textfiles/etext/FICTION/london-people-205.txt

                                      1905

                            THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS

                                 by Jack London

                        AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

  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.

  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.

  Following the summer in question came a hard winter. To such an
extent did the suffering and positive starvation increase that society
was unable to cope with it. 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 Independent,
briefly epitomizes the situation as follows:-

  '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.'

  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.

                                                         JACK LONDON.

                                                Piedmont, California.

                        CHAPTER ONE.

                        The Descent.

                Christ look upon us in this city,

                And keep our sympathy and pity

                  Fresh, and our faces heavenward,

                    Lest we grow hard.

                                    -THOMAS ASHE.

  '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 endeavoring to adjust themselves to the
psychological processes of a madman who had come to them with better
credentials than brains.

  '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.'

  'You don't want to live down there!' everybody said, with
disapprobation writ large upon their faces. 'Why, it is said there
places where a man's life isn't worth tu'pence.'

  'The very places I wish to see,' I broke in.

  'But you can't, you know,' was the unfailing rejoinder.

  '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.'

  '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.

  'Then I shall go to Cook's,' I announced.

  'Oh, yes,' they said, with relief. 'Cook's will be sure to know.'

  But O Cook, O Thomas Cook & Son, pathfinders 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!

  'You can't do it, you know,' said the human emporium of routes and
fares at Cook's Cheapside branch. 'It is so- ahem- so unusual.'

  'Consult the police,' he concluded authoritatively, when I
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.'

  '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.'

  'Ah, I see; should you be murdered, we would be in position to
identify the corpse.'

  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
would see the East End.

  '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.

  'That,' he said, 'is a matter for the consideration of the Chief
Office.'

  'It is so unprecedented, you know,' he added apologetically.

  The man at the Chief Office hemmed and hawed. 'We make it a rule,'
he explained, 'to give no information concerning our clients.'

  'But in this case,' I urged, 'it is the client who requests you to
give the information concerning himself.'

  Again he hemmed and hawed.

  'Of course,' I hastily anticipated, 'I know it is unprecedented,
but-'

  'As I was about to remark,' he went on steadily, 'it is
unprecedented, and I don't think we can do anything for you.'

  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.'

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Having built 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 gray-whiskered and eminently decorous
personage, who had imperturbably driven me for several hours about the
'City.'

  'Drive me down to the East End,' I ordered, taking my seat.

  'Where, sir?' he demanded with frank surprise.

  'To the East End, anywhere. Go on.'

  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.

  'I say,' he said, 'wot plyce yer wanter go?'

  'East End,' I repeated. 'Nowhere in particular. Just drive me
around, anywhere.'

  'But wot's the haddress, sir?'

  'See here!' I thundered. 'Drive me down to the East End, and at
once!'

  It was evident that he did not understand, but he withdrew his
head and grumblingly started his horse.

  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.

  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.

  'Stepney, sir; Stepney Station,' the cabby called down.

  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.

  'Well?' I said.

  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.'

  '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.'

  I could see that he was growing dubious of his fare, but not long
afterward he pulled up to the curb and informed me that an old clothes
shop was to be found a bit of the way back.

  'Won'tcher py me?' he pleaded. 'There's seven an' six owin' me.'

  'Yes,' I laughed, 'and it would be the last I'd see of you.'

  'Lord lumme, but it'll be the last I see of you if yer don't py me,'
he retorted.

  But a crowd of ragged onlookers had already gathered around the cab,
and I laughed again and walked back to the old clothes shop.

  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 bulldoze 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.

  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.

  '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.'

  '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!'

  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.

  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, apologizing profusely for his
insistence, and explaining that one ran across queer customers in
London Town.

  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, gray
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.

  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
moralized 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 did I in the ensuing twenty-four hours.

  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-by to my foreboding friends. As I passed out 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.'

  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 demeanor 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.

  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 pocketbook in a way that puts compound
interest to the blush.

  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.

  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, 'Buss or 'ansom, sir?' But now the query became, 'Walk or
ride?' Also, at the railway stations it was the rule to be asked,
'First or second, sir?' Now I was asked nothing, a third-class
ticket being shoved out to me as a matter of course.

  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, on 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.

  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.

                        CHAPTER TWO.

                       Johnny Upright.

       The people live in squalid dens, where there can be no

       health and no hope, but dogged discontent at their own

       lot, and futile discontent at the wealth which they see

       possessed by others.

                                             -THOROLD ROGERS.

  I SHALL NOT GIVE YOU the address of Johnny Upright. Let it suffice
that he lives on 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.

  Each house on this street, as on all the streets, is shoulder to
shoulder with its neighbors. 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-colored sky. But it must be
understood that this is East End opulence we are now considering. Some
of the people on 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.

  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.

  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 to
the contrary; in fact, I had come to see Johnny Upright on business
which might be profitable to him.

  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.

  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 neighborly
doorstep and waited.

  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.

  '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.'

  '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?'

  'That they do,' she answered, with an eloquent and expressive
glance; and thereupon ushered me into, not the kitchen, but the dining
room- a favor, I took it, in recompense for my grand manner.

  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 the sidewalk, and in this light I found that I was able
to read newspaper print.

  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 civilization.

  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.

  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 characterizes 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 color from a sunset sky.

  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.

  'Speak loud,' he interrupted my opening words. 'I've got a bad cold,
and I can't hear well.'

  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.

  'We are humble here,' he said, 'not given to the flesh, and you must
take us for what we are, in our humble way.'

  The girls were flushed and embarrassed at greeting me, while he
did not make it any the easier for them.

  '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!'

  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.

  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, on his own respectable
and opulent street, in a house as like to his own as a pea to its
mate.

                        CHAPTER THREE.

                   My Lodging and Some Others.

              The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand,

              Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand,

              Against an inward-opening door

              That pressure tightens evermore;

              They sigh a monstrous, foul-air sigh

              For the outside leagues of liberty,

              Where art, sweet lark, translates the sky

              Into a heavenly melody.

                                         -SIDNEY LANIER.

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  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.

  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 75 cents to $1.50 per week,
it is a fair conclusion that a lodger with references should obtain
floor space for, say from 15 to 25 cents. 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.

  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. Besides,
so beautiful is the adjustment of all things in this world, here in
East London it rains nearly every day, and, willy-nilly, our baths
would be on tap upon the street.

  True, the sanitation of the places I visited was wretched. From
the imperfect sewage and drainage, defective traps, poor
ventilation, dampness, and general foulness, I might expect my wife
and babies speedily to be attacked by diphtheria, croup, typhoid,
erysipelas, blood poisoning, bronchitis, pneumonia, consumption, and
various kindred disorders. Certainly the death-rate would be
exceedingly high. But observe again the beauty of the adjustment.
The most rational act for a poor man in East London with a large
family is to get rid of it; the conditions in East London are such
that they will get rid of the large family for him. Of course, there
is the chance that he may perish in the process. Adjustment is not
so apparent in this event; but it is there, somewhere, I am sure.
And when discovered it will prove to be a very beautiful and subtle
adjustment, or else the whole scheme goes awry and something is wrong.

  However, I rented no rooms, but returned to my own in Johnny
Upright's street. What with my wife, and babies, and lodgers, and
the various cubbyholes 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.

  '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 on this street are the only ones left. It's
shocking, sir!'

  And then she explained the process of saturation, by which the
rental value of a neighborhood went up while its tone went down.

  '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 is shocking, sir; and just to think, only a few years
ago all this neighborhood was just as nice as it could be.'

  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 neighborhood by neighborhood, 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.

  It is only a question of months when Johnny Upright's street must
go. He realizes it himself.

  '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!'

  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.

  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
semidetached villas, with bits of flower garden, and elbow room, and
breathing space. They inflate themselves with pride and throw 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.

                        CHAPTER FOUR.

                     A Man and the Abyss.

              After a momentary silence spake

              Some vessel of a more ungainly make;

              They sneer at me for leaning all awry:

              What! did the hand then of the Potter shake?

