the happiness of life +so remote, it is inevitable that life shall be cheap and suicide common. +So common is it, that one cannot pick up a daily paper without running +across it; while an attempt-at-suicide case in a police court excites +no more interest than an ordinary “drunk,” and is handled +with the same rapidity and unconcern. +</p> + +<p> +I remember such a case in the Thames Police Court. I pride +myself that I have good eyes and ears, and a fair working knowledge +of men and things; but I confess, as I stood in that court-room, that +I was half bewildered by the amazing despatch with which drunks, disorderlies, +vagrants, brawlers, wife-beaters, thieves, fences, gamblers, and women +of the street went through the machine of justice. The dock stood +in the centre of the court (where the light is best), and into it and +out again stepped men, women, and children, in a stream as steady as +the stream of sentences which fell from the magistrate’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +I was still pondering over a consumptive “fence” who +had pleaded inability to work and necessity for supporting wife and +children, and who had received a year at hard labour, when a young boy +of about twenty appeared in the dock. “Alfred Freeman,” +I caught his name, but failed to catch the charge. A stout and +motherly-looking woman bobbed up in the witness-box and began her testimony. +Wife of the Britannia lock-keeper, I learned she was. Time, night; +a splash; she ran to the lock and found the prisoner in the water. +</p> + +<p> +I flashed my gaze from her to him. So that was the charge, +self-murder. He stood there dazed and unheeding, his bonny brown +hair rumpled down his forehead, his face haggard and careworn and boyish +still. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” the lock-keeper’s wife was saying. +“As fast as I pulled to get ’im out, ’e crawled back. +Then I called for ’elp, and some workmen ’appened along, +and we got ’im out and turned ’im over to the constable.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate complimented the woman on her muscular powers, and +the court-room laughed; but all I could see was a boy on the threshold +of life, passionately crawling to muddy death, and there was no laughter +in it. +</p> + +<p> +A man was now in the witness-box, testifying to the boy’s good +character and giving extenuating evidence. He was the boy’s +foreman, or had been. Alfred was a good boy, but he had had lots +of trouble at home, money matters. And then his mother was sick. +He was given to worrying, and he worried over it till he laid himself +out and wasn’t fit for work. He (the foreman), for the sake +of his own reputation, the boy’s work being bad, had been forced +to ask him to resign. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything to say?” the magistrate demanded abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +The boy in the dock mumbled something indistinctly. He was +still dazed. +</p> + +<p> +“What does he say, constable?” the magistrate asked impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +The stalwart man in blue bent his ear to the prisoner’s lips, +and then replied loudly, “He says he’s very sorry, your +Worship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remanded,” said his Worship; and the next case was under +way, the first witness already engaged in taking the oath. The +boy, dazed and unheeding, passed out with the jailer. That was +all, five minutes from start to finish; and two hulking brutes in the +dock were trying strenuously to shift the responsibility of the possession +of a stolen fishing-pole, worth probably ten cents. +</p> + +<p> +The chief trouble with these poor folk is that they do not know how +to commit suicide, and usually have to make two or three attempts before +they succeed. This, very naturally, is a horrid nuisance to the +constables and magistrates, and gives them no end of trouble. +Sometimes, however, the magistrates are frankly outspoken about the +matter, and censure the prisoners for the slackness of their attempts. +For instance Mr. R. S---, chairman of the S--- B--- magistrates, in +the case the other day of Ann Wood, who tried to make away with herself +in the canal: “If you wanted to do it, why didn’t you do +it and get it done with?” demanded the indignant Mr. R. S---. +“Why did you not get under the water and make an end of it, instead +of giving us all this trouble and bother?” +</p> + +<p> +Poverty, misery, and fear of the workhouse, are the principal causes +of suicide among the working classes. “I’ll drown +myself before I go into the workhouse,” said Ellen Hughes Hunt, +aged fifty-two. Last Wednesday they held an inquest on her body +at Shoreditch. Her husband came from the Islington Workhouse to +testify. He had been a cheesemonger, but failure in business and +poverty had driven him into the workhouse, whither his wife had refused +to accompany him. +</p> + +<p> +She was last seen at one in the morning. Three hours later +her hat and jacket were found on the towing path by the Regent’s +Canal, and later her body was fished from the water. <i>Verdict: +Suicide during temporary insanity</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Such verdicts are crimes against truth. The Law is a lie, and +through it men lie most shamelessly. For instance, a disgraced +woman, forsaken and spat upon by kith and kin, doses herself and her +baby with laudanum. The baby dies; but she pulls through after +a few weeks in hospital, is charged with murder, convicted, and sentenced +to ten years’ penal servitude. Recovering, the Law holds +her responsible for her actions; yet, had she died, the same Law would +have rendered a verdict of temporary insanity. +</p> + +<p> +Now, considering the case of Ellen Hughes Hunt, it is as fair and +logical to say that her husband was suffering from temporary insanity +when he went into the Islington Workhouse, as it is to say that she +was suffering from temporary insanity when she went into the Regent’s +Canal. As to which is the preferable sojourning place is a matter +of opinion, of intellectual judgment. I, for one, from what I +know of canals and workhouses, should choose the canal, were I in a +similar position. And I make bold to contend that I am no more +insane than Ellen Hughes Hunt, her husband, and the rest of the human +herd. +</p> + +<p> +Man no longer follows instinct with the old natural fidelity. +He has developed into a reasoning creature, and can intellectually cling +to life or discard life just as life happens to promise great pleasure +or pain. I dare to assert that Ellen Hughes Hunt, defrauded and +bilked of all the joys of life which fifty-two years’ service +in the world has earned, with nothing but the horrors of the workhouse +before her, was very rational and level-headed when she elected to jump +into the canal. And I dare to assert, further, that the jury had +done a wiser thing to bring in a verdict charging society with temporary +insanity for allowing Ellen Hughes Hunt to be defrauded and bilked of +all the joys of life which fifty-two years’ service in the world +had earned. +</p> + +<p> +Temporary insanity! Oh, these cursed phrases, these lies of +language, under which people with meat in their bellies and whole shirts +on their backs shelter themselves, and evade the responsibility of their +brothers and sisters, empty of belly and without whole shirts on their +backs. +</p> + +<p> +From one issue of the <i>Observer</i>, an East End paper, I quote the following +commonplace events:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +A ship’s fireman, named Johnny King, was charged +with attempting to commit suicide. On Wednesday defendant went +to Bow Police Station and stated that he had swallowed a quantity of +phosphor paste, as he was hard up and unable to obtain work. King +was taken inside and an emetic administered, when he vomited up a quantity +of the poison. Defendant now said he was very sorry. Although +he had sixteen years’ good character, he was unable to obtain +work of any kind. Mr. Dickinson had defendant put back for the +court missionary to see him. +</p> + +<p> +Timothy Warner, thirty-two, was remanded for a similar offence. +He jumped off Limehouse Pier, and when rescued, said, “I intended +to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +A decent-looking young woman, named Ellen Gray, was remanded on a +charge of attempting to commit suicide. About half-past eight +on Sunday morning Constable 834 K found defendant lying in a doorway +in Benworth Street, and she was in a very drowsy condition. She +was holding an empty bottle in one hand, and stated that some two or +three hours previously she had swallowed a quantity of laudanum. +As she was evidently very ill, the divisional surgeon was sent for, +and having administered some coffee, ordered that she was to be kept +awake. When defendant was charged, she stated that the reason +why she attempted to take her life was she had neither home nor friends. