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And in the underworld, amidst the dirt and squalor, the poverty,
the high rents, and the poor, poor earnings of poor, poor women,
there are plenty like her.

God grant that when the lads can work they will lighten her
burdens and cheer her heart by working for her who had worked so
hard for them.

Listen also to the story of the blouse-makers disclosed to the
upper world by the Press.

"A pathetic story of poverty was told to the Hackney coroner, who
held an inquiry into the death of Emily Langes, 59, a blouse-
maker of Graham Road, Dalston. Death was due to starvation.

"Annie Marie, an aged sister, said they had both been in great
poverty for a very long time. They had worked at blouse-making
as long as they could, but that work had fallen off so much that
really all they had got to live on was by selling off their home.

They had not enough to live on, and had to pay four shillings and
sixpence rent.

"The coroner: 'Selling your home will soon come to an end. You
had best apply in the proper direction for help; the parish must
bury her. Don't go on ruining yourself by selling off things.'

"Mr. Ingham, relieving officer for the No. 7 ward at Hackney,
said that he knew the old couple. He remembered giving relief to
both sisters about two months ago, but had had no application
since. He offered the 'House' to the living sister.

"A juror: 'Are questions put which might upset a proud
respectable old couple when they ask for relief?'

"Witness: 'Of course we have to inquire into their means pretty
closely.'

"The coroner: 'It seems pretty clear that the old couple were
too proud to ask for help.'

"The jury returned a verdict that Emily Langes died from
exhaustion caused by want of food."

But listen again! as we stand in the land of crushed womanhood
and starving childhood. We hear a gentle voice, "Mother, it is
nearly one o'clock, the men have gone by from the public-house;
you go to bed, dear, and I will finish the work." A feeble
woman, with every nerve broken, rises from her machine, shakes
her dress and lies down on her bed, but her daughter sits on and
on.

Oh the sighs and groans and accents of sorrow that come upon our
listening ears! Oh the weariness, the utter weariness of this
land below the line!

Midnight! and thousands of women are working! One o'clock, and
thousands are still at it! Two o'clock, the widows are still at
work! Thank God the children are asleep. Three o'clock a.m.,
the machines cease to rattle, and in the land of crushed
womanhood there is silence if not peace. But who is to pay?
Shall we ultimately evolve a people that require no sleep, that
cannot sleep if they would? Is crushed womanhood to produce
human automatic machines? Or is civilisation generally to pay
the penalty for all this grinding of human flesh and blood? Let
me tell the story of an old machinist! I have told part of it
before, but the sequel must be told. I had made the acquaintance
and friendship of three old women in Bethnal Green who lived
together, and collaborated in their work. They made trousers for
export trade; one machined, one finished, and one pressed, brave
old women all! They all worked in the machinist's room, for this
saved gas and coal, and prevented loss of time. At night they
separated, each going to her own room. The machinist was a
widow, and her machine had been bought out of her husband's club
and insurance money when he died twenty-one years before. I had
often seen it, heard its rattle, and witnessed its whims.

She once told me that it required a new shuttle, and I offered to
pay for one; but she said, "I cannot part with it; it will last
my time, for I want a new shuttle too!"

Six months after she was found dead in her bed by her partners
when they came to resume work.

Her words had come true! The old machine stood silent under the
little window; its old shuttle no longer whirred and rattled with
uncertain movements. It was motionless and cold. On a little
bed the poor old brave woman lay cold and motionless too! for
the shuttle of her life had stopped, never to move again.

The heroic partnership of the old women was broken, never in this
world to be resumed, and so two old hearts sorrowed and two
troubled minds wondered how they would be able to live without
her.

I knew her well; it was my privilege to give her some happiness
and some change from grime and gloom, to take her away sometimes
from the wayward shuttle and rattling machine. I knew that she
would have selected such a death could she have chosen, for she
dreaded the parish. I think, too, that she would have wished for
her old machine to be buried with her, and for its silent shuttle
to be beside her in her coffin. To her it was a companion, and
for it her husband died. Twenty-one years the machine and
herself had lived with each other and for each other. Sharing
with each other's toil, if not each other's hopes and fears!
Working! working! unceasingly through life--in death and rest
they were not divided.

