Project Gutenberg surfs with a modem donated by Supra.

T >> Thomas Holmes >> Project Gutenberg surfs with a modem donated by Supra.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

How inane and silly their conversation is! Sometimes a whim
comes upon them, and one runs for a few yards; the whim takes
possession of others, and they do exactly the same. One seizes
another round the body and wrestles with him. Immediately the
others begin to wrestle too; their actions are stereotyped, silly
and objectionable, even when they do not quarrel.

They bump against the people, women included, especially young
women. They push respectable people into the gutters, and
respectable people complain to the police. An extra force is
told off to keep order, and to put Tom, Dick and Harry down.

Sunday night is the worst night of all! for now these youths are
out in their thousands; certain streets are given up to them, and
become impassable for others. Respectable folk are shocked, and
church-going folk are scandalised! Surely the streets are the
property of respectable people! and yet they cannot pass through
them without annoyance.

At length the street is cleared and patrolled, for respectability
must be protected, not that there has been either violence or
robbery. Oh dear, no! There has only been foolish horse-play by
the Toms, Dicks and Harrys who, having nowhere else to go, and
nothing else to do, having, moreover, been joined by their female
counterparts, have been enjoying themselves in their own way, for
they have been "at play."

It is astonishing how fond of water the unwashed children of the
underworld are! It has an attraction for them, often a fatal
attraction, even though it be thick with dirt and very
malodorous. During the summer time the boys' bathing lakes in
Victoria Park are crowded and alive with youngsters, who splash
and flounder and choke, splutter and laugh in them. They present
a sight worth seeing, and teach a lesson worth remembering.

The canals of Hoxton, Haggerston and Islington, too, dirty and
dangerous as they are, prove seductive to the boys who live close
to them. Now the police have an anxious time. Again they must
look after Tom, Dick and Harry, for demure respectability must
not be outraged by a sight of their naked bodies.

So the police keep a sharp outlook for them. Some one kindly
informs them that a dozen boys are bathing in the canal near a
certain bridge, and quickly enough they find them in the very
act. There the little savages are! Some can swim, and some
cannot; those that cannot are standing in the slime near the
side, stirring up its nastiness. They see the policeman
advancing, and those that can swim get ashore and run for their
little bits of clothing, tied up in a bundle ready for
emergencies. Into the water again they go for the other side!
But, alas! another policeman is waiting on the other side at the
place where they expected to land, so they must needs swim till
another landing place offers security. But even here they find
that escape is hopeless, for yet another policeman awaits them.

Those who cannot swim seize their bundles, and, without waiting
to dress, run naked and unashamed along the canal, side, to the
merriment of the bargees, and the joy of the women and girls who
happen to have no son or brother amongst them, for the underworld
is not so easily shocked as the law and its administrators
imagine.

Ultimately they, too, find a policeman waiting for them, and a
"good bag" results. But the magistrate is very lenient; with a
twinkle in his eye he reproves them, and fines them one shilling
each, which with great difficulty their "muvvers" pay.

But it has been a good day for the police, for four of them have
helped to convey six shillings from the wretchedly poor to the
coffers of the police-court receiver. But when the school
holidays come round, that is the time for the dirty canal to tell
its tale, and to give up its dead, too!

Read this from the Daily Press, July 16th, 1911--

"A remarkable record in life-saving was disclosed at a Bethnal
Green inquest to-day on a child of six, named Browning, who was
drowned in the Regent's Canal on Bank Holiday.

"Henry H. Terry, an out-of-work carman, said he was called from
his home near by, and raced down to the canal. There was a youth
on the bank holding a stick over the water, apparently waiting
for the child to come up to the surface.

"The coroner: 'How old was the youth?' 'Well, he stood five feet
six inches, and might have gone in without getting out of his
depth. I heard a woman cry, "Why don't you go in!" I dived in
five or six times, but did not bring up the body.' The witness
added that he and his brother had saved many lives at this spot,
the latter having effected as many as twenty-five rescues in a
year. Alfred Terry, a silk weaver, described the point at which
the child was drowned as a veritable death-trap, and mentioned
that he had been instrumental during the past twelve years in
saving considerably over one hundred lives at that spot.