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +I do not say that all people who commit suicide are sane, no more +than I say that all people who do not commit suicide are sane. +Insecurity of food and shelter, by the way, is a great cause of insanity +among the living. Costermongers, hawkers, and pedlars, a class +of workers who live from hand to mouth more than those of any other +class, form the highest percentage of those in the lunatic asylums. +Among the males each year, 26.9 per 10,000 go insane, and among the +women, 36.9. On the other hand, of soldiers, who are at least +sure of food and shelter, 13 per 10,000 go insane; and of farmers and +graziers, only 5.1. So a coster is twice as likely to lose his +reason as a soldier, and five times as likely as a farmer. +</p> + +<p> +Misfortune and misery are very potent in turning people’s heads, +and drive one person to the lunatic asylum, and another to the morgue +or the gallows. When the thing happens, and the father and husband, +for all of his love for wife and children and his willingness to work, +can get no work to do, it is a simple matter for his reason to totter +and the light within his brain go out. And it is especially simple +when it is taken into consideration that his body is ravaged by innutrition +and disease, in addition to his soul being torn by the sight of his +suffering wife and little ones. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a good-looking man, with a mass of black hair, dark, +expressive eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and wavy, fair +moustache.” This is the reporter’s description of +Frank Cavilla as he stood in court, this dreary month of September, +“dressed in a much worn grey suit, and wearing no collar.” +</p> + +<p> +Frank Cavilla lived and worked as a house decorator in London. +He is described as a good workman, a steady fellow, and not given to +drink, while all his neighbours unite in testifying that he was a gentle +and affectionate husband and father. +</p> + +<p> +His wife, Hannah Cavilla, was a big, handsome, light-hearted woman. +She saw to it that his children were sent neat and clean (the neighbours +all remarked the fact) to the Childeric Road Board School. And +so, with such a man, so blessed, working steadily and living temperately, +all went well, and the goose hung high. +</p> + +<p> +Then the thing happened. He worked for a Mr. Beck, builder, +and lived in one of his master’s houses in Trundley Road. +Mr. Beck was thrown from his trap and killed. The thing was an +unruly horse, and, as I say, it happened. Cavilla had to seek +fresh employment and find another house. +</p> + +<p> +This occurred eighteen months ago. For eighteen months he fought +the big fight. He got rooms in a little house in Batavia Road, +but could not make both ends meet. Steady work could not be obtained. +He struggled manfully at casual employment of all sorts, his wife and +four children starving before his eyes. He starved himself, and +grew weak, and fell ill. This was three months ago, and then there +was absolutely no food at all. They made no complaint, spoke no +word; but poor folk know. The housewives of Batavia Road sent +them food, but so respectable were the Cavillas that the food was sent +anonymously, mysteriously, so as not to hurt their pride. +</p> + +<p> +The thing had happened. He had fought, and starved, and suffered +for eighteen months. He got up one September morning, early. +He opened his pocket-knife. He cut the throat of his wife, Hannah +Cavilla, aged thirty-three. He cut the throat of his first-born, +Frank, aged twelve. He cut the throat of his son, Walter, aged +eight. He cut the throat of his daughter, Nellie, aged four. +He cut the throat of his youngest-born, Ernest, aged sixteen months. +Then he watched beside the dead all day until the evening, when the +police came, and he told them to put a penny in the slot of the gas-meter +in order that they might have light to see. +</p> + +<p> +Frank Cavilla stood in court, dressed in a much worn grey suit, and +wearing no collar. He was a good-looking man, with a mass of black +hair, dark, expressive eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and +wavy, fair moustache. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /> +THE CHILDREN</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“Where home is a hovel, and dull we grovel,<br /> + Forgetting the world is fair.” +</p> + +<p> +There is one beautiful sight in the East End, and only one, and it +is the children dancing in the street when the organ-grinder goes his +round. It is fascinating to watch them, the new-born, the next +generation, swaying and stepping, with pretty little mimicries and graceful +inventions all their own, with muscles that move swiftly and easily, +and bodies that leap airily, weaving rhythms never taught in dancing +school. +</p> + +<p> +I have talked with these children, here, there, and everywhere, and +they struck me as being bright as other children, and in many ways even +brighter. They have most active little imaginations. Their +capacity for projecting themselves into the realm of romance and fantasy +is remarkable. A joyous life is romping in their blood. +They delight in music, and motion, and colour, and very often they betray +a startling beauty of face and form under their filth and rags. +</p> + +<p> +But there is a Pied Piper of London Town who steals them all away. +They disappear. One never sees them again, or anything that suggests +them. You may look for them in vain amongst the generation of +grown-ups. Here you will find stunted forms, ugly faces, and blunt +and stolid minds. Grace, beauty, imagination, all the resiliency +of mind and muscle, are gone. Sometimes, however, you may see +a woman, not necessarily old, but twisted and deformed out of all womanhood, +bloated and drunken, lift her draggled skirts and execute a few grotesque +and lumbering steps upon the pavement. It is a hint that she was +once one of those children who danced to the organ-grinder. Those +grotesque and lumbering steps are all that is left of the promise of +childhood. In the befogged recesses of her brain has arisen a +fleeting memory that she was once a girl. The crowd closes in. +Little girls are dancing beside her, about her, with all the pretty +graces she dimly recollects, but can no more than parody with her body. +Then she pants for breath, exhausted, and stumbles out through the circle. +But the little girls dance on. +</p> + +<p> +The children of the Ghetto possess all the qualities which make for +noble manhood and womanhood; but the Ghetto itself, like an infuriated +tigress turning on its young, turns upon and destroys all these qualities, +blots out the light and laughter, and moulds those it does not kill +into sodden and forlorn creatures, uncouth, degraded, and wretched below +the beasts of the field. +</p> + +<p> +As to the manner in which this is done, I have in previous chapters +described it at length; here let Professor Huxley describe it in brief:— +</p> + +<p> +“Any one who is acquainted with the state of the population +of all great industrial centres, whether in this or other countries, +is aware that amidst a large and increasing body of that population +there reigns supreme . . . that condition which the French call <i>la +misère</i>, a word for which I do not think there is any exact +English equivalent. It is a condition in which the food, warmth, +and clothing which are necessary for the mere maintenance of the functions +of the body in their normal state cannot be obtained; in which men, +women, and children are forced to crowd into dens wherein decency is +abolished, and the most ordinary conditions of healthful existence are +impossible of attainment; in which the pleasures within reach are reduced +to brutality and drunkenness; in which the pains accumulate at compound +interest in the shape of starvation, disease, stunted development, and +moral degradation; in which the prospect of even steady and honest industry +is a life of unsuccessful battling with hunger, rounded by a pauper’s +grave.” +</p> + +<p> +In such conditions, the outlook for children is hopeless. They +die like flies, and those that survive, survive because they possess +excessive vitality and a capacity of adaptation to the degradation with +which they are surrounded. They have no home life. In the +dens and lairs in which they live they are exposed to all that is obscene +and indecent. And as their minds are made rotten, so are their +bodies made rotten by bad sanitation, overcrowding, and underfeeding. +When a father and mother live with three or four children in a room +where the children take turn about in sitting up to drive the rats away +from the sleepers, when those children never have enough to eat and +are preyed upon and made miserable and weak by swarming vermin, the +sort of men and women the survivors will make can readily be imagined. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Dull despair and misery<br /> +Lie about them from their birth;<br /> +Ugly curses, uglier mirth,<br /> +Are their earliest lullaby.” +</p> + +<p> +A man and a woman marry and set up housekeeping in one room. Their income does +not increase with the years, though their family does, and the man is +exceedingly lucky if he can keep his health and his job. A baby comes, and then +another. This means that more room should be obtained; but these little mouths +and bodies mean additional expense and make it absolutely impossible to get +more spacious quarters. More babies come. There is not room in which to turn +around. The youngsters run the streets, and by the time they are twelve or +fourteen the room-issue comes to a head, and out they go on the streets for +good. The boy, if he be lucky, can manage to make the common lodging-houses, +and he may have any one of several ends. But the girl of fourteen or fifteen, +forced in this manner to leave the one room called home, and able to earn at +the best a paltry five or six shillings per week, can have but one end. And the +bitter end of that one end is such as that of the woman whose body the police +found this morning in a doorway in Dorset Street, Whitechapel. Homeless, +shelterless, sick, with no one with her in her last hour, she had died in the +night of exposure. She was sixty-two years old and a match vendor. She died as +a wild animal dies. +</p> + +<p> +Fresh in my mind is the picture of a boy in the dock of an East End +police court. His head was barely visible above the railing. +He was being proved guilty of stealing two shillings from a woman, which +he had spent, not for candy and cakes and a good time, but for food. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you ask the woman for food?” the magistrate +demanded, in a hurt sort of tone. “She would surely have +given you something to eat.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I ’ad arsked ’er, I’d got locked up for +beggin’,” was the boy’s reply. +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate knitted his brows and accepted the rebuke. Nobody +knew the boy, nor his father or mother. He was without beginning +or antecedent, a waif, a stray, a young cub seeking his food in the +jungle of empire, preying upon the weak and being preyed upon by the +strong. +</p> + +<p> +The people who try to help, who gather up the Ghetto children and +send them away on a day’s outing to the country, believe that +not very many children reach the age of ten without having had at least +one day there. Of this, a writer says: “The mental change +caused by one day so spent must not be undervalued. Whatever the +circumstances, the children learn the meaning of fields and woods, so +that descriptions of country scenery in the books they read, which before +conveyed no impression, become now intelligible.” +</p> + +<p> +One day in the fields and woods, if they are lucky enough to be picked +up by the people who try to help! And they are being born faster +every day than they can be carted off to the fields and woods for the +one day in their lives. One day! In all their lives, one +day! And for the rest of the days, as the boy told a certain bishop, +“At ten we ’ops the wag; at thirteen we nicks things; an’ +at sixteen we bashes the copper.” Which is to say, at ten +they play truant, at thirteen steal, and at sixteen are sufficiently +developed hooligans to smash the policemen. +</p> + +<p> +The Rev. J. Cartmel Robinson tells of a boy and girl of his parish +who set out to walk to the forest. They walked and walked through +the never-ending streets, expecting always to see it by-and-by; until +they sat down at last, faint and despairing, and were rescued by a kind +woman who brought them back. Evidently they had been overlooked +by the people who try to help. +</p> + +<p> +The same gentleman is authority for the statement that in a street +in Hoxton (a district of the vast East End), over seven hundred children, +between five and thirteen years, live in eighty small houses. +And he adds: “It is because London has largely shut her children +in a maze of streets and houses and robbed them of their rightful inheritance +in sky and field and brook, that they grow up to be men and women physically +unfit.” +</p> + +<p> +He tells of a member of his congregation who let a basement room +to a married couple. “They said they had two children; when +they got possession it turned out that they had four. After a +while a fifth appeared, and the landlord gave them notice to quit. +They paid no attention to it. Then the sanitary inspector who +has to wink at the law so often, came in and threatened my friend with +legal proceedings. He pleaded that he could not get them out. +They pleaded that nobody would have them with so many children at a +rental within their means, which is one of the commonest complaints +of the poor, by-the-bye. What was to be done? The landlord +was between two millstones. Finally he applied to the magistrate, +who sent up an officer to inquire into the case. Since that time +about twenty days have elapsed, and nothing has yet been done. +Is this a singular case? By no means; it is quite common.” +</p> + +<p> +Last week the police raided a disorderly house. In one room +were found two young children. They were arrested and charged +with being inmates the same as the women had been. Their father +appeared at the trial. He stated that himself and wife and two +older children, besides the two in the dock, occupied that room; he +stated also that he occupied it because he could get no other room for +the half-crown a week he paid for it. The magistrate discharged +the two juvenile offenders and warned the father that he was bringing +his children up unhealthily. +</p> + +<p> +But there is no need further to multiply instances. In London +the slaughter of the innocents goes on on a scale more stupendous than +any before in the history of the world. And equally stupendous +is the callousness of the people who believe in Christ, acknowledge +God, and go to church regularly on Sunday. For the rest of the +week they riot about on the rents and profits which come to them from +the East End stained with the blood of the children. Also, at +times, so peculiarly are they made, they will take half a million of +these rents and profits and send it away to educate the black boys of +the Soudan. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /> +A VISION OF THE NIGHT</h2> + +<blockquote> +<p> +All these were years ago little red-coloured, pulpy infants, +capable of being kneaded, baked, into any social form you chose.—CARLYLE. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +Late last night I walked along Commercial Street from Spitalfields +to Whitechapel, and still continuing south, down Leman Street to the +docks. And as I walked I smiled at the East End papers, which, +filled with civic pride, boastfully proclaim that there is nothing the +matter with the East End as a living place for men and women. +</p> + +<p> +It is rather hard to tell a tithe of what I saw. Much of it +is untenable. But in a general way I may say that I saw a nightmare, +a fearful slime that quickened the pavement with life, a mess of unmentionable +obscenity that put into eclipse the “nightly horror” of +Piccadilly and the Strand. It <i>was</i> a menagerie of garmented +bipeds that looked something like humans and more like beasts, and to +complete the picture, brass-buttoned keepers kept order among them when +they snarled too fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +I was glad the keepers were there, for I did not have on my “seafaring” +clothes, and I was what is called a “mark” for the creatures +of prey that prowled up and down. At times, between keepers, these +males looked at me sharply, hungrily, gutter-wolves that they were, +and I was afraid of their hands, of their naked hands, as one may be +afraid of the paws of a gorilla. They reminded me of gorillas. +Their bodies were small, ill-shaped, and squat. There were no +swelling muscles, no abundant thews and wide-spreading shoulders. +They exhibited, rather, an elemental economy of nature, such as the +cave-men must have exhibited. But there was strength in those +meagre bodies, the ferocious, primordial strength to clutch and gripe +and tear and rend. When they spring upon their human prey they +are known even to bend the victim backward and double its body till +the back is broken. They possess neither conscience nor sentiment, +and they will kill for a half-sovereign, without fear or favour, if +they are given but half a chance. They are a new species, a breed +of city savages. The streets and houses, alleys and courts, are +their hunting grounds. As valley and mountain are to the natural +savage, street and building are valley and mountain to them. The +slum is their jungle, and they live and prey in the jungle. +</p> + +<p> +The dear soft people of the golden theatres and wonder-mansions of +the West End do not see these creatures, do not dream that they exist. +But they are here, alive, very much alive in their jungle. And +woe the day, when England is fighting in her last trench, and her able-bodied +men are on the firing line! For on that day they will crawl out +of their dens and lairs, and the people of the West End will see them, +as the dear soft aristocrats of Feudal France saw them and asked one +another, “Whence came they?” “Are they men?” +</p> + +<p> +But they were not the only beasts that ranged the menagerie. +They were only here and there, lurking in dark courts and passing like +grey shadows along the walls; but the women from whose rotten loins +they spring were everywhere. They whined insolently, and in maudlin +tones begged me for pennies, and worse. They held carouse in every +boozing ken, slatternly, unkempt, bleary-eyed, and towsled, leering +and gibbering, overspilling with foulness and corruption, and, gone +in debauch, sprawling across benches and bars, unspeakably repulsive, +fearful to look upon. +</p> + +<p> +And there were others, strange, weird faces and forms and twisted +monstrosities that shouldered me on every side, inconceivable types +of sodden ugliness, the wrecks of society, the perambulating carcasses, +the living deaths—women, blasted by disease and drink till their +shame brought not tuppence in the open mart; and men, in fantastic rags, +wrenched by hardship and exposure out of all semblance of men, their +faces in a perpetual writhe of pain, grinning idiotically, shambling +like apes, dying with every step they took and each breath they drew. +And there were young girls, of eighteen and twenty, with trim bodies +and faces yet untouched with twist and bloat, who had fetched the bottom +of the Abyss plump, in one swift fall. And I remember a lad of +fourteen, and one of six or seven, white-faced and sickly, homeless, +the pair of them, who sat upon the pavement with their backs against +a railing and watched it all. +</p> + +<p> +The unfit and the unneeded! Industry does not clamour for them. +There are no jobs going begging through lack of men and women. +The dockers crowd at the entrance gate, and curse and turn away when +the foreman does not give them a call. The engineers who have +work pay six shillings a week to their brother engineers who can find +nothing to do; 514,000 textile workers oppose a resolution condemning +the employment of children under fifteen. Women, and plenty to +spare, are found to toil under the sweat-shop masters for tenpence a +day of fourteen hours. Alfred Freeman crawls to muddy death because +he loses his job. Ellen Hughes Hunt prefers Regent’s Canal +to Islington Workhouse. Frank Cavilla cuts the throats of his +wife and children because he cannot find work enough to give them food +and shelter. +</p> + +<p> +The unfit and the unneeded! The miserable and despised and +forgotten, dying in the social shambles. The progeny of prostitution—of +the prostitution of men and women and children, of flesh and blood, +and sparkle and spirit; in brief, the prostitution of labour. +If this is the best that civilisation can do for the human, then give +us howling and naked savagery. Far better to be a people of the +wilderness and desert, of the cave and the squatting-place, than to +be a people of the machine and the Abyss. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /> +THE HUNGER WAIL</h2> + +<p> +“My father has more stamina than I, for he is country-born.” +</p> + +<p> +The speaker, a bright young East Ender, was lamenting his poor physical +development. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at my scrawny arm, will you.” He pulled up +his sleeve. “Not enough to eat, that’s what’s +the matter with it. Oh, not now. I have what I want to eat +these days. But it’s too late. It can’t make +up for what I didn’t have to eat when I was a kiddy. Dad +came up to London from the Fen Country. Mother died, and there +were six of us kiddies and dad living in two small rooms. +</p> + +<p> +“He had hard times, dad did. He might have chucked us, +but he didn’t. He slaved all day, and at night he came home +and cooked and cared for us. He was father and mother, both. +He did his best, but we didn’t have enough to eat. We rarely +saw meat, and then of the worst. And it is not good for growing +kiddies to sit down to a dinner of bread and a bit of cheese, and not +enough of it. +</p> + +<p> +“And what’s the result? I am undersized, and I +haven’t the stamina of my dad. It was starved out of me. +In a couple of generations there’ll be no more of me here in London. +Yet there’s my younger brother; he’s bigger and better developed. +You see, dad and we children held together, and that accounts for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t see,” I objected. “I should +think, under such conditions, that the vitality should decrease and +the younger children be born weaker and weaker.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not when they hold together,” he replied. “Whenever +you come along in the East End and see a child of from eight to twelve, +good-sized, well-developed, and healthy-looking, just you ask and you +will find that it is the youngest in the family, or at least is one +of the younger. The way of it is this: the older children starve +more than the younger ones. By the time the younger ones come +along, the older ones are starting to work, and there is more money +coming in, and more food to go around.” +</p> + +<p> +He pulled down his sleeve, a concrete instance of where chronic semi-starvation +kills not, but stunts. His voice was but one among the myriads +that raise the cry of the hunger wail in the greatest empire in the +world. On any one day, over 1,000,000 people are in receipt of +poor-law relief in the United Kingdom. One in eleven of the whole +working-class receive poor-law relief in the course of the year; 37,500,000 +people receive less than £12 per month, per family; and a constant +army of 8,000,000 lives on the border of starvation. +</p> + +<p> +A committee of the London County school board makes this declaration: “At +times, <i>when there is no special distress</i>, 55,000 children in a state of +hunger, which makes it useless to attempt to teach them, are in the schools of +London alone.” The italics are mine. “When there is no special +distress” means good times in England; for the people of England have +come to look upon starvation and suffering, which they call +“distress,” as part of the social