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In less than a fortnight the girl mother is again knocking at the
factory door. She wishes to become an "out-worker"; the manager,
knowing her to be a capable machinist, gives her work, and
promises her a constant supply.
Now they are all right again! Are they? Why, she has no sewing-
machine! Stranded again! not a bit of it. The hire purchase
again comes to her help. Eighteenpence deposit is paid, a like
weekly payment promised, signed for and attended to; and lo! a
sparkling new sewing-machine is deposited in their one room. Let
us take an inventory of their goods: one iron bedstead, flock
mattress, two pairs of sheets, two blankets and a common
counterpane, a deal chest of drawers, a deal table, two Windsor
chairs, a bassinet carriage, a sewing-machine, fire-shovel,
fender and poker, some few crocks, a looking-glass, a mouth-organ
and a couple of towels, some knives, forks and spoons, a tea-pot,
tea-kettle, saucepan and frying-pan. But I have been very
liberal! They stand close together, do those household goods;
they crowd each other, and if one moves, it jostles the other.
The sewing-machine stands in front of the little window, for it
demands the light. It took some scheming to arrange this, but
husband and wife ultimately managed it. The bassinet stands
close to the machine, that the girl mother may push it gently
when baby is cross, and that she may reach the "soother" and
replace it when it falls from baby's mouth.
Now she is settled down! off she goes! She starts on a life of
toil, compared to which slavery is light and pleasant. Oh, the
romance of it; work from morn till late at night. The babe
practically unwashed, the house becomes grimy, and the bed and
bassinet nasty. The husband's wages have not risen, though his
expenses have; other children come and some go; they get behind
with their rent; an "ejectment order" is enforced. The wretched
refuse of the home is put on the street pavement, the door is
locked against them, and the wretched couple with their children
are on the pavement too! The only thing to survive the wreck is
the sewing-machine. The only thing that I know among the many
things supplied to the poor on the hire system that is the least
bit likely to stand the wear and tear is the machine. Doubtless
the poor pay highly for it; still it is comforting to know that
in this one direction the poor are supplied with good articles.
And the poor respect their machines, as the poor always respect
things that are not shoddy.
I have drawn no fancy picture, but one that holds true with
regard to thousands. Evils that I cannot enumerate and that
imagination cannot exaggerate wait upon and attend these
unfortunate, nay, criminal marriages; which very largely are the
result of that one great all-pervading cause--the housing of the
poor.
But in the underworld there are much worse kinds of married life
than the one I have pictured, for those young people did start
life with some income and some hopes. But what can be said
about, and what new condemnation can be passed upon, the marriage
of feeble-minded, feeble-bodied, homeless wanderers? United in
the bonds of holy matrimony by an eager clergy, and approved in
this deplorable step by an all-wise State, thousands of crazy,
curious, wretched, penniless individuals, to whom even the hire
system is impossible, join their hopeless lives.
Half idiots of both sexes in our workhouses look at each other,
and then take their discharge after a mutual understanding. They
experience no difficulty in finding clergymen ready to marry them
and unite them in the bonds of poverty and the gall of
wretchedness. The blessing of the Church is pronounced upon this
coupling, and away they go!
Over their lives and means of living I will draw a veil, for
common decency forbids me to speak, as common decency ought to
have forbidden their marriage.
But down in the underworld, and very low down, too, are
numberless couples whose plight is perhaps worse, for they have
at any rate known the refined comfort of good homes, but
remembrance only adds poignancy to suffering and despair.
Read the following story, and after condemnation upon
condemnation has been passed upon the thoughtless or wicked
marriages of the poor, tell me, if you will, what condemnation
shall be passed upon the educated when they, through marriage,
drag down into this inferno innocent, loving and pure women?
It was Boxing Day in a London police-court. Twenty-five years
have passed, but that day is as fresh in my memory as though it
were yesterday. The prisoners' rooms were filled, the precincts
of the court were full, and a great crowd of witnesses and
friends, or of the curious public, were congregated in the
street.
Yesterday had been the great Christian festival, the celebration
of the birth of the Prince of Peace, when the bells had rang out
the old story "Peace on earth, good-will to men." To-day it
looked as though Hell had been holding carnival!