"'One hot July afternoon in 1900,' he added,'my mother and I had
five of them in the kitchen at one time with a roaring fire to
bring them round. That was during the school holidays; they
dropped in like flies.'

"Accidental death was the verdict."

But when the little ones play in the gutter, danger lurks very
near, as witness the extract of the same date--

"At an inquest at the Poplar coroner's court to-day, on a three-
years'-old girl named Bertiola, it was stated that while playing
with other children she was struck on the head with a tin engine.
Three weeks later she was playing with the same children, and one
of them hit her on the head with the wooden horse.

"The coroner: 'Two similar blows in a few days, that is very
strange.'

"Dr. Packer said that death was due to cerebral meningitis, the
result of a blow on the head.

"The coroner: 'I suppose you can't tell which blow caused the
trouble' 'No, sir, I am afraid not.'

"The jury returned a verdict of accidental death."

But sometimes the boys and girls of the underworld collaborate in
their play, for just now (July) "Remember the grotto! please to
remember the grotto!" is a popular cry. Who has not seen the
London grottos he who knows them not, knows nothing of the London
poor.

I was watching some girls play "hop-scotch" when a boy and girl
with oyster shells in their hands came up to me preferring the
usual request, "Please to remember the grotto!" Holding out
their shells as they spoke.

"Where is your grotto?" I said. "There, sir, over there; come
and see it." Aye! there is was, sure enough, and a pretty
little thing it was in its way, built up to the wall in a quiet
corner, glistening with its oyster shells, its bits of coloured
china and surmounted with a little flag.

"But where are the candles?" "Oh, sir, we haven't got any yet;
we shall get candles when we get some money, and light them to-
night; we have only just finished it." "Where did you get your
shells?" "From the fish-shops." "Where did you get the pretty
bits of china from?" "We saved them from last year." "Does
grotto time come the same time every year,then" "Oh yes, sir."
"How is that?" "'Cos it's the time for it." "Why do you build
grottos" "To get money." "Yes, but why do people give you
money; what do grottos commemorate, don't you know?" "No, sir."

I looked at a poor half-paralysed boy with sharp face and said,
"Well, my boy, you ought to know; do you go to Sunday School?"
"Yes, sir, both of us; St. James the Less." "Well, I shall not
tell you the whole story to-day, but here is sixpence for you to
buy candles with; and next Sunday ask your teacher to tell you
why boys and girls build grottos; I shall be here this day week,
and if you can tell me I will give you a shilling."

There were at least six grottos in that street when I got there
on the appointed day. A large crowd of children with oyster
shells were waiting; evidently the given sixpence and the
promised shilling had created some excitement in that corner of
Bethnal Green,

They were soon all round me, and a general chorus arose with
hands outstretched, "Please to remember the grotto! please to
remember the grotto! "I called them to silence, and said, "Can
any one tell me why you build grottos?" There was a general
chorus, "To get money, sir." That was all they knew, and it
seemed to them a sufficient reason.

Turning to the little cripple, I said, "Did you ask your
teacher?" "Yes, sir, but she said it was only children's play;
but I bought some candles, and they are lighted now."

I said, "Now, children, listen to me, for I am going to tell you
about the beginning of grottos.

"A good many hundred years ago, when Jesus was on earth, He had
two disciples named James; in after years one was called 'James
the Greater' and the other 'James the Less.' After the death of
Jesus, James the Greater was put to death, and the disciples were
scattered, and wandered into many far countries. James the Less
wandered into Spain, telling the people about Jesus. He lived a
good and holy life, helping the poor and the afflicted.

"When he died, the people who loved him and reverenced him made a
great funeral, and built him a costly tomb, but instead of
putting up a monument to him, they built a large and beautiful
grotto over the place where his body lay. They lined it with
beautiful and costly shells and other rich things, and lit it
with many candles.

"Thousands of people came to see the grotto, and gave money to
buy candles that it might always be lighted.

"Every year, on the anniversary of St. James's death, the people
came by thousands to the grotto. One year it was said that a
crippled man had been made quite well while praying at the
grotto. This event was told everywhere, and from that day forth
on St. James's Day people came from many countries, many of them
walking hundreds of miles to the grotto.

"Some of these people were ill and diseased, and others were sick
and blind, and some were cripples.