                                            -OMAR KHAYYAM.

  'I SAY, CAN YOU LET A LODGING?'

  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.

  'Oh, yus,' she answered shortly, my appearance possibly not
approximating the standard of affluence required by her house.

  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.

  'Yus, sir,' she at once volunteered; 'I 'ave nice lodgin's you'd
likely tyke a fancy to. Back from a voyage, sir?'

  'How much for a room?' I inquired, ignoring her curiosity.

  She looked me up and down with frank surprise. 'I don't let rooms,
not to my reg'lar lodgers, much less casuals.'

  'Then I'll have to look along a bit,' I said, with marked
disappointment.

  But the sight of my ten shillings had made her keen. 'I can let
you 'ave a nice bed in with two hother men,' she urged. 'Good
respectable men, an' steady.'

  'But I don't want to sleep with two other men,' I objected.

  'You don't 'ave to. There's three beds in the room, an' hit's not
a very small room.'

  'How much?' I demanded.

  '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 bin 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. 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.'

  'I suppose he's saving money right along,' I insinuated innocently.

  'Bless you, no! Nor can 'e do as well helsewhere with 'is money.'

  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.

  'How long have you been here?' I asked.

  'Thirteen years, sir; an' don't you think you'll fancy the lodgin'?'

  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, gray
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.

  'You'll be hin hagain to 'ave a look?' she questioned wistfully,
as I went out of the door.

  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.'

  I went back to her. 'Have you ever taken a vacation?' I asked.

  'Vycytion!'

  'A trip to the country for a couple of days, fresh air, a day off,
you know, a rest.'

  '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.

  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.

  'Hello, mate,' I greeted him, sparring for a beginning. 'Can you
tell me the way to Wapping?'

  'Worked yer way over on a cattle boat?' he countered, fixing my
nationality on the instant.

  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.

  'My mate, 'e cut up rough las' night,' he explained. 'An' the
bobbies got 'm, so you can bunk in wi' me. Wotcher say?'

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  'But women,' I suggested, when he had finished proclaiming booze the
sole end of existence.

  '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 'is 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 labor back of it all, an' no pay-day when you come out.'

  '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 around from the babies when they go
to bed, and the kettle singing and the long talk afterward 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-'

  '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-cryin' 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 fer me.'

  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.

  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.

  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 humor 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.

  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.

  It seemed sacrilege to waste such life, and yet I was forced to
confess that he was right in not marrying on four pound 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.

  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.

  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 grandparents were born in London is so remarkable a
specimen that he is rarely found.

  Mr. A. C. Pigou has said that the aged poor and the residuum which
compose the 'submerged tenth,' constitute 7 and 1/2 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.

                        SELF-NEGLECT

  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 35 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.

  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.

  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 so often degraded in
intellect as to be incapable of distinguishing their right from
their left hand, or of recognizing 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.'

  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?

                        CHAPTER FIVE.

                      Those on the Edge.

         I assure you I found nothing worse, nothing more

         degrading, nothing so hopeless, nothing nearly so

         intolerably dull and miserable as the life I left

         behind me in the East End of London.

                                                -HUXLEY.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 labor his father did, he is well on
the way to the shambles at the bottom of the Abyss.

  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.

  Leaving out the disease germs that fill the air of the East End,
consider but the one item of smoke. Sir William Thistleton-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 crystallized 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.

  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 3,000 London-born.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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!'

  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.

  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 and with two flounces,
for seven shillings a dozen! This is equal to $1.75 per dozen, or 14
3/4 cents per skirt.

  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.

  One daughter, the elder, had worked as green hand for a
dressmaker, for one shilling and sixpence per week- 37 1/2 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.

  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?

  As I write this, and for an hour past, the air had 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 clamor.

  Drunken women fighting! It is not nice to think of; it is far
worse to listen to. Something like this it runs:-

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Voices begin to go up the scale, something like this:-

  'Yes?'

  'Yes!'

  'Yes?'

  'Yes!'

  'Yes?'

  'Yes!'

  'Yes?'

  'Yes!'

  Sufficient affirmation on both sides, conflict again precipitated.
One combatant gets overwhelming advantage, and follows it up from
the way other combatant screams bloody murder. Bloody murder gurgles
and dies out, undoubtedly throttled by a strangle hold.

  Entrance of new voices; a flank attack; strangle hold suddenly
broken from way bloody murder goes up half an octave higher than
before; general hullaballoo, everybody fighting.

  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.

                        CHAPTER SIX.

           Frying-pan Alley and a Glimpse of Inferno.

            The beasts they hunger, and eat, and die,

            And so do we, and the world's a sty.

            'Swinehood hath no remedy,'

            Say many men, and hasten by.

                                     -SIDNEY LANIER.

  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.'

  And I, walking a 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.

  But up spoke my other companion, a man of twenty-eight who eked
out a precarious existence in a sweating den.

  '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 one hundred and forty pounds!'

  I was ashamed to tell him that I weighed one hundred and seventy, so
I contented myself with taking his measure. Poor misshapen little man!
His skin an unhealthy color, 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!

  'How tall are you?'

  'Five foot two,' he answered proudly; 'an' the chaps at the shop...'

  'Let me see that shop,' I said.

  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.

  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.

  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 in supplying 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.

  '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!'

  And, what of the coughing and the sweetmeats, I found another menace
added to the hostile environment of the children of the slum.

  My sweated friend, when work was to be had, toiled with four other
men in this eight-by-seven room. In winter a lamp burned nearly all
the day and added its fumes to the overloaded air, which was breathed,
and breathed, and breathed again.

  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!

  '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.'

  I looked. The teeth were worn down by the constant friction of the
metallic brads, while they were coal-black and rotten.

  'I clean my teeth,' he added, 'else they'd be worse.'

  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.

  'But how long does the rush season last, in which you receive this
high wage of thirty bob?' I asked.

  '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.

  I looked out of the window, which should have commanded the back
yards of the neighboring buildings. But there were no back yards,
or, rather, they were covered with one-story 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 stories. I
could make out fish and meat bones, garbage, pestilential rags, old
boots, broken earthenware, and all the general refuse of a human sty.

  '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.

  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.

  '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.

  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 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.

  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.

  We went up the narrow gravelled walk. On the benches on either
side was arrayed a mass of miserable and distorted humanity, the sight
of which would have impelled Dore 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.

  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 afterward that I
learned. It is a law of the powers that be that the homeless shall not
sleep by night. 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.

  'A lung of London,' I said; 'nay, an abscess, a great putrescent
sore.'

  'Oh, why did you bring me here?' demanded the burning young
socialist, his delicate face white with sickness of soul and stomach
sickness.

  'Those women there,' said our guide, 'will sell themselves for
thru'pence, or tu'pence, or a loaf of stale bread.'

  He said it with a cheerful sneer.

  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.'

                        CHAPTER SEVEN.

                 A Winner of the Victoria Cross.

      From out of the populous city men groan, and the soul

      of the wounded crieth out.

                                                     -JOB.

  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.

  For the benefit of gently nurtured and innocent folk, let me explain
what a casual ward is. It is a building where the homeless, bedless,
penniless man, if he be lucky, may casually rest his weary bones,
and then work like a navvy next day to pay for it.

  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.

  It was a most woful picture, men and women waiting in the cold
gray 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.'

  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-by 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. Woful it looked, this line of poor folk tottering
on the steep pitch to death; how woeful it was I did not dream.

  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':

     'By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel;

     By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal;

     By eyes grown old with staring through the sun-wash on the brine,

     I am paid in full for service....'

  How correct I was in my surmise, and how peculiarly appropriate
the verse was, you shall learn.

  '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 afterthought, and said regretfully and
resignedly.

  '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.'

  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.'

  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.

  Given encouragement, this is the story he told while waiting in line
at the workhouse after two nights of exposure in the streets.

  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 in 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.

  Then the thing happened. A little thing, if 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  Then came the court-martial, or whatever name a sea trial goes by.
He recited his sentence, word for word, as though memorized 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.