It was a blessed thing that her machine partner required no food,
or life would have been even more serious than it was. But it
had its whims and its moods, sometimes it resented everlasting
work at three-half-pence per hour for the pair of them, and it
"jibbed." But a little oil and a soothing word, and, it must be
feared, sometimes with a threat, and the old thing went again.

Surely it will be sacrilege for any one else to sit upon that old
chair and try to renew the life and motion of the old machine!

It is strange that this oppression of women which is the cause of
my greatest sorrow should also be the cause of my keenest joy.
But it is so! And why? Because I number two thousand of these
underworld women slaves among my personal friends, and I am proud
of it! The letters I have given are a few out of hundreds that I
have received. I know these women as few know them. I know
their sufferings and their virtues, their great content and their
little requirements. I know that they have the same capabilities
for happiness as other people, and I know that they get precious
little chance of exercising those capabilities. Strange again, I
get no begging letters from them, though I do from others who are
better placed. I declare it to be wonderful! This endurance and
patience of London's miserably paid women. I tell you that I am
the happiest man alive! Why? Because during the present year a
thousand of my poor friends from the underworld came up for a
time and had a fortnight, a whole fortnight's rest each with food
and comfort in a beautiful rest home by the sea. For kind
friends have enabled me to build one for them and for them alone!

And I was there sometimes to see, and it was good for me. So
Mrs. Holmes and myself make frequent visits to the rest home, and
every time we visit it we become more and more convinced that not
only is it a "Palace Beautiful," but that it is also a joy to the
slave women who have the good fortune to spend a holiday (all too
short) in it.

Gloom cannot enter "Singholm" or, if it does enter, it promptly
and absolutely disappears. Ill-temper cannot live there, the
very flowers smile it away. The atmosphere itself acts like
"laughing gas." So the house fairly rings with merry laughter
from elderly staid women equally as from the younger ones, whose
contact with serious and saddening life has not been so
paralysing to joyous emotions.

It did us good to hear such jolly laughter from throats and
organs that, but for Singholm, must have rusted and decayed.

One of our trustees was with us, it being his first visit to the
home. I know that he was surprised at the size, the beauty, the
comfort and refinement of the whole place. The garden filled him
with delight, the skill of the architect in planning the
building, together with the style, gave him increased pleasure.

The great drawing-room and the equally large dining-room rather
astonished him. The little bedrooms he declared perfect. But
what astonished him most of all was the unaffected happiness of
the women; for this I do not think he was prepared. Well, as I
have said, gloom cannot live in Singholm, and this I have found
out by personal experience, for if I am quite cross and grumpy in
London, I cannot resist the exhilaration that prevails at
Singholm among London's underworld women.

I think I may say that our trustee was surprised at something
else! But then he is a bachelor, and so of course does not
understand the infinite resources of femininity.

"How nice they look," he said. "How well they dress"; and, once
again, "How clean and tidy they are; how well their colours
blend!"

Thank God for this! we hold no truce with dirt at Singholm; we
bid dowdyism begone! avaunt! I will tell you a secret!
Singholm demands respect for itself and self-respect for its
inmates.

Our trustee's testimony is true; the women belonging to our
association do look nice; when they are at Walton they rise to
the occasion as if they were to the manner born.

When, with their cheap white or blue blouses, they sit under the
palms in our drawing-room, all, even the oldest and poorest,
neat--nay, smart if you will--they present a picture that can
only be appreciated by those who know their lives. Some people
might find fault, but to me the colour and tone of the picture is
perfect.

As there were seventy of them, there was room for variety, and
they gave it! Look at them! There they sit as the shades of
night are falling. They have been out all day long, and have
come in tired. Are they peevish? Not a bit! Are they
downhearted? No!

There is my friend who makes no secret about it, and tells us
that she is forty-six years of age; this is the first time she
has ever seen the sea, and she laughs at the thought. The sun
has browned, reddened and roughened her face, and when I say,
"How delicate you look," she bursts again into merry laughter,
and the whole party join her. Mrs. Holmes and myself join in,
and our worthy trustee, bachelor and Quaker though he be, laughs
merriest of all.

Aye! but this laughter was sweet music, but somehow it brought
tears to my eyes.