"It is said that a good many of them were cured of their
afflictions.

"Now all these poor people that walked slowly and painfully to
St. James's tomb carried big oyster shells, in which they made
holes for cords to pass through, and they placed the cords round
their necks.

"When they came near to people they would hold out their shells
and say, 'Please to remember the grotto!' And people gave them
money to help them on their way and to buy candles for the
grotto, hoping that the poor people would get there safely and
come back cured.

So it came to pass that whenever people saw a man with an oyster
shell, they knew he was going or returning from St. James's tomb
in Spain, and they helped him. The custom of building grottos on
St. James's Day spread to many countries besides Spain. In
Russia they build very fine grottos. At length the custom came
to England, and you boys and girls do what other boys and girls
have done for many years in other countries, and in reality you
celebrate the death of a great and good man."

The children were very silent for a while; the cripple boy looked
at me with tears in his eyes, and I knew what his tears
expressed. I gave him a shilling, but he did not speak; to all
the other children who had built grottos I gave threepence each,
and there was joy in that corner of Bethnal Green.

There is always something pathetic about play in the underworld.
We feel that there is something wanting in it, perhaps that
something would come into it, if there were more opportunities of
real and competitive play. Keeping shops, or teaching schools
may do for girls to play at, but a lad, if he is any good, wants
something more robust.

I often find cripple boys playing "tip-cat," another game upon
which the law has its eye, or hurrying along on crutches after
something that serves as a football, and getting there in time,
too, for a puny kick. But that kick, little as it is, thrills
the poor chap, and he feels that he has been playing. I am sure
that football is going to play a great part in the physical
salvation of Tom, Dick and Harry, but they must have other places
than the streets in which to learn and practise the game.

We have heard a great deal about the playing-fields of public
schools; we are told that we owe our national safety to them;
perhaps it is correct, but I really do not know. But this I do
know, that the non-provision of playing-fields, or grounds for
the male youthful poor, is a national danger and a menace to
activity, endurance, health and pluck.

Nothing saves them now but the freehold of the streets. Rob them
of this without giving them something better, and we shall
speedily have a race of flat-footed, flat-chested, round-
shouldered poor, with no brains for mental work, and no strength
for physical work. A race exactly qualified for the conditions
to which we so freely submit it in prison. And above those
conditions that race will have no aspirations. So give them
play, glorious play, manly strife; let their hearts beat, and
their chests expand that they may breathe from their bottom
lungs, that their limbs may be supple and strong, for it will pay
the nation to give Tom, Dick and Harry healthy play.

And they long for it, do Tom, Dick and Harry! Did you ever see
hundreds of them on a Sunday morning coming up from their lairs
in Hoxton, Shoreditch, Spitalfields and Bethnal Green, to find a
field or open space in the suburbs where they might kick a
football? I have seen it scores of times. A miserable but
hopeful sight it is; hopeful because it bears testimony to the
ingrained desire that English lads have for active healthy play.
Miserable because of their appearance, and because of the fact
that no matter what piece of open ground or fields they may
select, they are trespassers, and may be ejected, or remain on
sufferance only.

Happy are they if they can find a piece of land marked for sale,
where the jerry-builder has not yet commenced a suburban slum.
Like a swarm of locusts they are down on it, and quickly every
blade of grass disappears, "kicked off" as if by magic.

Old walking-sticks, pieces of lath or old coats and waistcoats
serve as goal-posts. Touch-lines they have none, one playing-
ground runs across the other, and a dozen teams are soon hard at
it. They have no caps to distinguish them, no jerseys or
knickers of bright hues. There are no "flannelled fools" among
them, but quickly there are plenty of "muddied oafs." Trousers
much too long are rolled up, coats and vests are dispensed with,
braces are loosed and serve as belts. There is running to and
fro, mud, and poor old footballs are kicked hither and thither.
They knock, kick and shoulder each other, their bare arms and
faces are coated with mud, they fall over the ball and over each
other. If they cannot kick their own ball, they kick one that
belongs to another team. There is much shouting, much laughter
and some bad language! and so they go at it till presently there
is a great cheer, for Hoxton has got a second goal, and
Haggerston is defeated. And they keep at it for two long hours,
if they are not interfered with, then back to their lairs and
food.

