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Only a few doors away we happened on a slum tragedy. We stood in
a queer little house of one room up and one down stairs. Let me
picture the scene! A widow was seated at her machine sewing
white buckskin children's boots. Time, five o'clock in the
afternoon; she had sat there for many hours, and would continue
to sit till night was far advanced.
Suddenly a girl of twelve burst in and threw herself into her
mother's arms, crying, "Oh, mother, mother, I have lost the
scholarship! Oh, mother, the French was too hard for me!" To
our surprise the mother seemed intensely relieved, and said,
"Thank God for that!"
But the girl wept! After a time we inquired, and found that the
girl, having passed the seventh standard at an elementary school,
had been attending a higher grade school, where she had been
entered for a competitive examination at a good class secondary
school. If she obtained it, the widow would have been compelled
to sign an agreement for the girl to remain at school for at
least three years. But the widow was practically starving,
although working fourteen hours daily. Verily, the conflict of
duties forms the tragedy of everyday life. The widow was saved
by the advanced French; poor mother and poor girl!
By and by the girl was comforted as we held the prospective of a
bright future before her, and got her to talk of her studies; she
recited for us a scene from AS YOU LIKE IT, and also Portia's
speech, "The quality of mercy is not strained."
Standing near was a boy of not more than ten years, who looked as
if he would like to recite for us, and I asked him what standard
he was in. "The sixth, sir." "And do you like English
Literature?" He did not answer the question exactly, but said,
"I know the 'Deserted Village,' by Oliver Goldsmith."
"Where was the 'Deserted Village'?" "Sweet Auburn was supposed
to be in Ireland, but it is thought that some of the scenes are
taken from English villages."
"Can you give us the 'Village Schoolmaster'?" And he did, with
point and emphasis. "Now for the 'Village Parson.'" His memory
did not fail or trip, and the widow sat there machining; so we
turned to her for more information, and found that she was a
Leicester woman, and her parents Scots; she had been a boot
machinist from her youth.
Her husband was a "clicker" from Stafford; he had been dead eight
years. She was left with four children. She had another
daughter of fourteen who had done brilliantly at school, having
obtained many distinctions, and at twelve years had passed her
"Oxford Local." This girl had picked up typewriting herself, and
as she was good at figures and a splendid writer, she obtained a
junior clerk's place in the City at seven shillings and sixpence
per week. Every day this girl walked to and from her business,
and every day the poor widow managed to find her fourpence that
the girl might have a lunch in London City.
I felt interested in this girl, so I wrote asking her to come to
lunch with me on a certain day. She came with a book in her
hand, one of George Eliot's, one of her many prizes. A fourpenny
lunch may be conducive to high thinking, may even lead to an
appreciation of great novels: it certainly leaves plenty of time
for the improvement of the mind, though it does not do much for
nourishing the body. I found her exceedingly interesting and
intelligent, with some knowledge of "political economy," well up
in advanced arithmetic, and quite capable of discussing the books
she had read. Yet the family had been born in an apology of a
house, they had graduated in the slums, but not in the gutter.
Their widowed mother had worked interminable hours and starved as
she worked, but no attendance officer had ever been required to
compel her children to school. It would have taken force to keep
them away. But what of their future? Who can say? But of one
thing I am very sure, and it is this: that, given fair
opportunity, the whole family will adorn any station of life that
they may be called to fill.
But will they have that opportunity? Well, the friend that was
with me says they will, and he has commissioned me to act for
him, promising me that if I am taken first and he is left, the
cultured family of the slums shall not go uncared for. And
amidst the sordid life of our mean streets, there are numbers of
brilliant children whose God-given talents not only run to waste,
but are actually turned into evil for lack of opportunity.
Here and there one and another rise superior to their
environment, and with splendid perseverance fight their way to
higher and better life. And some of them rise to eminence, for
genius is not rare even in Slumdom.
One of our greatest artists, lately dead, whose work all
civilisation delights to honour, played in a slum gutter, and
climbed a lamp-post that he might get a furtive look into a
school of art.