  '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.

  At last the door came in sight, through which the paupers were being
admitted in bunches. And here I learned a surprising thing: this being
Wednesday, none of us would be released till Friday morning.
Furthermore, and oh, you tobacco users, take heed: we would not be
permitted to take in any tobacco. This we would have to surrender as
we entered. Sometimes, I was told, it was returned on leaving, and
sometimes it was destroyed.

  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.

  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:

  'How many more do they want?'

  'Twenty-four,' came the answer.

  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.

  'Full up,' was what he said, as he banged the door.

  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.

  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.'

                        CHAPTER EIGHT.

                  The Carter and the Carpenter.

      It is not to die, nor even to die of hunger, that makes

      a man wretched. Many men have died; all men must die. But

      it is to live miserable, we know not why; to work sore, and

      yet gain nothing; to be heart-worn, weary, yet isolated,

      unrelated, girt in with a cold universal Laissez-faire.

                                                      -CARLYLE.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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?

  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.

  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 gray and ragged overcoat flapping mournfully in the
breeze, swung on in a long and tireless stride which reminded me
strongly of the plains 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.

  From the slimy sidewalk, they were picking up bits of orange peel,
apple skin, and grape stems, and they were eating them. The pips of
green gage plums they cracked between their teeth for the kernels
inside. They picked up stray crumbs 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.

  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.

  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 far 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.

  '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
morning' 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,
Spitalfields, was strong on me) 'an' get something to eat. An' there I
am! Old, down, an' no chance to get up.'

  'Used to be a toll-gate 'ere,' said the Carter. 'Many's the time
I've paid my toll 'ere in my cartin' days.'

  '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.

  'I ain't 'ad anything to-day,' said the Carter. 'An' I'm fagged out.
My legs is hurtin' me something fearful.'

  '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.'

  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.

  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.

  'Milk and sugar, I suppose, and a silver spoon?' I queried.

  '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.'

  'You do get good skilly at 'Ackney,' said the Carter.

  'Oh, wonderful skilly, that,' praised the Carpenter, and each looked
eloquently at the other.

  'Flour an' water at St. George's in the East,' said the Carter.

  The Carpenter nodded. He had tried them all.

  'Then what?' I demanded.

  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.'

  ''Tisn't always six ounces,' corrected the Carter.

  ''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.'

  'I could eat three other men's portions,' said the Carter. 'I
'aven't 'ad a bit this blessed day.'

  'Then what?'

  '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.'

  '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.'

  '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.

  '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.'

  '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.'

  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-colored sky, the wind blowing cheerless and cold, we
stood, with our pitiful little bundles in our hands, a forlorn group
at the workhouse door.

  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 honor do gray hairs go down to the
grave in London Town.

  On one side the door was a bell handle, on the other side a press
button.

  'Ring the bell,' said the Carter to me.

  And just as I ordinarily would at anybody's door, I pulled out the
handle and rang a peal.

  'Oh! Oh!' they cried in one terrified voice. 'Not so 'ard!'

  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.

  'Press the button,' I said to the Carpenter.

  'No, no, wait a bit,' the Carter hurriedly interposed.

  From all of which I drew the conclusion that a poorhouse porter, who
commonly draws a yearly salary of from thirty to forty dollars, is a
very finicky and important personage, and cannot be treated too
fastidiously by paupers.

  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 and 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 for the coming of the porter.

  He came. He barely looked at us. 'Full up,' he said, and shut the
door.

  'Another night of it,' groaned the Carpenter. In the dim light the
Carter looked wan and gray.

  Indiscriminate charity is vicious, say the professional
philanthropists. Well, I resolved to be vicious.

  'Come on; get your knife out and come here,' I said to the Carter,
drawing him into a dark alley.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  'What will you have?' I asked, as the waiter came for the order.

  'Two slices an' a cup of tea,' meekly said the Carter.

  'Two slices an' a cup of tea,' meekly said the Carpenter.

  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.

  This was the same degraded humility that had characterized their
attitude toward the poorhouse porter. But I wouldn't have it. Step
by step I increased their orders,- 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.

  'First cup o' tea I've 'ad in a fortnight,' said the Carter.

  'Wonderful tea, that,' said the Carpenter.

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  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.

  '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.'

  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.

  '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.'

  '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.'

  '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.

  'I've gone three days and never broke my fast,' said the Carter.

  '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.'

  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.

  One last incident, as I bade them good-by 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.

  'It's wrong to waste,' said he.

  'Yes,' I said, but I was thinking of the washboard ribs over which I
had run my hand.

                        CHAPTER NINE.

                         The Spike.

       The old Spartans had a wiser method; and went out

       and hunted down their Helots, and speared and spitted

       them, when they grew too numerous. With our improved

       fashions of hunting, now after the invention of firearms

       and standing armies, how much easier were such a hunt!

       Perhaps in the most thickly peopled country, some three

       days annually might suffice to shoot all the able-bodied

       paupers that had accumulated within the year.

                                                  -CARLYLE.

  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.

  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 20, 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.'

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  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.

  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.

  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.

  '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.'

  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.

  But the men in the line were not all of this caliber. 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.

  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 weatherworn bonnet on her gray 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.

  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.

  '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.'

  '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.'

  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.

  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.

  'If you ain't got tins an' cookin' things, all as you can get'll
be bread and cheese. No bloody 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.

  Again the old woman nodded and beamed, this time with the dead
certainty that he would find a blanket before long.

  '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.'

  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 gray hairs, and ahead into the future ten years,
and wondered how it would be with them.

  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.

  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
neighborhood. 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  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.

  'I met a "towny," and he stood me too good a dinner,' I explained.

  'An' I 'aven't 'ad a bite since yesterday mornin',' he replied.

  'How about tobacco?' I asked. 'Will the bloke bother with a fellow
now?'

  'Oh, no,' he answered me. 'No bloody fear. This is the easiest spike
goin'. Y'oughto see some of them. Search you to the skin.'

  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.

  'What does he say?' I asked.

  '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'
[sixpence].

  A roar of applause greeted the time-honored yarn, and from somewhere
over in the deeper darkness came another voice, orating angrily:-

  '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.'

  'There's mugs never go out of Kent,' spoke a second voice, 'an' they
live bloomin' fat all along.'

  '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.'

  '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.'

  A general chorus verified this statement.

  'But they're bloody clever, them chaps,' said an admiring voice.

  '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.'

  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.'

  '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. Wintertime, 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.'

  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
realize it, though only in a vague way; while it is so much the common
run of things that they do not worry about it.

  '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.

  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 quite certain that the twenty-two of us washed
in the same water.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  '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.

  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.

  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.

  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 wagon 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.'

  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.

  '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.'

  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.

  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.

  'Come on, let's sling it,' I said to one of my mates, pointing
toward the open gate through which the dead wagon had come.

  'An' get fourteen days?'

  'No; get away.'

  'Aw, I come 'ere for a rest,' he said complacently. 'An' another
night's kip won't 'urt me none.'

  They were all of this opinion, so I was forced to 'sling it' alone.

  'You cawn't ever come back 'ere again for a doss,' they warned me.

  'No bloody fear,' said I, with an enthusiasm they could not
comprehend; and, dodging out the gate, I sped down the street.

  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.

                        CHAPTER TEN.

                     Carrying the Banner.

       I would not have the laborer sacrificed to the

       result. I would not have the laborer sacrificed to

       my convenience and pride, nor to that of a great

       class of such as me. Let there be worse cotton and

       better men. The weaver should not be bereaved of

       his superiority to his work.

                                           -EMERSON.

  '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.

  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;
and though I suffered, it was a mere nothing compared with carrying
the banner for a night, ill-fed, ill-clad, and soaking wet.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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!'

  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.

  'Come on,' I said. 'Let's climb over and get a good sleep.'

  'Wot?' he answered, recoiling from me. 'An' get run in fer three
months! Blimey if I do!'

  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.

  'Let's go over the fence,' I proposed, 'and crawl into the shrubbery
for a sleep. The bobbies couldn't find us there.'