All this time good people have been in the churches close by, and
the shouting of the Hoxtonians has disturbed them, and the gentle
whisper of the Haggerstonians has annoyed them. Some of them are
scandalised, and say the police ought to stop such nuisances;
perhaps they are right, for there is much to be said against it.
But there is something to be said on the other side, too; for the
natural instinct of English boys must have an outlet or perish.
If it perish they perish too, and then old England would miss
them.

So let them play, but give them playgrounds! For playgrounds
will pay better than nice, respectable parks. The outlay will be
returned in due time in a big interest promptly paid from the
increased vitality, energy, industry and honesty of our Toms,
Dicks and Harrys. So let them play!

With much pleasure I quote from the Daily Press, November 24th,
the following--

"LEARNING TO PLAY

"ORGANISED GAMES IN HYDE PARK IN SCHOOL HOURS

"It is good news that arrangements are being made by the Office
of Works for the use of a part of Hyde Park for organised games
under the direction of the London County Council. Hitherto the
only royal parks in which space has been allotted for this
purpose are Regent's Park and Greenwich Park. But the King, as
is well known, takes a keen interest in all that concerns the
welfare of the children, and has gladly sanctioned the
innovation.

"During the year an increasing number of the elementary schools
in London have taken advantage of the article in the code of
regulations which provides that, under certain conditions,
organised games may, if conducted under competent supervision and
instruction, be played during school hours. Up to the present
the London County Council has authorised the introduction of
organised games by 580 departments, 295 boys', 225 girls', and 60
mixed.

"The games chiefly played by boys are football, cricket and
rounders, according to the season. Girls enjoy a greater
variety, and in addition to cricket and rounders, are initiated
into the mysteries of hockey, basket ball, target ball, and other
ball games.

"The advantages of the children being taught to get the best
exercise out of the games, and to become skilful in them, are
obvious.

"Arrangements have been made with the various local athletic
associations and consultative committees whereby in each
metropolitan borough there are hon. district representatives
(masters and mistresses) in connection with organised games.
Pitches are reserved in over thirty of the L.C.C. parks and open
spaces for the use of schools. The apparatus required is
generally stored at the playing-fields for the common use of all
schools attending, but small articles such as balls, bats, sticks
are supplied to each school.

"The Council has decided that, so far as practicable, the
apparatus for organised games shall be made at the Council's
educational institutes, and, as a result of this decision, much
of it is fashioned at the handicraft centres."

This is all for good. But I am concerned for adolescent youth
that has left school--the lads whose home conditions absolutely
prevent the evening hours being spent indoors. Is there to be no
provision for them?

CHAPTER XI

ON THE VERGE OF THE UNDERWORLD

Charles Dickens has somewhere said, "The ties that bind the rich
to their homes may be made on earth, but the ties that bind the
poor to their homes are made of truer metal and bear the stamp of
Heaven." And he adds that the wealthy may love their home
because of the gold, silver and costly things therein, or because
of the family history. But that when the poor love their homes,
it is because their household gods are gods of flesh and blood.
Dickens's testimony is surely true, for struggle, cares,
sufferings and anxieties make their poor homes, even though they
be consecrated with pure affection, "serious and solemn places."

To me it has always been evident that the heaviest part of the
burden inseparable from a poor man's home falls upon the wife.

Blessed is that home where the wife is equal to her duties, and
doubly blessed is the home where the husband, being a true
helpmate, is anxious to carry as much of the burden as possible.
For then the home, even though it be small and its floors brick,
becomes in all truth "a sweetly solemn place." It becomes a good
training ground for men and women that are to be. But I am
afraid the working men do not sufficiently realise what heavy,
onerous and persistent duties fall upon the wife. With nerves of
brass they do not appreciate the fact that wives may be, and are,
very differently constituted to themselves. Many wives are
lonely; but the husbands do not always understand the gloomy
imaginations that pervade the lonely hours. The physical laws
that govern women's personal health make periods of depression
and excitement not only possible, but certain.

Let us consider for a moment the life of a poor man's wife in
London, where her difficulties are increased by high rent and a
long absence of the husband. She has the four everlasting walls
to look at, eternal anxieties as to the future, the repeated
weekly difficulties of making ends meet, and too often the same
lack of consideration from the husband.