Nearly one hundred prisoners had to come before the magistrate.
I can see them now! as one by one they passed before him, for
time has not dimmed the vivid picture of that procession. I
remember their stories, and think still of their cuts and wounds.
Outside the court the day was dull, and inside the light was bad
and the air heavy with the fumes of stale debauch and chloride of
lime. And yesterday had been Christmas Day in the metropolis of
Christendom.
Hours passed, and the kindly magistrate sat on apportioning
punishment, fitting the sentence as it were by instinct. At two
o'clock he rose for a short recess, a hasty luncheon, and then
back to his task.
At the end of the long procession came a smitten woman. Darkness
and fog now enveloped the court as the woman stood in the dock.
Her age was given as twenty-eight; her occupation pickle-making.
First let me picture that woman and then tell her story, for she
represents a number of women into whose forlorn faces I have
looked and of whose hopeless hearts I have an intimate knowledge.
Some men have conquered evil habits, helped by the love of a pure
woman, without which they would have vainly struggled or have
readily succumbed. But while I know this, I think of the women
who have fastened the tendrils of their heart's affection round
unworthy men, and have married them, hoping, trusting and
believing that their love and influence would be powerful enough
to win the men to sobriety and virtue. Alas! how mistaken they
have been! What they have endured! Of such was this woman!
There she stood, the embodiment of woe. A tall, refined woman,
her clothing poor and sparse, her head enveloped in surgical
bandages.
In the darkness of the Christmas night she had leaped from the
wall of a canal bridge into the murky gloom, her head had struck
the bank, and she rolled into the thick, black water.
It was near the basin of the Surrey Canal, and a watchman on duty
had pulled her out; she had been taken to a hospital and attended
to. Late in the afternoon the policeman brought her to the
court, where a charge of attempted suicide was brought against
her. But little evidence was taken, and the magistrate ordered a
week's remand. In the cells I had a few moments' conversation
with her, but all I could get from her was the pitiful moan, "Why
didn't they let me die? why didn't they let me die?"
In a week's time I saw her again; surgical bandages were gone,
medical attention and a week's food and rest had done something
for her, but still she was the personification of misery.
I offered to take charge of her, and as she quietly promised not
to repeat the attempt, the magistrate kindly committed her to my
care. So we went to her room: it was a poor place, and many
steps we climbed before we entered it. High up as the room was,
and small as were its dimensions, she, out of the nine shillings
she earned at the pickle factory paid three and sixpence weekly
for it. I had gathered from what she had told me that she was in
poverty and distress. So on our way I brought a few provisions;
leaving these and a little money with her, I left her promising
to see her again after a few days. But before leaving she
briefly told me her story, a sad, sad story, but a story to be
read and pondered.
She was the only daughter of a City merchant, and had one
brother. While she was quite a child her mother died, and at an
early age she managed her father's household. She made the
acquaintance of a clever and accomplished man who was an
accountant. He was older than she, and of dissipated habits.
Her father had introduced him to his home and daughter, little
thinking of the consequences that ensued. She had no mother to
guide her, she was often lonely, for her father was immersed in
his business.
In a very short time she had fixed her heart on to the man, and
when too late her father expostulated, and finally forbade the
man the house. This only intensified her love and led to
quarrels with her father. Ultimately they married, and had a
good home and two servants. In a little over three years two
children added to her joys and sorrows. Still her husband's
faults were not amended, but his dissipation increased. Monetary
difficulties followed, and to avoid disgrace her father was
called upon to provide a large sum of money.
This did not add to his sympathy, but it estranged the father and
child.
Then difficulties followed, and soon her husband stood in the
dock charged with embezzlement. Eighteen months' imprisonment
was awarded him, but the greater punishment fell upon the
suffering wife. Her father refused to see her, so with her two
little ones she was left to face the future. Parting with most
of her furniture, jewellery, servant, she gave up her house, took
two small rooms, and waited wearily for the eighteen months to
pass.
They passed, and her husband came back to her. But his character
was gone, the difficulty of finding employment stared him in the
face.