Now just look at my friend over there beside one of the palms,
her feet resting so naturally on the Turkey carpet! You observe
she sits majestically in a commodious chair; she needs one! For
she is five feet eleven inches in height, and weighs sixteen
stone. I call her "The Queen," for when she stands up she is
erect and queenly with a noble head and pleasing countenance.

She makes no secret about her age; "I am sixty, and I have been
here four times, and, please God, I'll come forty-four more
times," and she looks like it. But what if there had been no
Singholm to look forward to year by year? Why, then she would
have been heavy in heart as well as in body, and her erect form
would have been bent, for she is a hard worker from Bethnal
Green.

The idea of coming forty-four more times to Singholm, and she
sixty-six, was the signal for more laughter, and again Singholm
was tested; but our builder had done his work well.

"Turn on the electric light, matron!" There is a transformation
scene for you! Now you see the delicate art colours in the
Turkey carpets, and the subdued colours in the Medici Society's
reproduced pictures.

See how they have ranged their chairs all round by the walls, and
the centre of the room is unoccupied, saving here and there
maidenhair ferns and growing flowers. Now look at the picture in
its fulness! and we see poor old bent and feeble bodies bowed
with toil, and faces furrowed by unceasing anxiety; but the sun,
the east wind, the sea air and Singholm have brightened and
browned them.

There is my poor old friend, long past threescore and ten, to
whom Singholm for a time is verily Heaven; but--"Turn on the
gramophone, please, matron." Thanks to a kind friend, we have a
really good one, with a plentiful supply of records. The matron,
in the wickedness of her heart, turns on an orchestral
"cakewalk." The band plays, old bodies begin to move and sway,
and seventy pair of feet begin unconsciously to beat the floor.
Laughter again resounds; our Quaker himself enters into the
spirit of it, so I invite him to lead off with the "Queen" for
his partner, at which he was dismayed, although he is a veritable
son of Anak.

But to my dismay the bent and feeble septuagenarian offered to
lead off with myself as partner, at which I collapsed, for alas,
I cannot dance. Then our trustee led the roars of laughter that
testified to my discomfiture.

So we had no dancing, only a cakewalk. But we had more merriment
and music, and then our little evening service. "What hymn shall
we have?" Many voices called out, "Sun of my soul," so the
matron went to the piano, and I listened while they sang "Watch
by the sick, enrich the poor," which for me, whenever the poor,
the feeble and aged sing it, has a power and a meaning that I
never realise when the organ leads a well-trained choir and a
respectable church congregation to blend their voices.

Then I read to them a few words from the old, but ever new, Book,
and closed with a few simple, well-known prayers, and then--as
old Pepys has it--"to bed."

We watch them file up the great staircase one by one, watch them
disappear into their sweet little rooms and clean sheets. To me,
at any rate, the picture was more comforting and suggestive than
Burne Jones's "Golden Stairs." In fifteen minutes the electric
light was switched off, and Singholm was in darkness and in
peace. But outside the stars were shining, the flowers still
blooming, the garden was full of the mystery of sweet odours;
close by the sea was singing its soothing lullaby, and God was
over all!

But let us get back to the underworld!

"How long have we lived together, did you ask? well, ever since
we were born, and she is sixty-seven," pointing to a paralysed
woman, who was sitting in front of the window. "I am two years
younger," she continued, "and we have never been separated; we
have lived together, worked together, and slept together, and if
ever we did have a holiday, we spent it together. And now we are
getting old, just think of it! I am sixty-five, isn't it
terrible? They always used to call us 'the girls' when mother,
father and my brothers were alive, but they have all gone--not
one of them left. But we 'girls' are left, and now we are
getting old--sixty-five--isn't it terrible? We ought to be
ashamed of it, I suppose, but we are not, are we, dear? For we
are just 'the girls' to each other, and sometimes I feel as
strong and as young as a girl."

"How long have you lived in the top of this four-storey house?"
I asked. "Sixteen years," came the reply. "All alone?" "No,
sir, we have been together." "And your sister, how long has she
been paralysed?" "Before we came to this house." "Does she ever
go out?" "Of course she does; don't I take her out in the bath-
chair behind you?" "Can she wash and dress herself, do her hair,
and make herself as clean and tidy as she is?" "I do it for
her."

"But how do you get her down these interminable stairs?" I
asked.