  'No fear,' he answered. 'There's the park guardians, and they'd
run you in for six months.'

  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 doubtlessly 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.

  '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, w'en 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?"'

  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.

  And now I wish to criticize the powers that be. They are the powers,
therefore they may decree whatever they please; so I make bold only to
criticize 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?

  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.

  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.

                        CHAPTER ELEVEN.

                           The Peg.

       And I believe that this claim for a healthy body for

       all of us carries with it all other due claims; for

       who knows where the seeds of disease, which even rich

       people suffer from, were first sown? From the luxury of

       an ancestor, perhaps; yet often, I suspect, from his poverty.

                                                 -WILLIAM MORRIS.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  And then came the policeman. 'Get outa that, you bloody 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!'

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  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 street, and along the
Embankment, and the possession of them was not a matter of merit,
but of chance.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 far finer than sheer
filthiness.

  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 that hat.

  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.

  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-by.

  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.'

  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, or 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.'

  Well, he looked at us in just that way, and those nearest to him
quailed. Then he lifted his voice.

  'Stop this 'ere, now, or I'll turn you the other wy, an' march you
out, an' you'll get no breakfast.'

  I cannot convey by printed speech the insufferable way in which he
said this, the self-consciousness of superiority, the brutal
gluttony of power. He revelled 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.'

  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, a foul blow,
struck below the belt. 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
the 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, and glared ferociously.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  'I want to go,' I said to a couple of waking men near me.

  'Got ter sty fer the service,' was the answer.

  'Do you want to stay?' I asked.

  They shook their heads.

  'Then let us go up and tell them we want to get out,' I continued.
'Come on.'

  But the poor creatures were aghast. So I left them to their fate,
and went up to the nearest Salvation Army man.

  '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.'

  He was really a good fellow, though he was startled by my request.
'Why,' he said, 'we're goin' to 'old services, and you'd better sty.'

  'But that will spoil my chances for work,' I urged. 'And work is the
most important thing for me just now.'

  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.

  'But it cawn't be done,' he said, waxing virtuously indignant at
such ingratitude. 'The idea!' he snorted. 'The idea!'

  'Do you mean to say that I can't get out of here?' I demanded. 'That
you will keep me here against my will?'

  'Yes,' he snorted.

  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.

  '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.'

  'You 'ave business, eh?' he sneered. 'A man of business you are, eh?
Then wot did you come 'ere for?'

  'I was out all night, and I needed a breakfast in order to
strengthen me to find work. That is why I came here.'

  '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.'

  Which was a lie, for every mother's son of us had come in.

  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.

  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.'

  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.

  'Didn't you know you had to stay for services?' he asked.

  '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.'

  He meditated a moment. 'You can go,' he said.

  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.

  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.

                        CHAPTER TWELVE.

                        Coronation Day.

                   O thou that sea-walls sever

                   From lands unwalled by seas!

                   Wilt thou endure forever,

                   O Milton's England, these?

                   Thou that wast his Republic,

                   Wilt thou clasp their knees?

                   These royalties rust-eaten,

                   These worm-corroded lies

                   That keep thy head storm-beaten,

                   And sun-like strength of eyes

                   From the open air and heaven

                   Of intercepted skies!

                                        -SWINBURNE.

  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.

  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 forty 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.

  I saw it at Trafalgar Square, 'the most splendid site in Europe,'
and the very uttermost 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 blue-jackets.
Eastward, at the entrance to the square, stood the Royal Marine
Artillery. In the triangle of Pall Mall and Cockspur, the statue of
George Ill 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
charges, 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
case of need.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.'

    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.

    And Samuel told all the words of the Lord unto the people that
asked of him a king, and he said:

    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.

    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.

    And he will take your daughters to be confectionaries, and to be
cooks, and to be bakers.

    And he will take your fields, and your vineyards, and your
oliveyards, even the best of them, and give them to his servants.

    And he will take a tenth of your seed, and of your vineyards,
and give to his officers, and to his servants.

    And he will take your menservants, and your maidservants, and your
goodliest young men, and your asses, and put them to his work.

    He will take a tenth of your flocks; and ye shall be his servants.

    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.

  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 and David came Solomon, 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.'

  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, which is thirty-two per cent of the
total wealth produced by all the toilers of the country.

  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:

    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.

  Whereupon, being girded, he gave heed to the Archbishop's
exhortation:

    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.

  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, Malthias 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.

  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,
Straits Settlements, 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.

  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.

  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 fairlyand, than to believe it the performance of sane
and sensible people who have mastered matter, and solved the secrets
of the stars.

  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 favorite song of the Coronation:

           Oh! on Coronation Day, on Coronation Day,

     We'll have a spree, a jubilee, and shout, Hip, hip, hooray,

     For we'll all be merry, drinking whiskey, wine, and sherry.

              We'll be merry on Coronation Day.

  The rain is pouring down in torrents. 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 slish, slish, 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.

  'And how did you like the procession, mate?' I asked an old man on a
bench in Green Park.

  ''Ow did I like it? A bloody 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 'ungry 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.'

  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.

  As night drew on, the city became a blaze of light. Splashes of
color, green, amber, and ruby, caught the eye at every point, and
'E. R.,' in great cut-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:

       Yew aw the enny, ennyseckle, Oi em ther bee,

       Oi'd like ter sip ther enny from those red lips, yew see.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 labor,
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.

  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.

  ''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.'

  'But your belly is empty,' I said.

  '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.'

  'I know wot you are,' said the girl, 'an Eyetalian.'

  'No 'e ayn't,' the man cried heatedly. ''E's a Yank, that's wot 'e
is. I know.'

  '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:

           Oh! on Coronation D'y, on Coronation D'y,

     We'll 'ave a spree, a jubilee, an' shout 'Ip, 'ip, 'ooray.

     For we'll all be merry, drinkin' whiskey, wine, and sherry,

              We'll be merry on Coronation D'y.

  ''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.'

  'I'm Irish,' she said, in answer to a question. 'My nyme's
Eyethorne.'

  'What?' I asked.

  'Eyethorne, sir; Eyethorne.'

  'Spell it.'

  'H-a-y-t-h-o-r-n-e, Eyethorne.'

  'Oh,' I said, 'Irish Cockney.'

  'Yes, sir, London-born.'

  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.'

  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.

  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.

  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.

  'What do you expect to do in the end?' I asked them. 'You know
you're growing older every day.'

  'Work'ouse,' said he.

  '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.

  'After you have been out all night in the streets,' I asked, 'what
do you do in the morning for something to eat?'

  '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.'

  'But I don't see how that is to feed you,' I objected.

  The pair smiled knowingly.

  '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.'

  'It's s'prisin', the food wot some people leaves,' the woman broke
in.

  'The thing,' said the man judicially, as the trick dawned upon me,
'is to get 'old o' the penny.'

  As we started to leave, Miss Haythorne gathered up a couple of
crusts from the neighboring tables and thrust them somewhere into
her rags.

  'Cawn't wyste 'em, you know,' said she, to which the docker
nodded, tucking away a couple of crusts himself.

  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.

  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':

    There are that remove the landmarks; they violently take away
flocks and feed them.

    They drive away the ass of the fatherless, they take the widow's
ox for a pledge.

    They turn the needy out of the way; the poor of the earth hide
themselves together.

    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.

    They cut their provender in the field, and they glean the
vintage of the wicked.

    They lie all night naked without clothing, and have no covering in
the cold.

    They are wet with the showers of the mountains, and embrace the
rock for want of a shelter.

    There are that pluck the fatherless from the breast, and take a
pledge of the poor.

    So that they go about naked without clothing, and being an
hungered they carry the sheaves.- Job xxiv. 2-10.

  Seven and twenty centuries agone! And it is all as true and apposite
to-day in the innermost centre of this Christian civilization
whereof Edward VII is king.

                        CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

                       Dan Cullen, Docker.

                 Life scarce can tread majestically

                 Foul court and fever-stricken alley.