All honour and good wishes to the rising young, but all glory to
the half-starved widows who shape their characters and form their
tastes. To the old shoemaker good wishes; may the small pension
that a friend of mine has settled on him add to his comfort and
his health, may his beloved minor poets with Dickens and
Shakespeare long be dear to him, and may his poor little home
long continue to be peopled with bright creations that defy the
almost omnipotent power of the underworld.
If any who may read these words would like to do a kind action
that will not be void of good results and sure reward, I would
say lend a helping hand to some poor family where, in spite of
their poverty and surroundings, the children are clean and
intelligent, and have made progress at school. For they are just
needing a hand, it may be to help with their education, or it may
be to give them a suitable start in life. If the mother happens
to be a widow, you cannot do wrong.
If one half of the money that is spent trying to help unhelpable
people was spent in helping the kind of families I refer to in
the manner I describe, the results would be surprising.
If there is any difficulty in finding such families, I would say
apply to the head mistress or master of a big school in a poor
neighbourhood, they can find them for you. If they cannot, why
then I will from among my self-supporting widow friends.
But do not, I beseech you, apply to the clergyman of the parish,
for he will naturally select some poor family to whom he has
charitably acted the part of relieving officer. Remember it is
brains and grit that you are in search of, and not poor people
only.
If in every neighbourhood a few people would band themselves
together for this purpose and spend money for this one charitable
purpose, it would of itself, and in reasonable time, effect
mighty results. Believe me, there is plenty of brain power and
grit in the underworld that never gets a chance of developing in
a useful direction. Boys and girls possessing such talents are
doomed, unless a miracle happens, for they have to start in life
anyhow and anywhere.
Nothing is of more importance than a correct start in life for
any boy or girl; but a false start, a bad beginning for the
children of the very poor who happen to possess brain power is
fatal. Their talents get no chance, for they are never used,
consequently they atrophy, or, worse still, are used in a wrong
direction and possibly for evil. Good is changed into evil,
bright and useful life is frustrated, and the State loses the
useful power and influence that should result from brains and
grit.
How can my widow friends, who are unceasingly at work, have
either the time, opportunity or knowledge to find proper openings
for their children? The few shillings that a boy or girl can
earn at anything, or anyhow that is honest, are a great
temptation. The commencement dominates the future! Prospective
advantage must needs give place to present requirements.
So we all lose! The upperworld loses the children's gifts,
character and service. The underworld retains their poor service
for life.
"It is better," said Milton, "to kill a man than a book." Which
may be true, but probably the truth depends upon the quality of
the man and the book. But what about killing mind, soul, heart,
aspirations and every quality that goes to make up a man? "Their
angels do always behold the face of my Father"; yes, but we
compel them to withdraw that gaze, and look contentedly into the
face of evil.
I am now pleading for the gifted boys and girls of the
underworld, not the weaklings, for of them I speak elsewhere.
But I will say, that while the weaklings are the more hopeless,
it is the talented that are the most dangerous. Let us see to it
that their powers have some chance of developing in a right
direction. When by some extraordinary concurrence of
circumstances a Council School boy passes on to a university and
takes a good degree, it is chronicled all over the world; the
school, the teacher, the boy and his parents are all held up for
show and admiration. I declare it makes me ill! Why? Because I
know that in the underworld thousands of men are grubbing,
burrowing and grovelling who, as boys, possessed phenomenal
abilities, but whose parents were poor, so poor that their gifted
children had no chance of developing the talent that was in them.
Let us give them a chance! Sometimes here and there one and
another bursts his bonds, and, rejoicing in his freedom, does
brilliant things. But in spite of Samuel Smiles and his self-
help they are but few, though, if the centuries are searched, the
catalogue will be impressive enough.
Of course there must be self-help. But there must be opportunity
also. There is a great deal of talk about the children of the
poor being "over-educated," and the delinquencies of the youthful
poor are attributed to this bogy. It is because they are under-
educated, not over-educated, that the children of the very poor
so often go wrong.
But the attempt to cast them all in the same mould is disastrous;
there is an over-education going on in this direction. Not all
the children of the poor can be great scholars, but some of them
can! Let us give them a chance. Not all of them can be
scientists and engineers, etc., but some of them have talents for
such things! Give them a chance! A good many of them have
unmistakably artistic gifts! Why not give them a chance too!