order. Chronic starvation is +looked upon as a matter of course. It is only when acute starvation makes its +appearance on a large scale that they think something is unusual. +</p> + +<p> +I shall never forget the bitter wail of a blind man in a little East +End shop at the close of a murky day. He had been the eldest of +five children, with a mother and no father. Being the eldest, +he had starved and worked as a child to put bread into the mouths of +his little brothers and sisters. Not once in three months did +he ever taste meat. He never knew what it was to have his hunger +thoroughly appeased. And he claimed that this chronic starvation +of his childhood had robbed him of his sight. To support the claim, +he quoted from the report of the Royal Commission on the Blind, “Blindness +is more prevalent in poor districts, and poverty accelerates this dreadful +affliction.” +</p> + +<p> +But he went further, this blind man, and in his voice was the bitterness +of an afflicted man to whom society did not give enough to eat. +He was one of an enormous army of blind in London, and he said that +in the blind homes they did not receive half enough to eat. He +gave the diet for a day:— +</p> + +<pre> +Breakfast—0.75 pint of skilly and dry bread. +Dinner —3 oz. meat. + 1 slice of bread. + 0.5 lb. potatoes. +Supper —0.75 pint of skilly and dry bread. +</pre> + +<p> +Oscar Wilde, God rest his soul, voices the cry of the prison child, +which, in varying degree, is the cry of the prison man and woman:— +</p> + +<p> +“The second thing from which a child suffers in prison is hunger. +The food that is given to it consists of a piece of usually bad-baked +prison bread and a tin of water for breakfast at half-past seven. +At twelve o’clock it gets dinner, composed of a tin of coarse +Indian meal stirabout (skilly), and at half-past five it gets a piece +of dry bread and a tin of water for its supper. This diet in the +case of a strong grown man is always productive of illness of some kind, +chiefly of course diarrhoea, with its attendant weakness. In fact, +in a big prison astringent medicines are served out regularly by the +warders as a matter of course. In the case of a child, the child +is, as a rule, incapable of eating the food at all. Any one who +knows anything about children knows how easily a child’s digestion +is upset by a fit of crying, or trouble and mental distress of any kind. +A child who has been crying all day long, and perhaps half the night, +in a lonely dim-lit cell, and is preyed upon by terror, simply cannot +eat food of this coarse, horrible kind. In the case of the little +child to whom Warder Martin gave the biscuits, the child was crying +with hunger on Tuesday morning, and utterly unable to eat the bread +and water served to it for its breakfast. Martin went out after +the breakfasts had been served and bought the few sweet biscuits for +the child rather than see it starving. It was a beautiful action +on his part, and was so recognised by the child, who, utterly unconscious +of the regulations of the Prison Board, told one of the senior wardens +how kind this junior warden had been to him. The result was, of +course, a report and a dismissal.” +</p> + +<p> +Robert Blatchford compares the workhouse pauper’s daily diet +with the soldier’s, which, when he was a soldier, was not considered +liberal enough, and yet is twice as liberal as the pauper’s. +</p> + +<pre> +PAUPER DIET SOLDIER +3.25 oz. Meat 12 oz. +15.5 oz. Bread 24 oz. +6 oz. Vegetables 8 oz. +</pre> + +<p> +The adult male pauper gets meat (outside of soup) but once a week, +and the paupers “have nearly all that pallid, pasty complexion +which is the sure mark of starvation.” +</p> + +<p> +Here is a table, comparing the workhouse officer’s weekly allowance:— +</p> + +<pre> +OFFICER DIET PAUPER +7 lb. Bread 6.75 lb. +5 lb. Meat 1 lb. 2 oz. +12 oz. Bacon 2.5 oz. +8 oz. Cheese 2 oz. +7 lb. Potatoes 1.5 lb. +6 lb. Vegetables none. +1 lb. Flour none. +2 oz. Lard none. +12 oz. Butter 7 oz. +none. Rice Pudding 1 lb. +</pre> + +<p> +And as the same writer remarks: “The officer’s diet is +still more liberal than the pauper’s; but evidently it is not +considered liberal enough, for a footnote is added to the officer’s +table saying that ‘a cash payment of two shillings and sixpence +a week is also made to each resident officer and servant.’ +If the pauper has ample food, why does the officer have more? +And if the officer has not too much, can the pauper be properly fed +on less than half the amount?” +</p> + +<p> +But it is not alone the Ghetto-dweller, the prisoner, and the pauper +that starve. Hodge, of the country, does not know what it is always +to have a full belly. In truth, it is his empty belly which has +driven him to the city in such great numbers. Let us investigate +the way of living of a labourer from a parish in the Bradfield Poor +Law Union, Berks. Supposing him to have two children, steady work, +a rent-free cottage, and an average weekly wage of thirteen shillings, +which is equivalent to $3.25, then here is his weekly budget:— +</p> + +<pre> + s. d. +Bread (5 quarterns) 1 10 +Flour (0.5 gallon) 0 4 +Tea (0.25 lb.) 0 6 +Butter (1 lb.) 1 3 +Lard (1 lb.) 0 6 +Sugar (6 lb.) 1 0 +Bacon or other meat (about 0.25 lb.) 2 8 +Cheese (1 lb.) 0 8 +Milk (half-tin condensed) 0 3.25 +Coal 1 6 +Beer none +Tobacco none +Insurance (“Prudential”) 0 3 +Labourers’ Union 0 1 +Wood, tools, dispensary, &c. 0 6 +Insurance (“Foresters”) and margin 1 1.75 + for clothes +Total 13 0 +</pre> + +<p> +The guardians of the workhouse in the above Union pride themselves +on their rigid economy. It costs per pauper per week:— +</p> + +<pre> + s. d. +Men 6 1.5 +Women 5 6.5 +Children 5 1.25 +</pre> + +<p> +If the labourer whose budget has been described should quit his toil +and go into the workhouse, he would cost the guardians for +</p> + +<pre> + s. d. +Himself 6 1.5 +Wife 5 6.5 +Two children 10 2.5 +Total 21 10.5 +Or roughly, $5.46 +</pre> + +<p> +It would require more than a guinea for the workhouse to care for +him and his family, which he, somehow, manages to do on thirteen shillings. +And in addition, it is an understood fact that it is cheaper to cater +for a large number of people—buying, cooking, and serving wholesale—than +it is to cater for a small number of people, say a family. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, at the time this budget was compiled, there was in +that parish another family, not of four, but eleven persons, who had +to live on an income, not of thirteen shillings, but of twelve shillings +per week (eleven shillings in winter), and which had, not a rent-free +cottage, but a cottage for which it paid three shillings per week. +</p> + +<p> +This must be understood, and understood clearly: <i>Whatever is true +of London in the way of poverty and degradation, is true of all England</i>. +While Paris is not by any means France, the city of London is England. +The frightful conditions which mark London an inferno likewise mark +the United Kingdom an inferno. The argument that the decentralisation +of London would ameliorate conditions is a vain thing and false. +If the 6,000,000 people of London were separated into one hundred cities +each with a population of 60,000, misery would be decentralised but +not diminished. The sum of it would remain as large. +</p> + +<p> +In this instance, Mr. B. S. Rowntree, by an exhaustive analysis, +has proved for the country town what Mr. Charles Booth has proved for +the metropolis, that fully one-fourth of the dwellers are condemned +to a poverty which destroys them physically and spiritually; that fully +one-fourth of the dwellers do not have enough to eat, are inadequately +clothed, sheltered, and warmed in a rigorous climate, and are doomed +to a moral degeneracy which puts them lower than the savage in cleanliness +and decency. +</p> + +<p> +After listening to the wail of an old Irish peasant in Kerry, Robert +Blatchford asked him what he wanted. “The old man leaned +upon his spade and looked out across the black peat fields at the lowering +skies. ‘What is it that I’m wantun?’ he said; +then in a deep plaintive tone he continued, more to himself than to +me, ‘All our brave bhoys and dear gurrls is away an’ over +the says, an’ the agent has taken the pig off me, an’ the +wet has spiled the praties, an’ I’m an owld man, <i>an’ +I want the Day av Judgment</i>.’” +</p> + +<p> +The Day of Judgment! More than he want it. From all the +land rises the hunger wail, from Ghetto and countryside, from prison +and casual ward, from asylum and workhouse—the cry of the people +who have not enough to eat. Millions of people, men, women, children, +little babes, the blind, the deaf, the halt, the sick, vagabonds and +toilers, prisoners and paupers, the people of Ireland, England, Scotland, +Wales, who have not enough to eat. And this, in face of the fact +that five men can produce bread for a thousand; that one workman can +produce cotton cloth for 250 people, woollens for 300, and boots and +shoes for 1000. It would seem that 40,000,000 people are keeping +a big house, and that they are keeping it badly. The income is +all right, but there is something criminally wrong with the management. +And who dares to say that it is not criminally mismanaged, this big +house, when five men can produce bread for a thousand, and yet millions +have not enough to eat? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /> +DRINK, TEMPERANCE, AND THRIFT</h2> + +<p> +The English working classes may be said to be soaked in beer. +They are made dull and sodden by it. Their efficiency is sadly +impaired, and they lose whatever imagination, invention, and quickness +may be theirs by right of race. It may hardly be called an acquired +habit, for they are accustomed to it from their earliest infancy. +Children are begotten in drunkenness, saturated in drink before they +draw their first breath, born to the smell and taste of it, and brought +up in the midst of it. +</p> + +<p> +The public-house is ubiquitous. It flourishes on every corner +and between corners, and it is frequented almost as much by women as +by men. Children are to be found in it as well, waiting till their +fathers and mothers are ready to go home, sipping from the glasses of +their elders, listening to the coarse language and degrading conversation, +catching the contagion of it, familiarising themselves with licentiousness +and debauchery. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Grundy rules as supremely over the workers as she does over +the bourgeoisie; but in the case of the workers, the one thing she does +not frown upon is the public-house. No disgrace or shame attaches +to it, nor to the young woman or girl who makes a practice of entering +it. +</p> + +<p> +I remember a girl in a coffee-house saying, “I never drink +spirits when in a public-’ouse.” She was a young and +pretty waitress, and she was laying down to another waitress her pre-eminent +respectability and discretion. Mrs. Grundy drew the line at spirits, +but allowed that it was quite proper for a clean young girl to drink +beer, and to go into a public-house to drink it. +</p> + +<p> +Not only is this beer unfit for the people to drink, but too often +the men and women are unfit to drink it. On the other hand, it +is their very unfitness that drives them to drink it. Ill-fed, +suffering from innutrition and the evil effects of overcrowding and +squalor, their constitutions develop a morbid craving for the drink, +just as the sickly stomach of the overstrung Manchester factory operative +hankers after excessive quantities of pickles and similar weird foods. +Unhealthy working and living engenders unhealthy appetites and desires. +Man cannot be worked worse than a horse is worked, and be housed and +fed as a pig is housed and fed, and at the same time have clean and +wholesome ideals and aspirations. +</p> + +<p> +As home-life vanishes, the public-house appears. Not only do +men and women abnormally crave drink, who are overworked, exhausted, +suffering from deranged stomachs and bad sanitation, and deadened by +the ugliness and monotony of existence, but the gregarious men and women +who have no home-life flee to the bright and clattering public-house +in a vain attempt to express their gregariousness. And when a +family is housed in one small room, home-life is impossible. +</p> + +<p> +A brief examination of such a dwelling will serve to bring to light +one important cause of drunkenness. Here the family arises in +the morning, dresses, and makes its toilet, father, mother, sons, and +daughters, and in the same room, shoulder to shoulder (for the room +is small), the wife and mother cooks the breakfast. And in the +same room, heavy and sickening with the exhalations of their packed +bodies throughout the night, that breakfast is eaten. The father +goes to work, the elder children go to school or into the street, and +the mother remains with her crawling, toddling youngsters to do her +housework—still in the same room. Here she washes the clothes, +filling the pent space with soapsuds and the smell of dirty clothes, +and overhead she hangs the wet linen to dry. +</p> + +<p> +Here, in the evening, amid the manifold smells of the day, the family +goes to its virtuous couch. That is to say, as many as possible +pile into the one bed (if bed they have), and the surplus turns in on +the floor. And this is the round of their existence, month after +month, year after year, for they never get a vacation save when they +are evicted. When a child dies, and some are always bound to die, +since fifty-five per cent. of the East End children die before they +are five years old, the body is laid out in the same room. And +if they are very poor, it is kept for some time until they can bury +it. During the day it lies on the bed; during the night, when +the living take the bed, the dead occupies the table, from which, in +the morning, when the dead is put back into the bed, they eat their +breakfast. Sometimes the body is placed on the shelf which serves +as a pantry for their food. Only a couple of weeks ago, an East +End woman was in trouble, because, in this fashion, being unable to +bury it, she had kept her dead child three weeks. +</p> + +<p> +Now such a room as I have described is not home but horror; and the +men and women who flee away from it to the public-house are to be pitied, +not blamed. There are 300,000 people, in London, divided into +families that live in single rooms, while there are 900,000 who are +illegally housed according to the Public Health Act of 1891—a +respectable recruiting-ground for the drink traffic. +</p> + +<p> +Then there are the insecurity of happiness, the precariousness of +existence, the well-founded fear of the future—potent factors +in driving people to drink. Wretchedness squirms for alleviation, +and in the public-house its pain is eased and forgetfulness is obtained. +It is unhealthy. Certainly it is, but everything else about their +lives is unhealthy, while this brings the oblivion that nothing else +in their lives can bring. It even exalts them, and makes them +feel that they are finer and better, though at the same time it drags +them down and makes them more beastly than ever. For the unfortunate +man or woman, it is a race between miseries that ends with death. +</p> + +<p> +It is of no avail to preach temperance and teetotalism to these people. +The drink habit may be the cause of many miseries; but it is, in turn, +the effect of other and prior miseries. The temperance advocates +may preach their hearts out over the evils of drink, but until the evils +that cause people to drink are abolished, drink and its evils will remain. +</p> + +<p> +Until the people who try to help realise this, their well-intentioned +efforts will be futile, and they will present a spectacle fit only to +set Olympus laughing. I have gone through an exhibition of Japanese +art, got up for the poor of Whitechapel with the idea of elevating them, +of begetting in them yearnings for the Beautiful and True and Good. +Granting (what is not so) that the poor folk are thus taught to know +and yearn after the Beautiful and True and Good, the foul facts of their +existence and the social law that dooms one in three to a public-charity +death, demonstrate that this knowledge and yearning will be only so +much of an added curse to them. They will have so much more to +forget than if they had never known and yearned. Did Destiny to-day +bind me down to the life of an East End slave for the rest of my years, +and did Destiny grant me but one wish, I should ask that I might forget +all about the Beautiful and True and Good; that I might forget all I +had learned from the open books, and forget the people I had