                                       -THOMAS ASHE.

  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.

  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 a bed-bug, with which vermin the building swarmed, a plague with
which no person could cope single-handed.

  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 a man he was. On the walls were cheap pictures of Garibaldi,
Engels, Dan Burns, and other labor 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.

  On the table, amidst a wonderful disarray, lay a sheet of paper on
which was scrawled: Mr. Cullen, please return the large white jug
and corkscrew I lent you,- articles loaned, during the first stages of
his sickness, by a woman neighbor, 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.

  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 labor journals.

  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.

  A docker is a casual laborer. 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.

  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.

  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, grayish-black with dirt.
And they brought to him one of the Queen's Bounty nurses from Aldgate.

  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 Docker's 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.

  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 a
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.

  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 laborer 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.

  '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.'

  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.

  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 stanch friend, the cobbler, moved heaven and earth
to have him admitted.

  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 have died who might have been wise and was not, this I call a
tragedy.'

                        CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

                        Hops and Hoppers.

            Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

            Where wealth accumulates and men decay:

            Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade,

            A breath can make them, as a breath is made;

            But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

            When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

                                             -GOLDSMITH.

  SO FAR HAS THE DIVORCEMENT of the worker from the soil proceeded,
that the farming districts, the civilized 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.

  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.

  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 far 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.

  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.

  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:

           TRAMPS PLENTIFUL, BUT THE HOPS ARE FEW

                   AND NOT YET READY.

  Then there have been numberless paragraphs like this:

  From the neighborhood 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.

  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.

  'We ayn't crossin'-sweepers,' they said, turning away from the
ground, carpeted ankle-deep with hops.

  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.

  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.

  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 Leney calculates his loss at L8000;' 'Mr. Fremlin, of
brewery fame, who rents all the land in this parish, loses L10,000;'
and 'Mr. Leney, the Wateringbury brewer, brother to Mr. Herbert Leney,
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 L10,000
lost by Mr. Fremlin. And in addition, underfed William Buggles'
tragedy might be multiplied by thousands where Mr. Fremlin's could not
be multiplied by five.

  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.

  Nor was he to be blamed. When we stopped in a tavern the publican
eyed us gingerly, nor did his demeanor brighten till we flashed the
color of our cash. The natives along the road 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.

  '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.

  'Do you twig?' Bert whispered. 'She's on to you.'

  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.

  'Can yer give us a job, governor?' Bert asked the bailiff, a
kindly faced and elderly man who was very busy.

  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.

  'No bad conduct, mind ye,' warned the bailiff, as he left us at work
in the midst of the women.

  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.

  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.

  'Don'tcher pick too clean, it's against the rules,' one of the women
informed us; and we took the tip and were grateful.

  As the afternoon wore along, we realized 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.

  'I say, matey, I'm beastly hungry,' said I to Bert. We had not had
any dinner.

  'Blimey, but I could eat the 'ops,' he replied.

  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
neighbors. 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.

  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.

  After all, it was pleasant sitting there in the bright sunshine, the
golden pollen showering from our hands, the pungent, aromatic odor
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 forebears 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.

  'No more 'ops, matey,' Bert complained.

  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.

  Five bushels! We worked it out to eight pence ha'penny, or seventeen
cents, for two men working three hours and a half. Eight and
one-half cents apiece, a rate of two and three-sevenths cents per
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.

  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 2/3 per cent justice to our stomachs, we would
expend the sixpence, and our stomachs would still be gnawing under
83 1/3 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). 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-

  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.

                        CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

                         The Sea Wife.

     These stupid peasants, who, throughout the world, hold

     potentates on their thrones, make statesmen illustrious,

     provide generals with lasting victories, all with ignorance,

     indifference, or half-witted hatred, moving the world with

     the strength of their arms, and getting their heads knocked

     together in the name of God, the king, or the stock exchange-

     immortal, dreaming, hopeless asses, who surrender their reason

     to the care of a shining puppet, and persuade some toy to carry

     their lives in his purse.

                                               -STEPHEN CRANE.

  YOU MIGHT NOT EXPECT TO FIND the Sea Wife in the heart of Kent,
but that is where I found her, on 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.

  And as I talked to them, all the subtleties and complexities of this
tremendous machine civilization 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
wander-lust 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 colonize to the ends of the
earth.

  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 laborer, 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.

  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
colored lithograph alongside looked down a stout and elderly lady,
with underneath: 'Our Queen- Diamond jubilee.'

  'What you earn is sweetest,' quoth Mrs. Mugridge, when I suggested
that it was about time they took a rest.

  'No, an' we don't want help,' said Thomas Mugridge, in reply to my
question as to whether the children lent them a hand.

  'We'll work till we dry up and blow away, mother an' me,' he
added; and Mrs. Mugridge nodded her head in vigorous indorsement.

  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.

  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.

  They passed me a photograph. A trim young fellow in soldier's garb
looked out at me.

  'And which son is this?' I asked.

  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.

         There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,

           And a wealthy wife is she;

         She breeds a breed o' rovin' men

           And casts them over sea.

         And some are drowned in deep water,

           And some in sight of shore;

         And word goes back to the weary wife,

           And ever she sends more.

  But the Sea Wife's childbearing 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.

  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.

  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 anaemic 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.

                        CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

                     Property versus Person.

         The rights of property have been so much extended

         that the rights of the community have almost

         altogether disappeared, and it is hardly too much

         to say that the prosperity and the comfort and the

         liberties of a great proportion of the population

         has been laid at the feet of a small number of

         proprietors, who neither toil nor spin.

                                      -JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

  IN A CIVILIZATION 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.

  The following illustrative cases are culled from the police court
reports for a single week:

  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.

  Glasgow Queen's Park Police Court. Before Bailie Norman Thompson.
John Kane pleaded guilty to assaulting his wife. There were five
previous convictions. Fined L2 2s.

  Taunton County Petty Sessions. John Painter, a big, burly fellow,
described as a laborer, charged with assaulting his wife. The woman
received two severe black eyes, and her face was badly swollen.
Fined L1 8s. including costs, and bound over to keep the peace.

  Widnes Police Court. Richard Bestwick and George Hunt, charged
with trespassing in search of game. Hunt fined L1 and costs,
Bestwick L2 and costs; in default one month.

  Shaftesbury Police Court. Before the Mayor (Mr. A. T. Carpenter).
Thomas Baker, charged with sleeping out. Fourteen days.

  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.

  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 L2 and costs, or one month.

  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 L1.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Dundee Sheriff Court. Before Hon. Sheriff substitute R. C. Walker.
John Murray, Donald Craig, and James Parkes, charged with poaching.
Craig and Parkes fined L1 each or fourteen days; Murray L5 or one
month.

  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.

  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.

  Horncastle Police Court. Before the Rev. W. P. Massingberd, the Rev.
J. Graham, and Mr. N. Lucas Calcraft. George Brackenbury, a young
laborer, convicted of what the magistrates characterized as an
altogether unprovoked and brutal assault upon James Sargeant Foster, a
man over seventy years of age. Fined L1 and 5s. 6d. costs.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 L1 17s. 4d., and Allen L2 17s. 4d., including
costs; the former committed for fourteen days and the latter for one
month in default of payment.

  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.

  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 labor.

                        CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

                          Inefficiency.

     I'd rather die on the high road under the open blue. I'd

     rather starve to death in the sweet air, or drown in the

     brave, salt sea, or have one fierce glad hour of battle,

     and then a bullet, than lead the life of a brute in a

     stinking hell, and gasp out my broken breath at last on

     a pauper's pallet.

                                            -ROBERT BLATCHFORD.

  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.

  'But 'ow about this 'ere cheap immigration?' one of them demanded.
'The Jews of Whitechapel, say, a-cuttin' our throats right along?'

  '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.'

  'But 'ow about the wife an' kiddies?' his interlocutor demanded.

  '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 labor 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.'

  'But wyges don't come down where there's a union,' the objection was
made.