"She does that herself, sitting down and going from step to
step," she said, and then added, "but it is hard work for her,
and it takes her a very long time."

"Now tell me," I said, "have you ever had a holiday?" "Yes, we
have had one since my sister became paralysed, and we went to
Herne Bay." "Did you take the bath-chair with you?" "Of course
we did; how could she go without it?" "And you pushed her about
Herne Bay, and took her on the sands in it?" I said. "Of
course," she said quite naturally, as if she was surprised at my
question. "Now tell me how much rent do you pay for these two
rooms?" "Seven shillings and sixpence per week; I know it is too
much, but I must have a good window for her, where she can sit
and look out." "How do you do your washing?" "I pay the
landlady a shilling a week to do it." "How long have you worked
at umbrella covering?" "Ever since we left school, both of us;
we have never done anything else." "How long have your parents
been dead" "More than forty years," was the answer.

To every one of the replies made by the younger sister, the
paralytic at the window nodded her head in confirmation as though
she would say, "Quite true, quite true!"

"Forgive me asking so many questions, but I want to understand
how you live; you pay seven-and-six rent, and one shilling for
washing every week; that comes to eight shillings and sixpence
before you buy food, coal, and pay for gas; and you must burn a
lot of gas, for I am sure that you work till a very late hour,"
and the elder sister nodded her head. "Yes, gas is a big item,
but I manage it," and then the elder one spoke. "Yes, she is a
wonderful manager! a wonderful manager! she is better than I
ever was." "Well, dear, you managed well, you know you did, and
we saved some money then, didn't we!"

"Ah! we did, but mine is all gone, and I can't work now; but you
are a good manager, better than I ever was."

I looked at the aged and brave couple, and took stock of their
old but still good furniture that told its own story, and said,
"You had two accounts in the Post-Office Savings Bank, and when
you both worked you saved all you could?" "Yes, sir, we worked
hard, and never wasted anything." Again the sixty-seven old girl
broke in: "But mine is all gone, all gone, but she is a
wonderful manager." "And mine is nearly all gone, too," said the
younger, "but I can work for both of us," and the elder sister
nodded her head as if she would say, "And she can, too!" I
looked at the dozen umbrellas before me, and said, "What do you
get for covering these?" "Ah! that's what's called, vulgarly
speaking, a bit of jam! they are gents' best umbrellas, and I
shall get three shillings for them. I got them out yesterday
from the warehouse, after waiting there for two hours. I shall
work till twelve to-night and finish them by midday to-morrow;
they are my very best work." Three shillings for a dozen! her
very best work! and she finding machine and thread, and waiting
two hours at the factory!

"Come," I said, "tell me what you earned last week, and how many
hours you worked?" "I earned ten shillings and sixpence; but
don't ask me how many hours I worked, for I don't know; I begin
when it is light, because that saves gas, and I work as long as I
can, for I am strong and have good health." "But," I said, "you
paid eight shillings and sixpence for rent and washing; that left
you with two shillings. Does your sister have anything from the
parish?" I felt sorry that I had put the question, for I got a
proud "No, sir," followed by some tears from the sixty-five-year-
old "girl." Presently I said, "However do you spend it?"
"Didn't I tell you that I had saved some, and was drawing it?
But I manage, and get a bit of meat, too!" Again from the window
came the words, "She is a good manager."

"What will you do when you have drawn all your savings?" "Oh! I
shall manage, and God is good," was all I could get.

A brave, heroic soul, surely, dwells in that aged girl, for in
her I found no bitterness, no repining; nay, I found a sense of
humour and the capability of a hearty laugh as we talked on and
on, for I was in wonderland.

When I rose to leave, she offered to accompany us--for a friend
was with me--downstairs to the door; I said, "No, don't come
down, we will find our way; stop and earn half-a-crown, and
please remember that you are sixty-five." "Hush!" she said,
"the landlady will hear you; don't tell anybody, isn't it awful?
and we were called the girls," and she burst into a merry laugh.
During our conversation the paralysed sister had several times
assured me that she "would like to have a ride in a motor-car."
This I am afraid I cannot promise her, much as I would like to do
so; but the exact object of my visit was to make arrangements for
"the girls" to go to our home of rest for a whole fortnight.