And the mechanically inclined should have a chance! Why can we
not differentiate according to their tastes and gifts?
For even then we shall have enough left to be our hewers of wood
and carriers of water; an abundance will remain to do all the
work that requires neither brains nor gifts.
But let us stop at once and for ever trying to cram thick heads
and poor brains with stuff that cannot possibly be appreciated or
understood. Let us teach their mechanical fingers to do
something useful, and give them, even the degenerates, some
chance!
And we must stop our blind alley occupation for growing lads, for
at the end of the alley stands an open door to the netherworld,
and through it youthful life passes with little prospect of
return.
CHAPTER X
PLAY IN THE UNDERWORLD
It may seem a strange thing, but children do play in the
underworld. They have their own games and their times and
seasons too!
Yet no one can watch them as they play without experiencing
feelings more or less pathetic. There is something incongruous
about it that may cause a smile, but there is also something that
will probably cause a tear.
For their playgrounds are the gutters or the pavements. Happy
are the children when they can procure a spacious pavement, for
in the underworld wide pavements are scarce; still narrow
pavements and gutters are always to hand.
It is summer time, the holidays have come! No longer the hum,
babble and shouts of children are heard in and around those huge
buildings, the County Council schools.
The sun pours its rays into the unclean streets, the thermometer
registers eighty in the shade. Down from the top storey and
other storeys of the blocks the children come, happy in the
consciousness that for one month at least they will be free from
school, without dodging the school attendance officer.
"Hop-scotch" season has commenced, and as if by magic the
pavements of the narrow streets are covered with chalked lines,
geometrical figures and numerals, and the mysterious word "tod"
confronts you, stares at you, and puzzles you.
Who can understand the intricacies of "hop-scotch" or the
fascination of "tod"? None but the girls of the underworld.
Simple pleasures please them--a level pavement, a piece of chalk,
a "pitcher," the sun overhead, dirt around, a few companions and
non-troublesome babies, are their chief requirements; for few of
these girls come out to play without the eternal baby.
Notice first, if you will, how deftly these foster-mothers handle
the babies; their very method tells of long-continued practice.
What slaves these girls are! But they have brought the baby's
feeding-bottle, and also that other fearsome indispensable of
underworld infant life, "the comforter."
They are going to make a day of it, a mad and merry day, for they
have with them some pieces of bread and margarine to sustain them
in the toil of nursing and the exhaustion of "hop-scotch."
The "pitcher" is produced, and we notice how punctiliously each
girl takes her proper turn and starts from the correct place; we
notice also the dilapidated condition of their boots, that act as
golf clubs and propel the "pitcher." We wonder how with such
boots, curled and twisted to every conceivable shape, they can
strike the "pitcher" at all. There is some skill in "hop-scotch"
played as these girls play it, and with their "boots" too!
A one-legged game is "hop-scotch," for the left foot must be held
clear of the pavement, and the "pitcher" must be propelled with
the right foot as the girl "hops."
If she hops too high and misses it, she is "out"; if she strikes
too hard, and it travels beyond one of the boundaries, she is
"out" too; if she does not propel it far enough, again "out."
Why, of course there is skill and fascination in it, for it
combines the virtues of golf and baseball, and "tod" is quite as
good as a football goal. And there is good fellowship and self-
denial going on, too; not quite every girl, thank Heaven, is
hampered or blessed with a baby, and we notice how cheerfully
they take their turn in nursing while the foster-mother arrives
at "tod."
The substitute, too, understands the use of the "comforter," for
should it roll in the dirty gutter she promptly returns it to its
proper place, the baby's mouth. Untidy, slatternly girls, not
over-clean, not over-dressed, and certainly not over-fed, we
leave them to their play and their babies.
Here are a lot of half-naked boys, some standing, some sitting on
the hot pavement; they are playing "cherry hog"; why "hog" I
don't know! Their requisites are a pocketful of cherry stones
and a small screw, not an expensive outfit, for they save the
"hogs" when they are permitted to eat cherries, as sometimes, by
the indulgence of a kindly fruiterer, they are, for he kindly
throws all his rotten or unsaleable fruit into the gutter.
If these are not to hand, there are plenty of "hogs" to be picked
up. As to the little screw, well, it is easy to get one or steal
one.