  'And there you are again, right on the head. The union checks
competition among the laborers, but makes it harder where there are no
unions. There's where your cheap labor 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.'

  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 labor disputes and strikes, is taken
advantage of by the unemployed, who gladly pick up the tools thrown
down by the strikers.

  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.'

  It is a matter of sober calculation, here in England, that it is
softer to work for twenty shillings ($5) 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 hundred-weight 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 labor than do the capitalistic employers. The
wage for the same amount of labor, performed for a private employer,
would buy them better beds, better food, more good cheer, and, above
all, greater freedom.

  As I say, it is an extravagance for a man to patronize 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.

  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.

  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. The mortality is excessive, but, even then,
they die far too lingering deaths.

  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 laborer, 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.

  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.

  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:

  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.

  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 L25. They didn't reckon that as compensation; they said
it was only for charity's sake. Out of that I paid L9 for a machine by
which to wheel myself about.

  I was laboring 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.

  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.

  It must be understood that efficiency is not determined by the
workers themselves, but is determined by the demand for labor. 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 labor
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.

  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.

                        CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

                             Wages.

                Some sell their lives for bread;

                  Some sell their souls for gold;

                Some seek the river bed;

                  Some seek the workhouse mold.

                Such is proud England's sway,

                  Where wealth may work its will;

                White flesh is cheap to-day,

                  White souls are cheaper still.

                                      -FANTASIAS.

  WHEN I LEARNED THAT IN Lesser London there were 1,292,737 people who
received 21 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 21 shillings equivalent to $5.25, though actually, 21
shillings are equivalent to about $5.11.

           Rent ............................ $1.50

           Bread ............................ 1.00

           Meat .............................. .87 1/2

           Vegetables ........................ .62 1/2

           Coals ............................. .25

           Tea ............................... .18

           Oil ............................... .16

           Sugar ............................. .18

           Milk .............................. .12

           Soap .............................. .08

           Butter ............................ .20

           Firewood .......................... .08

                    Total .................. $5.25

  An analysis of one item alone will show how little room there is for
waste. Bread, $l: for a family of five, for seven days, one dollar's
worth of bread will give each a daily ration of 2 6/7th cents; and
if they eat three meals a day, each may consume per meal 9 1/2
mills' worth of bread, a little less than one cent's worth. 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.

  While the table given above will permit no extravagance, no
overloading of stomachs, it will be noticed that there is no
surplus. The whole $5.25 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 buses 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.

  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 9 cents to each person; and that 9 cents cannot be
lessened by buying clothes without impairing the physical efficiency.

  All of which is hard enough. But the thing happens; the husband
and father breaks his leg or his neck. No 9 cents a day per mouth
for food is coming in; no 9 1/2 mills' worth of bread per meal; and,
at the end of the week, no $1.50 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 endeavor to hold the family together on
the 10 shillings she may possibly be able to earn.

  While in Lesser London there are 1,292,737 people who receive 21
shillings or less a week per family, it must be remembered that we
have investigated a family of five living on a 21-shillings basis.
There are larger families, there are many families that live on less
than 21 shillings, and there is much irregular employment. The
question naturally arises, How do they live? The answer is that they
do not live. They do not know what life is. They drag out a
subter-bestial existence until mercifully released by death.

  Before descending to the fouler depths, let the case of the
telegraph 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
$2.75. If she be quick and clever, she may, at the end of five
years, attain a maximum wage of $5.00. Recently a table of such a
girl's weekly expenditure was furnished to Lord Londonderry. Here it
is:

           Rent, fire, and light ........... $1.87 1/2

           Board at home ..................... .87 1/2

           Board at the office .............. 1.12 1/2

           Street car fare ................... .37 1/2

           Laundry ........................... .25

                   Total ................... $4.50

  This leaves nothing for clothes, recreation, or sickness. And yet
many of the girls are receiving, not $4.50, but $2.75, $3, and $3.50
per week. They must have clothes and recreation, and-

                 Man to Man so oft injust,

                 Is always so to Woman.

  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 favor of it. When 514,000 workers oppose a resolution
prohibiting child-labor 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.

  I have spoken with women in Whitechapel who receive right along less
than 25 cents 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 75 cents to $1.

  A case recently cropped up of men, in the employ of a wealthy
business house, receiving their board and $1.50 per week for six
working days of sixteen hours each. The sandwich men get 27 cents
per day and find themselves. The average weekly earnings of the
hawkers and costermongers are not more than $2.50 to $3. The average
all common laborers, outside the dockers, is less than $4 per week,
while the dockers average from $2 to $2.25. These figures are taken
from a royal commission report and are authentic.

  Conceive of an old woman, broken and dying, supporting herself and
four children, and paying 75 cents per week rent, by making match
boxes at 4 1/2 cents per gross. Twelve dozen boxes for 4 1/2 cents,
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 31 1/2 cents. In the week of
ninety-eight hours' work, she made 7066 match boxes, and earned $2. 20
1/2, less her paste and thread.

  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:

  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.

  Imagine a woman, capable of writing such a clear, sensible,
grammatical letter, supporting her husband and self on 5 shillings
($1.25) 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.

  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
$1.25 a week rent. Here are the last items in her housekeeping
account: Tea, 1 cent; sugar, 1 cent; bread, 1/2 cent; margarine, 2
cents; oil, 3 cents; and firewood, 1 cent. 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.

                        CHAPTER NINETEEN.

                           The Ghetto.

  Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the time,

  City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?

  There among the gloomy alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,

  Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street;

  There the master scrimps his haggard seamstress of her daily bread;

  There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead;

  There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,

  And the crowded couch of incest, in the warrens of the poor.

                                                          -TENNYSON.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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 poor and very poor. It is
of interest to mark what he terms poor. By poor he means families
which have a total weekly income of from $4.50 to $5.25. The very poor
fall greatly below this standard.

  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 towards 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:

  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.

  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.

  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. 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.'

  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
gray 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.'

  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.'

  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.

  Bishop Wilkinson, who has lived in Zululand, recently said, 'No
headman 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.

  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.

  '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.

  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 laborer comes in. At seven in the
morning he vacates, and goes to his work, at which time she returns
from hers.

  The Rev. W. N. Davies, rector of Spitalfields, took a census of some
of the alleys in his parish. He says:

  In one alley there are 10 houses- 51 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 6 houses and 22 rooms were 84 people- again, 6,
7, 8, and 9 being the number living in one room, in several instances.
In one house with 8 rooms are 45 people- one room containing 9
persons, one 8, two 7, and another 6.

  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 $1.00 to $1.50 per week for one room, while skilled
mechanics, earning $8.75 per week, are forced to part with $3.75 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 $3.25 to $4.50; in another street from $2.75 to $4;
and in another street, from $2.75 to $3.75; while in Whitechapel,
two-room houses that recently rented for $2.50 are now costing
$5.25. East, west, north, and south, the rents are going up. When land
is worth from $100,000 to $150,000 an acre, some one must pay the
landlord.

  Mr. W. C. Steadman, in the House of Commons, in a speech
concerning his constituency in Stepney, related the following:

  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 14 shillings per week. She gets her living by letting the
house to lodgers and doing a day's washing or charing. That woman,
with tears in her eyes, told me that the landlord had increased the
rent from 14 shillings to 18 shillings. What could the woman do? There
is no accommodation in Stepney. Every place is taken up and
overcrowded.

  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 anaemic, with eyes ringed darkly, who
stoop and slouch, and are early twisted out of all shapeliness and
beauty.

  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 vigor
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.'

  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.

  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 the 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 breadwinner, 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.

  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.

  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 overwrought and
addle-pated. Frederick Harrison has always struck me as being a
level-headed, well-controlled man, and he says:

  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 of 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.

  Ninety per cent! The figures are appalling, yet the Rev. Stopford
Brooke, after drawing a frightful London picture, finds himself
compelled to multiply it by half a million. Here it is:

  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 laborer 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 labor, to get
on. But the time came when the common was encroached upon, and their
labor 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. Multiply this
by half a million, and you will be beneath the truth.