And they went, bath-chair as well. For sixteen long years they
had not seen the sea or listened to its mighty voice, but for a
whole fortnight they enjoyed its never-ending wonder and inhaled
its glorious breath. And the younger "girl" pushed the chair,
and the older "girl" sat in it the while they prattled, and
talked and managed, till almost the days of their real girlhood
came back to them. Dull penury and sordid care were banished for
a whole fortnight and appetite came by eating. The older "girl"
said, "If I stop here much longer, I know I shall walk," and she
nearly managed it too, for when helped out of her chair, she
first began to stand, and then to progress a little step by step
by holding on to any friendly solid till she almost became a
child again. But the fortnight ended all too soon, and back to
their upper room, the window and the umbrellas they came, to live
that fortnight over and over again, and to count the days, weeks
and months that are to elapse before once again the two old girls
and an old--so old--bath-chair will revel and joy, eat and rest,
prattle and laugh by the sea.

But they have had their "motor ride," too! and the girls sat
side by side, and although it was winter time they enjoyed it,
and they have a new theme for prattle.

I have since ascertained that the sum of ten shillings, and ten
shillings only, remained in the Post-Office Savings Bank to the
credit of the managing sister.

But I have also learned something else quite as pitiful--it is
this: the allowance of coal during the winter months for these
heroic souls was one half-hundredweight per week, fifty-six lb.,
which cost them eightpence-halfpenny.

CHAPTER VIII

MARRIAGE IN THE UNDERWORLD

Young folk marry and are given in marriage at a very early age in
the underworld. Their own personal poverty and thousands of
warning examples are not sufficient to deter them. Strange to
say, their own parents encourage them, and, more strange still,
upperworld people of education and experience lend a willing hand
in what is at the best a deplorable business.

Under their conditions it is perhaps difficult to say what other
course can or ought to be taken, for their homes are like
beehives, and "swarming" time inevitably comes. That oftentimes
comes when young people of either sex are midway in their
"teens." The cramped little rooms or room that barely sufficed
for the parents and small children are altogether out of the
question when the children become adolescent. The income of the
family is not sufficient to allow the parents, even if they were
desirous of doing so, taking larger premises with an extra
bedroom. Very few parents brace themselves to this endeavour,
for it means not only effort but expense. So the young folks
swarm either to lodgings, or to marriage, and the pretence of
home life.

Private lodgings for girls are dangerous and expensive, while
public lodgings for youths are probably a shade worse. So
marriage it is, and boys of nineteen unite with girls one or two
years younger.

I have no doubt that the future looks very rosy to the young
couple whose united earnings may amount to as much as thirty
shillings weekly, for it is an axiom of the poor that two can
live cheaper than one.

It is so easy to pay a deposit on a single room, and so easy, so
very easy, to purchase furniture on the hire system. Does not
the youth give his mother ten shillings weekly? Why not give it
to a wife? Does not the girl contribute to her mother's
exchequer? Why may not she become a wife and spend her own
earnings? Both are heartily sick of their present home life, any
change must be for the better! So marriage it is! But they have
saved nothing, they are practically penniless beyond the current
week's wages. Never mind, they can get their wedding outfit on
the pay weekly rule, the parson will marry them for nothing.
"Here's a church, let's go in and get married." Christmas,
Easter or Bank Holiday comes to their aid, and they do it! and,
heigho! for life's romance.

The happy bride continues at the factory, and brings her
shillings to make up the thirty. They pay three shillings and
sixpence weekly for their room, one-and-six weekly for their
household goods, two more shillings weekly are required for their
wedding clothes, that is all! Have they not twenty-three
shillings left!

They knew that they could manage it! All goes merrily as a
marriage bell! Hurrah! They can afford a night or two a week at
a music-hall; why did they not get married before? how stupid
they had been!

But something happens, for the bride becomes a mother. Her wages
cease, and thirty shillings weekly for two is a very different
matter to twenty shillings for three!

They had to engage an old woman for nurse for one week only. But
that cost seven shillings and sixpence. A number of other extras
are incurred, all to be paid out of his earnings. They have not
completed the hire purchase business; they have even added to
that expense by the purchase of a bassinet at one shilling weekly
for thirty weeks. The bassinet, however, serves one useful
purpose, it saves the expense of a cradle.

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