The week's washing for the family she must do, the mending and
darning for the household is her task, the children must be
washed and clothed and properly cared for by her. Of her many
duties there is no end.

Sickness in the family converts her into a nurse. She herself
must bear the pangs and sufferings of motherhood, and for that
time must make preparation. For death in the family she must
also provide, so the eternities are her concern. Things present
and things to come leave her little time to contemplate the past.

Ask me the person of many duties, and I point to the wife of a
poor man.

Thank God, the law of compensation rules the universe, and she is
not exempt from its ruling. She has her compensations doubtless,
but I am seriously afraid not to the extent to which she is
entitled, though, perhaps, they are greater than we imagine.

Her duties are not always pleasant, for when her husband falls
out of work the rent must be paid, or she must mollify a
disappointed landlord. In many of our London "model" dwellings,
if she is likely to have a fourth child, three being the limit,
she must seek a new home. And it ought to be known that on this
account there is a great exodus every year from some of our
London "dwellings."

It seems scarcely credible, but it is nevertheless a fact, that
in some dwellings she may not keep a cat, a dog, or even a bird,
neither may she have flowers in pots on her window-sills. She is
hedged round with prohibitions, but she is expected to be
superior and to abide in staid respectability on an income of
less than thirty shillings per week. And she does it, though how
she does it is a marvel.

Come with me to visit Mrs. Jones, who lives at 28, White Elephant
Buildings. Mr. Jones is a painter at work for eight months in
the year, if he has good luck, but out of work always at that
time of the year when housekeeping expenses are highest. For
every working man's wife will tell you that coal is always dearer
at the time of the year when it is most required. in White
Elephant Buildings there is no prohibition as to the number of
children, or the Jones family would not be there, for they number
eight all told. It is dinner time, and the children are all in
from school, and, being winter time, Jones is at home too! He
has been his wearying round in search of work earlier in the day,
and has just returned to share the midday meal which the mother
serves. In all conscience the meal is limited enough, but we
notice that Jones gets an undue proportion, and we wonder whether
the supply will go round.

We see that the children are next served in their order, the
elder obtaining just a little more food than the younger, and,
last of all--Mrs. Jones.

It is true that self-denial brings its own reward, for in her
case there is little to reward her in the shape of food.

To me it is still astonishing, although I have known it for
years, that thousands of poor men's wives go through years of
hard work, and frequent times of motherhood on an amount of food
that must be altogether inadequate.

Brave women! Aye, brave indeed! for they not only deny
themselves food, but clothing, and all those little personal
adornments that are so dear to the heart of women. There is no
heroism to equal it. It only ends when the children have all
passed out of hand, and then it is too late, for in her case
appetite has not been developed with eating, so that when the day
comes that food is more plentiful, the desire for it is lacking.

It is small wonder, then, that Mrs. Jones has a careworn look,
and does not look robust. She has been married twelve years, so
that every second year she has borne a child. The dark rings
beneath her eyes tell of protracted hours of work, and the
sewing-machine underneath the window tells us that she
supplements the earnings of her husband by making old clothes
into new, and selling them to her neighbours, either for their
children's wear or their own. This accounts for the fact that
her own children are so comfortably clothed. The dinner that we
have seen disappear cost ninepence, for late last evening, just
before the cheap butchers close by shut up for the night, Mrs.
Jones bought one pound and a half of pieces, and, with the aid of
two onions and some potatoes, converted them into a nourishing
stew.

Many times near midnight I have stood outside the cheap butchers'
and watched careful women make their purchases. It is a pitiful
sight, and when one by one the women have made their bargains, we
notice that the shopboard is depleted of its heap of scrags and
odds and ends.

So day by day Mrs. Jones feeds her family, limiting her
expenditure to her purse. And, truth to tell, Jones and the
little Joneses look well on it. But two things in addition to
the rent test her managing powers. Boots for the children! and
coal for the winter! The latter difficulty she gets over by
paying one shilling per week into a coal club all the year
through. When Jones is in work she buys extra coal, but when the
winter comes she draws upon her reserves at the coal merchant's.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15