  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 color of
life is gray 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 odors 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. In brief, a
vast and complacent dirtiness obtains, which could be done away with
by nothing short of a Vesuvius or Mount Pelee.

  Here lives a population as dull and unimaginative as its long gray
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.

  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.'

  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 'hoes.' The traditional silent
and reserved Englishman has passed away. The pavement folk are
noisy, voluble, highstrung, 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 dewdrops, quick-vanishing before the ferocious
facts of life.

  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. Brutalized, 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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY.

                 Coffee-houses and Doss-houses.

  Why should we be packed, head and tail, like canned sardines?

                                            -ROBERT BLATCHFORD.

  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.

  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.

  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. Tablecloths and napkins are
unknown. A man eats in the midst of the debris 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.

  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.

  A pint of tea, kipper (or bloater), and 'two slices' (bread and
butter) are a very good breakfast for a London workman. I have
looked in vain for him to order a five-penny or six-penny steak (the
cheapest to be had); while, when I ordered one for myself, I have
usually had to wait till the proprietor could send out to the
nearest butchershop and buy one.

  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 laborer I have eaten a breakfast
for twelvepence such as the British laborer 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.

  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.* His standard of living has been rising all the time.

  * The San Francisco bricklayer receives twenty shillings per day,
and at present is on strike for twenty-four shillings.

  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!'

  Not only is the worker poorly fed, but he is filthily fed. I have
stood outside a butchershop 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 bulldozed 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.

  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.

  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 taste
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.

  A little incident comes to me, connected with a coffee-house not far
from Jubilee Street on the Mile End Road.

  '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...'

  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
care-worn woman of forty, proprietress and waitress of the house.

  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.

  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:

  '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.'

  'You must be getting along in years,' I suggested.

  'Seventy-four yesterday,' she replied, and returned with gusto to
her plate.

  '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.'

  '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.'

  One meets with all sorts of adventures in coffee-houses, 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.)

  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.

  'Where'd you find it?' she at length demanded.

  'Some mug left it on the table when he went out, eh, don't you
think?' I retorted.

  'Wot's yer gyme?' she queried, looking me calmly in the eyes.

  'I makes 'em,' quoth I.

  She sniffed superciliously and gave me the change in small silver,
and I had my revenge by biting and ringing every piece of it.

  'I'll give you ha'penny for another lump of sugar in the tea,' I
said.

  'I'll see you in 'ell first,' came the retort courteous. Also, she
amplified the retort courteous in divers vivid and unprintable ways.

  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.

  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 nothing 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.

  '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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  From the kitchen came the sounds of more genial life, and I ventured
in to 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.

  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.

  But no more than the two cellar rooms, did this room convey the
remotest suggestion of home. Certainly there could be nothing homelike
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.

  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
neighbors 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.

  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, sweetheart, 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.

  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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

                     The Precariousness of Life.

         What do you work at? You look ill.

         It's me lungs. I make sulphuric acid.

         You are a salt-cake man?

         Yes.

         Is it hard work?

         It is damned hard work.

         Why do you work at such a slavish trade?

         I am married. I have children. Am I to starve and let them?

         Why do you lead this life?

         I am married. There's a terrible lot of men out of work in

           St. Helen's.

         What do you call hard work?

         My work. You come and heave them three-hundred-weight lumps

           with a fifty-pound bar, in that heat at the furnace door,

           and try it.

         I will not. I am a philosopher.

         Oh! Well, thee stick to t' job. Ours is t' vary devil.

                -From interviews with workmen by ROBERT BLATCHFORD.

  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?'

  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 worsen '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.'

  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 the 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 cooperating in the pursuit of food and shelter.

  The figures are appalling; 1,800,000 people in London live on the
poverty line and below it, and another 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.

  It is interesting to go more into detail concerning the London
people who die on charity. 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:

    Out of 81,951 deaths in London (1884)-

      In workhouses ............................. 9,909

      In hospitals .............................. 6,559

      In lunatic asylums .......................... 278

          Total in public refuges .............. 16,746

  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 labor class
must of course be still larger.'

  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: 'Clerk wanted, with knowledge of shorthand,
typewriting, and invoicing; wages ten shillings ($2.50) a week.
Apply by letter,' etc. And in today'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 labor.

  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
($5.00) 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, $5.00, 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.

  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. A father indignantly writes that
his daughter and a girl companion receive 17 cents per gross for
making boxes. They made each day four gross. Their expenses were 16
cents for carfare, 4 cents for stamps, 5 cents for glue, and 2 cents
for string, so that all they earned between them was 42 cents, or a
daily wage each of 21 cents. 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, 4 1/2
cents each. For that price she had to provide plait trimmings and make
and finish the hats.'

  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.

  Sir A. Forwood calculates that,

    1 of every 1400 workmen is killed annually.

    1 of every 2500 workmen is totally disabled.

    1 of every -300 workmen is permanently partially disabled.

    1 of every ---8 workmen is temporarily disabled 3 or 4 weeks.

  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 civilized 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.

  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- his
was a mere fifty per cent bagatelle mortality.

  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:

  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, as flowers and plants were
susceptible to the unwholesome surroundings, and would not live.

  Mr. George Haw has compiled the following table on the three St.
George's parishes (London parishes):

                                   Percentage of         Death Rate

                                    Population            per 1000

                                   Overcrowded

    St. George's West ............... 10                     13.2

    St. George's South .............. 35                     23.7

    St. George's East ............... 40                     26.4

  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 laborers, picked from the strongest and
most splendidly built men to be found, live, on an average, less
than forty-eight years.

  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.'

  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:

  Here, after a varying degree of exposure, she becomes anaemic. 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.
Coincidentally 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 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.

  And here are a few specific cases of white lead poisoning:

  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.

  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.

  Mary A., an unusually vigorous woman, was able to work in the lead
factory for twenty years, 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.

  Eliza H., aged twenty-five, after five months 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.

  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.'

  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.

  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 undescribable, 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 Docker's
Union, wherein it is stated that many of the men, for months past,
have not averaged a weekly income of more than $1.00 to $1.25. The
stagnated state of the shipping industry in the port of London is held
accountable for this condition of affairs.

  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 favorably 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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

                              Suicide.

      England is the paradise of the rich, the purgatory of the wise,

      and the hell of the poor.

                                                   -THEODORE PARKER.

  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.

  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 courtroom, 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.

  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 labor, 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.

  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 care-worn and
boyish still.

  '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.'

  The magistrate complimented the woman on her muscular powers, and
the courtroom 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.

  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.

  'Anything to say?' the magistrate demanded abruptly.

  The boy in the dock mumbled something indistinctly. He was still
dazed.

  'What does he say, constable?' the magistrate asked impatiently.

  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.'

  '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.

  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. Sykes, chairman of Stalybridge
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.
Sykes. 'Why did you not get under the water and make an end of it,
instead of giving us all this trouble and bother?'

  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.

  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. Verdict: Suicide during
temporary insanity.

  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.

  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.

  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 had
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.

  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.

  From one issue of the Observer, an East End paper, I quote the
following commonplace events:

  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.

  Timothy Warner, thirty-two, was remanded for a similar offence. He
jumped off Limehouse Pier, and when rescued, said, 'I intended to do
it.'

  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.

  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.

  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.

  '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 gray suit, and wearing no collar.'

  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 neighbors unite in testifying that he was a
gentle and affectionate husband and father.

  His wife, Hannah Cavilla, was a big, handsome, light-hearted
woman. She saw to it that his children were sent neat and clean (the
neighbors 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.

  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.

  This occurred eighteen months ago. For eighteen months he fought the
big fight. He got rooms in a little house on 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.

  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.

  Frank Cavilla stood in court, dressed in a much worn gray 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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

                            The Children.

               Where home is a hovel, and dull we grovel,

                 Forgetting the world is fair.

  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.

  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 color, and very often they betray
a startling beauty of face and form under their filth and rags.

  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.

  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.