The advantage of a screw is that it possesses a flat end, on
which it will stand erect. In this position it is delicately
placed so that when struck by a cherry "hog" it falls. Each boy
in turn throws a certain number of "hogs" at the screw, the
successful thrower gathers in the spoil and goes home with his
pocket bursting with cherry "hogs."
It's an exciting game, but it is gambling nevertheless; why do
not the police interfere?
Here are some boys playing "buttons"--gambling again! This game
is good practice, too, and a capital introduction to that famous
game of youthful capitalists, "pitch and toss," for it is played
in precisely the same way, only that buttons take the place of
half-pennies.
The road, gutter or pavement will do for "buttons"; a small mark
or "jack" is agreed upon, a line is drawn at a certain distance;
alternately the lads pitch their buttons towards the "jack,"
three buttons each. When all have "pitched," the boy whose
button is nearest the "jack" has first toss, that is, he collects
all the pitched buttons in his hand and tosses them; as the
buttons lie again on the ground the lads eagerly scan them, for
the buttons that lie with their convex side upwards are the spoil
of the first "tosser." The remaining buttons are collected by
the second, who tosses, and then collects his spoil, and so on
till the buttons are all lost and won. The boy whose buttons are
farthest from "jack" of course gets the last and least
opportunity. When playing for halfpence, "heads or tails" is the
deciding factor.
Why, you say, of course it is a game of skill, just as much as
bowls or quoits; but there are also elements of luck about "pitch
and toss" which gives it an increased attraction.
Sunday in the underworld is the great day for "pitch and toss,"
for many boys have halfpence on that day. They have been at work
during the week, and, having commenced work, their Sunday-school
days are at an end. And having a few halfpence they can indulge
their long-continued and fervent hope of discarding "buttons" and
playing the man by using halfpence.
But how they enjoy it! how intent they are upon it. Sunday
morning will turn to midday, and midday to evening before they
are tired of it! Meal times, or the substitute for meal times,
pass, and they remain at it! always supposing their halfpence
last, and the police do not interfere, the latter being the most
likely.
It takes an interminably long time to dispossess a lad of six
halfpence at this game; fortune is not so fickle as may be
supposed. The unskilled "pitcher" may have luck in "tossing,"
while the successful "pitcher" may be an unlucky "tosser." If at
the end of a long day they come off pretty equal, they have had
an ideal day.
But they have had their ups and downs, their alternations of joy
and despair. Sometimes a boy may win a penny; if so, it is
evident that another boy has lost one, and this is sad, though I
expect they lose more coppers to the police than they do to their
companions, for the police harry them and hunt them. Special
constables are put on to detect them, and they know the favourite
resorts of the incipient gamblers. They hunt in couples, too,
and they enter the little unclean street at each end.
Now for the supreme excitement; they are observed by the watchful
eye of a non-player, who is copperless. There is a rush for the
halfpence, some of which the non-player secures. There's a
scamper, but there is no escape; the police bag them, and
innocent boys who join in the scamper are bagged too. The police
search the ground for halfpence, find a few which they carefully
pack in paper, that they may retain some signs of dirt upon them,
for this will be invaluable legal evidence on the morrow. There
is a procession of police, prisoners and gleeful lads who are not
in custody to the nearest police-station.
On Monday they stand in the dock, when the police with the
halfpence and the dirt still upon them give evidence against
them.
One worthy magistrate will ask them why they were not at home or
school. Another will sternly admonish them upon the evils of
street gambling. A third will tell them that it would have paid
them better in health and pocket to have taken a country walk.
But all agree on one point, "that this street gambling must be
put down," and they "put it down," or attempt to do so, by fining
the young ragamuffins five shillings each.
The excitement of the cells then awaits them, to be followed by a
free ride in "Black Maria," unless "muvver" can pawn something
and raise the money, But many mothers cannot do this, others do
not trouble; as to "farver," well, he does not come in at all,
unless it is to give a "licking" to the boy when he comes out of
prison for losing his job and his wages.
Truly, the play of the underworld children is exciting enough:
there is danger attaching to it; perhaps that gives a piquancy to
it.