He joined the ranks of the shabby-genteel to live somehow by bits
of honest work, mixed with a great deal of dishonest work. Four
years of this life, two more children for the mother, increasing
drunkenness, degenerating into brutality on her husband's part.
Her father's death and some little money left to her gave
momentary respite. But the money soon went. Her brother had
taken the greater portion and had gone into a far country. This
was the condition of affairs when her husband was again arrested;
this time for forgery. There was no doubt about his guilt, and a
sentence of five years' penal servitude followed. Again she
parted with most of her home, reducing it to one room.
With her four children round her she tried to eke out an
existence. She soon became penniless, and ultimately with her
children took refuge in a London workhouse. After a time the
guardians sent the four children to their country school and
nursing home, when she was free to leave the workhouse and get
her own living.
She came out with a letter of introduction to the pickle factory,
and obtained employment at nine shillings a week. The weeks and
months passed, her daily task and common round being a mile walk
to the factory, ten hours' work, and then the return journey.
One week-end on her homeward journey she was attracted and
excited by a fire; when she resumed her journey she was
penniless, her week's wages had been stolen from her. Her only
warm jacket and decent pair of boots then had to be pawned, for
the rent must be paid. Monday found her again at the monotonous
round, but with added hardships.
She missed the jacket and the boots, and deprived herself of food
that she might save enough money wherewith to take them out of
pawn. Christmas Eve came, and she had not recovered them. She
sat in her room lonely and with a sad heart, but there was mirth
and noise below her, for even among the poor Bacchus must be
worshipped at Christmas time.
One of the women thought of the poor lone creature up at the top
of the house, and fetched her down. They had their bottles of
cheap spirits, for which they had paid into the publican's
Christmas club. She drank, and forgot her misery. Next morning,
when the bells of a neighbouring church were ringing out, they
awoke her as she lay fully dressed on her little bed. She felt
ill and dazed, and by and by the consciousness came to her of
fast night's drinking. Christmas Day she spent alone, ill,
miserable and ashamed. "I must have been drunk!" she kept
repeating to herself, and on Christmas night she sought her
death.
I wrote to kind friends, and interested some ladies in her
welfare. Plenty of clothing was sent for her; a better room, not
quite so near the sky, was procured for her. Her daily walk to
the factory was stopped, for more profitable work was given to
her. Finally I left her in the hands of kind friends that I knew
would care for her.
Two years passed, and on Christmas Eve I called with a present
and a note sent her by a friend. She was gone--her husband had
been released on ticket-of-leave, had found her and joined her,
and for a time she kept him as well as herself. He was more
brutal than before, and in his fury, either drunk or sober, he
frequently beat her, so that the people of the house had to send
them away. Where they had moved to, I failed to find out, but
they had vanished!
Fourteen months passed, and one bitterly cold day in February at
the end of a long row of prisoners, waiting their turn to appear
before the magistrate, stood the woman wretched and ill, with a
puling bit of mortality in her arms.
She was a "day charge," having been arrested for stealing a pot
of condensed milk. At length she stood before the magistrate,
and the evidence was given that she was seen to take the milk and
hurry away. She was arrested with the milk on her.
It was believed that she had taken milk from the same place at
other times. When asked what she had to say in extenuation, she
held her child up and said, "I did not take it for myself, I took
it for this!" She did not call it her child. The magistrate
looked, shuddered, and sentenced her to one day.
So once again I stood face to face with her, and face to face
with a big man who had been waiting for her, who insolently asked
me what I wanted with his wife. I turned from him to the woman,
and asked if she would leave him, for if so I would provide for
her.
Mournfully she shook her head; leave him, no!--to the bitter end
she stood by him.
So they passed from my view, the educated brute and the
despairing, battered, faithful drudge of a woman, to migrate from
lodging-house to lodging-house, to suffer and to die!
If all the girls of England could see what I have seen, if they
could take, as I have taken, some measure of the keen anguish and
sorrow that comes from such a step, they would never try the
dangerous experiment of marrying a man in the hope of reforming
him. Should, perchance, young women read this story, let me tell
them it is true in every particular, but not the whole truth, for
there are some things that cannot be told.