  As to the manner in which this is done, I have in previous
chapters described at length; here let Professor Huxley describe in
brief: '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 la
misere, 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.'

  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.

             Dull despair and misery

             Lie about them from their birth;

             Ugly curses, uglier mirth,

             Are their earliest lullaby.

  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 the woman whose body the police found
this morning in a doorway on 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
vender. She died as a wild animal dies.

  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.

  '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.'

  'If I 'ad arsked 'er, I'd got locked up for beggin',' was the
boy's reply.

  The magistrate knitted his brows and accepted the rebuke. Nobody
knew the boy, nor his father or mother. He was without beginning or
antecedents, 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.

  The people who try to help gather up the Ghetto children and send
them away on a day's outing to the country. They 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.'

  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.

  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.

  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.'

  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.'

  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.

  But there is 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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

                       A Vision of the Night.

        All these were years ago little red-colored, pulpy infants,

        capable of being kneaded, baked, into any social form you

        chose.

                                                          -CARLYLE.

  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.

  It is rather hard to tell a tithe of what I saw. Much of it is
untellable. 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 was 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.

  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 favor, 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.

  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?'

  But they were not the only beasts that ranged the menagerie. They
were only here and there, lurking in dark courts and passing like gray
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 tousled, leering and
gibbering, overspilling with foulness and corruption, and, gone in
debauch, sprawling across benches and bars, unspeakably repulsive,
fearful to look upon.

  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 tu'pence 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.

  The unfit and the unneeded! Industry does not clamor 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.

  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
labor. If this is the best that civilization 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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

                         The Hunger Wail.

          I hold, if the Almighty had ever made a set of

          men to do all of the eating and none of the work,

          he would have made them with mouths only, and no

          hands; and if he had ever made another set that he

          had intended should do all the work and none of

          the eating, he would have made them without mouths

          and with all hands.

                                          -ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

  MY FATHER HAS MORE STAMINA than I, for he is country-born.'

  The speaker, a bright young East Ender, was lamenting his poor
physical development.

  '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.

  '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.

  '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.'

  '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.'

  '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.'

  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 $60 per month, per family; and a
constant army of 8,000,000 lives on the border of starvation.

  A committee of the London County school board makes this
declaration: 'At times, (when there is no special distress), 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 parentheses 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.

  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 most
prevalent in poor districts, and poverty accelerates this dreadful
affliction.'

  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 army of six million 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:

         Breakfast- 3/4 pint of skilly and dry bread.

         Dinner-... 3 oz. meat.

                    1 slice of bread.

                    1/2 lb. potatoes.

         Supper-... 3/4 pint of skilly and dry bread.

  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: '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 warden 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 recognized 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.'

  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.

     PAUPER                 DIET                SOLDIER

    3 1/4 oz.               Meat                 12 oz.

   15 1/2 oz.               Bread                24 oz.

    6.... oz.             Vegetables              8 oz.

  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.'

  Here is a table, comparing the workhouse pauper's weekly allowance
with the workhouse officer's weekly allowance.

     OFFICER                DIET                  PAUPER

      7 lb.                 Bread                6 3/4 lb.

      5 lb.                 Meat                1 lb. 2 oz.

     12 oz.                 Bacon                2 1/2 oz.

      8 oz.                Cheese                  2 oz.

      7 lb.               Potatoes               1 1/2 lb.

      6 lb.              Vegetables                none

      1 lb.                 Flour                  none

      2 oz.                 Lard                   none

     12 oz.                Butter                  7 oz.

      none              Rice pudding               1 lb.

  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 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?'

  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 laborer 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:

                                                 (shillings) (pence)

    Bread (5 quarterns) ............................. 1        10

    Flour (1/2 gallon) .............................. 0         4

    Tea (1/4 lb.) ................................... 0         6

    Butter (1 lb.) .................................. 1         3

    Lard (1 lb.) .................................... 0         6

    Sugar (6 lb.) ................................... 1         0

    Bacon or other meat (about 4 lb.) ............... 2         8

    Cheese (1 lb.) .................................. 0         8

    Milk (half-tin condensed) ....................... 0         3 1/4

    Oil, candles, blue, soap, salt, pepper, etc. .... 1         0

    Coal ............................................ 1         6

    Beer ............................................    none

    Tobacco .........................................    none

    Insurance ('Prudential') ........................ 0         3

    Laborer's Union ................................. 0         1

    Wood, tools, dispensary, etc. ................... 0         6

    Insurance ('Foresters') and margin for clothes .. 1         1 3/4

                 Total ............................. 13s.       0d.

  The guardians of the workhouse in the above Union pride themselves
on their rigid economy. It costs per pauper per week:

                                                      s.       d.

    Men ............................................. 6       1 1/2

    Women ........................................... 5       6 1/2

    Children ........................................ 5       1 1/4

  If the laborer whose budget has been described, should quit his toil
and go into the workhouse, he would cost the guardians for

                                                     s.        d.

    Himself ......................................... 6       1 1/2

    Wife ............................................ 5       6 1/2

    Two children ................................... 10       2 1/2

                 Total ............................. 21s.    10 1/2d.

                                            Or, roughly, $5.46

  It would require $5.46 for the workhouse to care for him and his
family, which he, somehow, manages to do on $3.25. 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.

  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.

  This must be understood, and understood clearly: Whatever is true of
London in the way of poverty and degradation, is true of all
England. 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
decentralization 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
decentralized but not diminished. The sum of it would remain as large.

  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.

  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,
an' I want the Day av judgment."'

  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?

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

                   Drink, Temperance, and Thrift.

         Sometimes the poor are praised for being thrifty.

         But to recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque

         and insulting. It is like advising a man who is

         starving to eat less. For a town or country laborer to

         practice thrift would be absolutely immoral. Man

         should not be ready to show that he can live like a

         badly-fed animal.

                                                 -OSCAR WILDE.

  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.

  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, familiarizing themselves
with licentiousness and debauchery.

  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.

  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 preeminent
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.

  Not only is this beer unfit for the people to drink it, 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 over-strung 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.

  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.

  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 on to 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.

  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 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Until the people who try to help, realize 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, demonstrates 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 of as possible.

  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.

  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 eighteen
cents. 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.

  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 instance 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.

  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 $5.25 per week, one-quarter to one-half of which must be
paid for rent.

  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.

  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.

  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.

                        CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

                          The Management.

          Seven men working sixteen hours could produce food

          by best improved machinery to support one thousand men.

                                               -EDWARD ATKINSON.

  IN THIS FINAL CHAPTER IT were well to look at the Social Abyss in
its widest aspect, and to put certain questions to Civilization, by
the answers to which Civilization must stand or fall. For instance,
has Civilization bettered the lot of man? 'Man' I use in its
democratic sense, meaning the average man. So the question reshapes
itself: Has Civilization bettered the lot of the average man?

  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, Civilization. Their capital amounts possibly to $10 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.

  In the United Kingdom, on the rim of the Western Ocean, live the
English folk. They are a consummately civilized people. Their
capital amounts to at least $1500 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 $110.
This is because of an artifice called the National Debt.

  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.'

  The creature comforts man enjoys are the products of man's labor.
Since Civilization has failed to give the average Englishman food
and shelter equal to that enjoyed by the Innuit, the question
arises: Has Civilization increased the producing power of the
average man? If it has not increased man's producing power, then
Civilization cannot stand.

  But, it will be instantly admitted, Civilization 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:
If Civilization has increased the producing power of the average
man, why has it not bettered the lot of the average man?

  There can be one answer only- MISMANAGEMENT. Civilization 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 Civilization 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.

  One other alternative, and one other only, presents itself.
Civilization must be compelled to better the lot of the average man.
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.

  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 Civilization, 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.

  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.

  In short, society must be reorganized, 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.

  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.

  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.

  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 show 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.

  There can be no mistake. Civilization has increased man's
producing power an hundred fold, and through mismanagement the men
of Civilization 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 today as he lived in the stone age ten
thousand years ago.

                             THE END
.