known, +the things I had heard, and the lands I had seen. And if Destiny +didn’t grant it, I am pretty confident that I should get drunk +and forget it as often as possible. +</p> + +<p> +These people who try to help! Their college settlements, missions, +charities, and what not, are failures. In the nature of things +they cannot but be failures. They are wrongly, though sincerely, +conceived. They approach life through a misunderstanding of life, +these good folk. They do not understand the West End, yet they +come down to the East End as teachers and savants. They do not +understand the simple sociology of Christ, yet they come to the miserable +and the despised with the pomp of social redeemers. They have +worked faithfully, but beyond relieving an infinitesimal fraction of +misery and collecting a certain amount of data which might otherwise +have been more scientifically and less expensively collected, they have +achieved nothing. +</p> + +<p> +As some one has said, they do everything for the poor except get +off their backs. The very money they dribble out in their child’s +schemes has been wrung from the poor. They come from a race of +successful and predatory bipeds who stand between the worker and his +wages, and they try to tell the worker what he shall do with the pitiful +balance left to him. Of what use, in the name of God, is it to +establish nurseries for women workers, in which, for instance, a child +is taken while the mother makes violets in Islington at three farthings +a gross, when more children and violet-makers than they can cope with +are being born right along? This violet-maker handles each flower +four times, 576 handlings for three farthings, and in the day she handles +the flowers 6912 times for a wage of ninepence. She is being robbed. +Somebody is on her back, and a yearning for the Beautiful and True and +Good will not lighten her burden. They do nothing for her, these +dabblers; and what they do not do for the mother, undoes at night, when +the child comes home, all that they have done for the child in the day. +</p> + +<p> +And one and all, they join in teaching a fundamental lie. They +do not know it is a lie, but their ignorance does not make it more of +a truth. And the lie they preach is “thrift.” +An instant will demonstrate it. In overcrowded London, the struggle +for a chance to work is keen, and because of this struggle wages sink +to the lowest means of subsistence. To be thrifty means for a +worker to spend less than his income—in other words, to live on +less. This is equivalent to a lowering of the standard of living. +In the competition for a chance to work, the man with a lower standard +of living will underbid the man with a higher standard. And a +small group of such thrifty workers in any overcrowded industry will +permanently lower the wages of that industry. And the thrifty +ones will no longer be thrifty, for their income will have been reduced +till it balances their expenditure. +</p> + +<p> +In short, thrift negates thrift. If every worker in England +should heed the preachers of thrift and cut expenditure in half, the +condition of there being more men to work than there is work to do would +swiftly cut wages in half. And then none of the workers of England +would be thrifty, for they would be living up to their diminished incomes. +The short-sighted thrift-preachers would naturally be astounded at the +outcome. The measure of their failure would be precisely the measure +of the success of their propaganda. And, anyway, it is sheer bosh +and nonsense to preach thrift to the 1,800,000 London workers who are +divided into families which have a total income of less than 21s. per +week, one quarter to one half of which must be paid for rent. +</p> + +<p> +Concerning the futility of the people who try to help, I wish to +make one notable, noble exception, namely, the Dr. Barnardo Homes. +Dr. Barnardo is a child-catcher. First, he catches them when they +are young, before they are set, hardened, in the vicious social mould; +and then he sends them away to grow up and be formed in another and +better social mould. Up to date he has sent out of the country +13,340 boys, most of them to Canada, and not one in fifty has failed. +A splendid record, when it is considered that these lads are waifs and +strays, homeless and parentless, jerked out from the very bottom of +the Abyss, and forty-nine out of fifty of them made into men. +</p> + +<p> +Every twenty-four hours in the year Dr. Barnardo snatches nine waifs +from the streets; so the enormous field he has to work in may be comprehended. +The people who try to help have something to learn from him. He +does not play with palliatives. He traces social viciousness and +misery to their sources. He removes the progeny of the gutter-folk +from their pestilential environment, and gives them a healthy, wholesome +environment in which to be pressed and prodded and moulded into men. +</p> + +<p> +When the people who try to help cease their playing and dabbling +with day nurseries and Japanese art exhibits and go back and learn their +West End and the sociology of Christ, they will be in better shape to +buckle down to the work they ought to be doing in the world. And +if they do buckle down to the work, they will follow Dr. Barnardo’s +lead, only on a scale as large as the nation is large. They won’t +cram yearnings for the Beautiful, and True, and Good down the throat +of the woman making violets for three farthings a gross, but they will +make somebody get off her back and quit cramming himself till, like +the Romans, he must go to a bath and sweat it out. And to their +consternation, they will find that they will have to get off that woman’s +back themselves, as well as the backs of a few other women and children +they did not dream they were riding upon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /> +THE MANAGEMENT</h2> + +<p> +In this final chapter it were well to look at the Social Abyss in +its widest aspect, and to put certain questions to Civilisation, by +the answers to which Civilisation must stand or fall. For instance, +has Civilisation bettered the lot of man? “Man,” I +use in its democratic sense, meaning the average man. So the question +re-shapes itself: <i>Has Civilisation bettered the lot of the average +man</i>? +</p> + +<p> +Let us see. In Alaska, along the banks of the Yukon River, near its mouth, live +the Innuit folk. They are a very primitive people, manifesting but mere +glimmering adumbrations of that tremendous artifice, Civilisation. Their +capital amounts possibly to £2 per head. They hunt and fish for their +food with bone-headed spears and arrows. They never suffer from lack of +shelter. Their clothes, largely made from the skins of animals, are warm. They +always have fuel for their fires, likewise timber for their houses, which they +build partly underground, and in which they lie snugly during the periods of +intense cold. In the summer they live in tents, open to every breeze and cool. +They are healthy, and strong, and happy. Their one problem is food. They have +their times of plenty and times of famine. In good times they feast; in bad +times they die of starvation. But starvation, as a chronic condition, present +with a large number of them all the time, is a thing unknown. Further, they +have no debts. +</p> + +<p> +In the United Kingdom, on the rim of the Western Ocean, live the +English folk. They are a consummately civilised people. +Their capital amounts to at least £300 per head. They gain +their food, not by hunting and fishing, but by toil at colossal artifices. +For the most part, they suffer from lack of shelter. The greater +number of them are vilely housed, do not have enough fuel to keep them +warm, and are insufficiently clothed. A constant number never +have any houses at all, and sleep shelterless under the stars. +Many are to be found, winter and summer, shivering on the streets in +their rags. They have good times and bad. In good times +most of them manage to get enough to eat, in bad times they die of starvation. +They are dying now, they were dying yesterday and last year, they will +die to-morrow and next year, of starvation; for they, unlike the Innuit, +suffer from a chronic condition of starvation. There are 40,000,000 +of the English folk, and 939 out of every 1000 of them die in poverty, +while a constant army of 