Again and again I have heard poor stricken women cry: "How can
you! how can you!" More than once my manhood has been roused,
and I have struck a blow in their defence.
If there is one piece of advice that, in the light of my
experience, I would like to burn into the very consciousness of
young women, it is this: if they have fastened their heart's
love about a man, and find that thorough respect does not go with
that love, then, at whatever cost, let them crush that love as
they would crush a serpent's egg.
And the same holds good with men: I have known men in moments of
passion marry young women, trusting that a good home and an
assured income would restore them to decency and womanhood--but
in vain! I saw a foul-looking woman far from old sent again to
prison, where she had been more than a hundred times. She had
also served two years in an inebriate reformatory. Fifteen years
ago, when I first met her, she was a fair-looking young woman.
Needless to say, I met her in the police-court. A short time
afterwards she came to tell me that she was married. She had a
good home, her husband was in good circumstances, and knew of her
life. A few years of home life, two little children to call her
mother; then back to her sensual ways. Prisons, rescue homes,
workhouses, inebriate reformatories, all have failed to reclaim
her, and she lives to spread moral corruption.
CHAPTER IX
BRAINS IN THE UNDERWORLD
I hope that, in some of my chapters, I have made it clear that a
large proportion of the underworld people are industrious and
persevering. I want in this chapter to show that many of them
have also ability and brains, gifts and graces. This is a
pleasant theme, and I would revel in it, but for the sorrowful
side of it.
It may seem strange that people living under their conditions
should possess these qualities, but in reality there is nothing
strange about it, for Nature laughs at us, and bestows her gifts
upon whom she pleases, though I have no doubt that she works to
law and order if we only understood.
But we do not understand, and therefore she appears whimsical and
capricious. I rather expect that even when eugenists get their
way and the human race is born to order, that Dame Nature, the
mother of us all, will not consent to be left out of the
reckoning. Be that as it may, it is certain she bestows her
personal gifts among the very poor equally with the rich. She is
a true socialist, and, like Santa Claus, she visits the homes of
the very poor and bestows gifts upon their children.
Some of the most perfect ladies I have ever met have been
uneducated women living in poverty and gloom. I do not say the
most beautiful, for suffering and poverty are never beautiful.
Neither can rings of care beneath the eyes, and countless furrows
upon the face be considered beautiful. But, apart from this, I
have found many personal graces and the perfection of behaviour
among some of the poorest. All this I consider more wonderful
than the possession of brains, though of brains they are by no
means deficient.
Have you ever noticed how pretty the healthy children of the very
poor are? I am not speaking of unhealthy and feeble children,
who are all too numerous, but of the healthy; for, strange as it
may appear, there are many such, even in the underworld. Where
do you find such beautiful curly hair as they possess? in very
few places! It is perfect in its freedom, texture, colour and
curl. Dame Nature has not forgotten them! Where do you find
prettier faces, more sparkling eyes and eager expressions?
Nowhere! And though their faces become prematurely old, and
their eyes become hard, still Dame Nature had not forgotten them
at birth; she, at any rate, had done her best for them.
Search any families, bring out the hundreds of pretty children,
and I will bring hundreds of children from below the line that
will compare with them in beauty of body, face and hair. But
they must be under four years of age! No! no! the children of
the upperworld have not a monopoly of Dame Nature's gifts.
And it is so with mental gifts and graces; the poor get a good
share of them, but the pity is they get so little chance of
exercising them. For many splendid qualities wither from disuse
or perish from lack of development. But some survive, as the
following stories will prove.
It was a hot day in June, and, in company with a friend who
wished to learn something about the lives of the very poor, I was
visiting in the worst quarters of East London.
As we moved from house to house, the thick air within, and the
dirt within and without were almost too much for us. The box-
like rooms, the horrible backyards, the grime of the men, women
and children, combined with the filth in the streets and gutters,
made us sick and faint. We asked ourselves whether it was
possible that anything decent, virtuous or intelligent could live
under such conditions?
The "place" was dignified by the name of a street, although in
reality it was a blind alley, for a high wall closed one end of
it. It was very narrow, and while infants played in the unclean
gutters, frowsy women discussed domestic or more exciting matters
with women on the opposite side.