The fascination of "pitch and toss" is felt not only all over
England, where it holds undisputed sway, for it has no real
rival, but in America too! Whilst in America last summer I
explored the mean streets of New York, and not far from the
Bowery I found lots of lads at the game. It was Sunday morning,
too, and having some "nickels," I played several games with them.
I was but a poor pitcher, the coins were too light for me--
perhaps I could do better with solid English pennies--but what I
lost in pitching I gained in tossing, so I was not ruined,
neither did the Bowery lads sustain any loss.
But I found the procedure exactly the same as in England, and I
felt the fascination of it; and some day when I can afford it, I
will have a lot of metal counters made, and I will organise lads
into a club; I will give them "caps," and they shall play where
the police won't interfere.
I will give them trophies to contend for, and Bethnal Green shall
contend with Holloway; a halfpenny "gate" would bring its
thousands, and private gain would give place to club and district
"esprit de corps," for the lads want the game, not the money; the
excitement, not the halfpence. There is nothing intrinsically
wrong about "pitch and toss," only the fact that ragamuffins play
it.
There is a great deal of nonsense talked about the game by
superior people who pose as authorities upon the delinquencies of
ragamuffin youth, and who declaim upon the demoralisation
attending this popular game of poor lads.
I heard at a meeting of a rich Christian Church, held in a noble
hall in the heart of London's City, one gentleman declare that a
smart ragamuffin youth of his acquaintance possessed a penny with
a "head" on each side for the purpose of enabling him to cheat at
this game.
He did not know what he was talking about, for such pennies would
be as useless for this game as the stones in the streets, for
"heads and tails" are the essence of the game. The boys of the
underworld must play, and ought to play; if those above them do
not approve of their games, well, it is "up to them," as the
Americans have it, to find them better games than pitch and toss,
and better playing grounds than unclean streets.
Of public parks we have enough; they are very well for sedate and
elderly people. They are useful to foster-mothers, slave girls
hugging babies about, and a boon for nurses with perambulators.
But what of Tom, Dick and Harry, who have just commenced work;
what of them? "Boy Scouting," even with royal patronage, is not
for them, for they have no money to buy uniforms, nor time to
scour Epping Forest and Hampstead Heath for a non-existent enemy.
Church Lads' Brigade with bishops for patrons, did I hear some
one say? Well, blowing a bugle, no matter how discordantly, is
certainly an attraction for a boy; and wearing a military cap set
jauntily on one side of the head is attractive, too, while the
dragging of a make-believe cannon through the streets may perhaps
please others. But Tom, Dick and Harry from below care for none
of these things, for they are "make-believes," and Tom, Dick and
Harry want something real, even if it is vulgar, something with a
strong competitive element in it, even if it is a little bit
rough or wicked.
Besides Tom, Dick and Harry are not over-clean in person, nor
nice in speech, so they are not wanted. Boy Scouts and Boys'
Brigades are preached at, but Tom, Dick and Harry do not want to
be preached at by a parson, or coddled by a curate.
They want something real, even though it be punching each other's
head, for that at any rate is real. Give us play, play, real
play! is the cry that is everlastingly rising from the
underworld youth. But the overworld gives them parks and
gardens, which are closed at a respectable hour. But the lads do
not go to bed at respectable hours, for their mothers are still
at work and their fathers have not arrived home. So they play in
the streets; then we call them "hooligans," and of course they
must be "put down."
There is a good deal of "putting down" for the underworld, but it
is all of the wrong sort. For there is no putting down of public
playgrounds for lads of fifteen and upwards open in the evening,
lighted by electricity, and under proper control. Not one in the
whole underworld. So they play in the streets, or rather indulge
in what is called "horse-play."
But there are youths' clubs! Yes, a few mostly in pokey places,
yet they are useful. But Tom, Dick and Harry want space, room
and air, for they get precious little of these valuable
commodities at their work, and still less in their homes. Watch
them if you will, as I have watched them scores of times in the
streets, how foolish, yet how pitiable their conduct is; you will
see that they walk for about two hundred yards and then walk back
again, and then repeat the same walk, till the hours have passed;
they seem to be as circumscribed as caged animals. They walk
within bounds up and down the "monkey's parade."
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