8,000,000 struggles on the ragged edge of starvation. +Further, each babe that is born, is born in debt to the sum of £22. +This is because of an artifice called the National Debt. +</p> + +<p> +In a fair comparison of the average Innuit and the average Englishman, +it will be seen that life is less rigorous for the Innuit; that while +the Innuit suffers only during bad times from starvation, the Englishman +suffers during good times as well; that no Innuit lacks fuel, clothing, +or housing, while the Englishman is in perpetual lack of these three +essentials. In this connection it is well to instance the judgment +of a man such as Huxley. From the knowledge gained as a medical +officer in the East End of London, and as a scientist pursuing investigations +among the most elemental savages, he concludes, “Were the alternative +presented to me, I would deliberately prefer the life of the savage +to that of those people of Christian London.” +</p> + +<p> +The creature comforts man enjoys are the products of man’s +labour. Since Civilisation has failed to give the average Englishman +food and shelter equal to that enjoyed by the Innuit, the question arises: +<i>Has Civilisation increased the producing power of the average man</i>? +If it has not increased man’s producing power, then Civilisation +cannot stand. +</p> + +<p> +But, it will be instantly admitted, Civilisation has increased man’s +producing power. Five men can produce bread for a thousand. +One man can produce cotton cloth for 250 people, woollens for 300, and +boots and shoes for 1000. Yet it has been shown throughout the +pages of this book that English folk by the millions do not receive +enough food, clothes, and boots. Then arises the third and inexorable +question: <i>If Civilisation has increased the producing power of the +average man, why has it not bettered the lot of the average man</i>? +</p> + +<p> +There can be one answer only—MISMANAGEMENT. Civilisation +has made possible all manner of creature comforts and heart’s +delights. In these the average Englishman does not participate. +If he shall be forever unable to participate, then Civilisation falls. +There is no reason for the continued existence of an artifice so avowed +a failure. But it is impossible that men should have reared this +tremendous artifice in vain. It stuns the intellect. To +acknowledge so crushing a defeat is to give the death-blow to striving +and progress. +</p> + +<p> +One other alternative, and one other only, presents itself. <i>Civilisation +must be compelled to better the lot of the average man</i>. This accepted, it +becomes at once a question of business management. Things profitable must be +continued; things unprofitable must be eliminated. Either the Empire is a +profit to England, or it is a loss. If it is a loss, it must be done away with. +If it is a profit, it must be managed so that the average man comes in for a +share of the profit. +</p> + +<p> +If the struggle for commercial supremacy is profitable, continue +it. If it is not, if it hurts the worker and makes his lot worse +than the lot of a savage, then fling foreign markets and industrial +empire overboard. For it is a patent fact that if 40,000,000 people, +aided by Civilisation, possess a greater individual producing power +than the Innuit, then those 40,000,000 people should enjoy more creature +comforts and heart’s delights than the Innuits enjoy. +</p> + +<p> +If the 400,000 English gentlemen, “of no occupation,” +according to their own statement in the Census of 1881, are unprofitable, +do away with them. Set them to work ploughing game preserves and +planting potatoes. If they are profitable, continue them by all +means, but let it be seen to that the average Englishman shares somewhat +in the profits they produce by working at no occupation. +</p> + +<p> +In short, society must be reorganised, and a capable management put +at the head. That the present management is incapable, there can +be no discussion. It has drained the United Kingdom of its life-blood. +It has enfeebled the stay-at-home folk till they are unable longer to +struggle in the van of the competing nations. It has built up +a West End and an East End as large as the Kingdom is large, in which +one end is riotous and rotten, the other end sickly and underfed. +</p> + +<p> +A vast empire is foundering on the hands of this incapable management. +And by empire is meant the political machinery which holds together +the English-speaking people of the world outside of the United States. +Nor is this charged in a pessimistic spirit. Blood empire is greater +than political empire, and the English of the New World and the Antipodes +are strong and vigorous as ever. But the political empire under +which they are nominally assembled is perishing. The political +machine known as the British Empire is running down. In the hands +of its management it is losing momentum every day. +</p> + +<p> +It is inevitable that this management, which has grossly and criminally +mismanaged, shall be swept away. Not only has it been wasteful +and inefficient, but it has misappropriated the funds. Every worn-out, +pasty-faced pauper, every blind man, every prison babe, every man, woman, +and child whose belly is gnawing with hunger pangs, is hungry because +the funds have been misappropriated by the management. +</p> + +<p> +Nor can one member of this managing class plead not guilty before +the judgment bar of Man. “The living in their houses, and +in their graves the dead,” are challenged by every babe that dies +of innutrition, by every girl that flees the sweater’s den to +the nightly promenade of Piccadilly, by every worked-out toiler that +plunges into the canal. The food this managing class eats, the +wine it drinks, the shows it makes, and the fine clothes it wears, are +challenged by eight million mouths which have never had enough to fill +them, and by twice eight million bodies which have never been sufficiently +clothed and housed. +</p> + +<p> +There can be no mistake. Civilisation has increased man’s +producing power an hundred-fold, and through mismanagement the men of +Civilisation live worse than the beasts, and have less to eat and wear +and protect them from the elements than the savage Innuit in a frigid +climate who lives to-day as he lived in the stone age ten thousand years +ago. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3>CHALLENGE</h3> + +<p class="poem"> +I have a vague remembrance<br /> + Of a story that is told<br /> +In some ancient Spanish legend<br /> + Or chronicle of old.<br /> +<br /> +It was when brave King Sanchez<br /> + Was before Zamora slain,<br /> +And his great besieging army<br /> + Lay encamped upon the plain.<br /> +<br /> +Don Diego de Ordenez<br /> + Sallied forth in front of all,<br /> +And shouted loud his challenge<br /> + To the warders on the wall.<br /> +<br /> +All the people of Zamora,<br /> + Both the born and the unborn,<br /> +As traitors did he challenge<br /> + With taunting words of scorn.<br /> +<br /> +The living in their houses,<br /> + And in their graves the dead,<br /> +And the waters in their rivers,<br /> + And their wine, and oil, and bread.<br /> +<br /> +There is a greater army<br /> + That besets us round with strife,<br /> +A starving, numberless army<br /> + At all the gates of life.<br /> +<br /> +The poverty-stricken millions<br /> + Who challenge our wine and bread,<br /> +And impeach us all as traitors,<br /> + Both the living and the dead.<br /> +<br /> +And whenever I sit at the banquet,<br /> + Where the feast and song are high,<br /> +Amid the mirth and music<br /> + I can hear that fearful cry.<br /> +<br /> +And hollow and haggard faces<br /> + Look into the lighted hall,<br /> +And wasted hands are extended<br /> + To catch the crumbs that fall.<br /> +<br /> +And within there is light and plenty,<br /> + And odours fill the air;<br /> +But without there is cold and darkness,<br /> + And hunger and despair.<br /> +<br /> +And there in the camp of famine,<br /> + In wind, and cold, and rain,<br /> +Christ, the great Lord of the Army,<br /> +vLies dead upon the plain. +</p> + +<p> +LONGFELLOW +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 1688-h.htm or 1688-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/8/1688/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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