They discussed us too as we passed, and audibly commented, though
not favourably, on our business. I had visited the street scores
of times, and consequently I was well known. Unfortunately my
address was also well known, for every little act of kindness
that I ventured to do in that street had been followed by a
number of letters from jealous non-recipients.
I venture to say that from every house save one I had received
begging or unpleasant letters, for jealousy of each other's
benefits was a marked characteristic of that unclean street. As
we entered the house from which no letter had been received, we
heard a woman call to her neighbour, "They are going to see the
old shoemaker." She was correct in her surmise, and right glad
we were to make the old man's acquaintance; not that he was very
old, but then fifty-nine in a London slum may be considered old
age. He sat in a Windsor arm-chair in a very small kitchen; a
window at his back revealed that abomination of desolation, a
Bethnal Green backyard. He sat as he had sat for years, bent and
doubled up, for some kind of paralysis had overtaken him.
He had a fine head and a pointed beard, his thin and weak neck
seemed hardly able to bear its heavy burden. He was not
overclean, and his clothes were, to say the least, shabby. But
there he sat, his wife at work to maintain him. We stood, for
there was no sitting room for us. Grime, misery and poverty were
in evidence.
He told us that his forefathers were Huguenots, who fled from
France and settled as silk weavers in Spitalfields. He had been
apprenticed to boot- and shoe-making, his particular branch of
work having been boots and shoes for actresses and operatic
singers. That formerly he had earned good money, but the trade
declined as he had grown older, and now for some years he had
been crippled and unable to work, and dependent upon his wife,
who was a machinist.
There did not seem much room for imagination and poetry in his
home and life, but the following conversation took place--
"It is a very hard life for you sitting month after month on that
chair, unable to do anything!" "It is hard, I do not know what I
should do if I could not think." "Oh, you think, do you well,
thinking is hard work." "Not to me, it is my pleasure and
occupation." "What do you think about?" "All sorts of things,
what I have read mostly." "What have you read" "Everything that
I could get hold of, novelists, poetry, history and travel."
"What novelist do you like best" The answer came prompt and
decisive: "Dickens," "Why?" "He loved the poor, he shows a
greater belief in humanity than Thackeray." "How do you prove
that?" "Well, take Thackeray's VANITY FAIR, it is clever and
satirical, but there is only one good character, and he was a
fool; but in Dickens you come across character after character
that you can't help loving."
"Which of his books do you like best?" "A TALE OF TWO CITIES."
"Why?" "Well, because the French Revolution always appeals to
me, and secondly because I think the best bit of writing in all
his books is the description of Sydney Carton's ride on the
tumbrel to the guillotine." "Have you ever read Carlyle's FRENCH
REVOLUTION?" "No" "I will lend it to you." "If you do, I will
read it."
"How about poetry, what poets do you like?" "The minor poets of
two hundred years ago, Herrick, Churchill, Shenstone and others."
"Why do you like them?" "They are so pretty, so easy to
understand, you know what they mean; they speak of beauty, and
flowers and love, their language is tuneful and sweet." Thus the
grimy old shoemaker spoke, but I continued: "What about the
present-day poets?" Swift came the reply, "We have got none."
This was a staggerer, but I suggested: "What about Kipling?"
"Too slangy and Coarse!" "Austin?" "Don't ask me." "What of
Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning?" "Well, Wordsworth is too
prosy, you have to read such a lot to get a little; Tennyson is a
bit sickly and too sentimental, I mean with washy sentiment;
Browning I cannot understand, he is too hard for me."
"Now let us talk: about dramatists; you have read Shakespeare?"
"Yes, every play again and again." "Which do you like best?" "I
like them all, the historical and the imaginative; I have never
seen one acted, but to me King Lear is his masterpiece."
So we left him doubled up in his chair, in his grime and poverty,
lighting up his poor one room with great creations, bearing his
heavy burdens, never repining, thinking great thoughts and
re-enacting great events, for his mind to him was a kingdom.
The next day my friend sent a dozen well-selected books, but the
old shoemaker never sought or looked for any assistance.
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