IN LOW COMPANY.
Nothing was blacker than the outlook in this land of ours fifty years
ago. The parson droned away on Sunday, preaching a gospel which had not
the remotest reference to living men, and good people sighed placidly as
the preacher dwelt apparently _con amore_—and without the slightest sign
of regret—on the torture and the flame to which the wicked would be
eternally condemned. The hearer, if well to do, went home complacently
to his Sunday dinner and glass or two of port; while the poor sinner
preferred to sleep off the Saturday night’s debauch, leaving the missus
and the children to go to a place of worship, on the condition that the
dinner should not be forgotten. But it was chiefly the small shopkeepers
who came to attend what were called the means of grace. I remember a
parish clerk who made a point of attending the Wesleyan chapel in the
evening. In time the old vicar died and a new one reigned in his stead.
In his wisdom he proposed to have evening service in the parish church to
hinder the sheep from roving in forbidden pastures.
But said the parish clerk, when his vicar suggested the idea: ‘Oh no,
sir; that will never do. You will deprive me of the means of grace
altogether.’
Surely when Queen Victoria commenced her reign the sun never shone on a
darker land than ours. Ignorance, poverty, intemperance, licentiousness
ran riot—in spite of the fact that good people were subscribing their
tens of thousands to spread the Bible all over the world and to convert
the heathen, who many of them lived more decent lives than our own
people. Not far from the scene of which I write, a noble lord, who had
been a sailor and had a fine gift of swearing, presided over a local
meeting of the British and Foreign Bible Society. As a chairman he
laboured under many difficulties, but he managed to make a short speech,
in which he assured his hearers that the society was a d---d good one and
deserved to be d---d well supported. The country life of the gentleman
was just what we see it in ‘Tom Jones.’ In the towns things were little
better. Lives were shortened by intemperance and neglect of all sanitary
requirements. The employer had no thought for the people he employed.
The peasant and the workman had little done for them, the pauper had even
less. There were no cheap newspapers to stir up the sleeping intellect
of the country. If such a thing as a national conscience existed it was
very feeble—eaten up with pride. The Englishman was dead to the needs of
the times. The bitter cry of the distressed had not then sounded over
the land.
Little children from four to eight years of age, the majority of them
orphans, the rest sold by brutal parents, were trained as chimney-sweeps.
In order to make their skins tough and not to suffer as they climbed they
were rubbed with brine before a hot fire. They were liable to what was
called chimney sweeper’s cancer. They were often suffocated by soot and
died when at work. Often they were stifled by the hot sulphurous air in
the flues; often they would stick in the chimney and faint from the
effects of terror, exhaustion and foul air. Lighted straw was used to
bring them round, and if that failed they were often half killed, and
sometimes killed outright, by the efforts to extricate them. Sailors
were sent to sea in ships heavily insured—and great was the loss of
valuable life—in order that some shipowners might reap a hellish profit.
It was reckoned that at that time the preventible mortality of the
country was annually 90,000. In 1843 there were 1,500 young persons of
fourteen and upwards engaged as milliners and dressmakers in the
Metropolis. Their hours were from fifteen to eighteen a day, with only a
little interval of rest, and the consequence was that consumption and
impaired eyesight were terribly prevalent among them.
As late as 1854 a gentleman who commenced a religious service in one of
the largest cottages on his estate for the benefit of the dense
population around him of miners, had to give up the good work, as he was
threatened with a prosecution for the breach of the Conventicle Act.
Churchyards in overcrowded districts were allowed to spread disease and
death all around. The houses in which the poor were forced to herd were
almost destitute of sewage drainage and water supply.
It was found that in the fourteen houses of which Wild Street, Drury
Lane, for example, consisted, nearly one thousand persons found shelter,
and that the very staircases were crowded nightly with poor wretches, to
whom even the pestilential accommodation of the rooms was an unattainable
luxury. It was said that more beggars were to be encountered in a walk
from Westminster Abbey to Oxford Street than in a tour from London to
Switzerland, whether by Paris or the Rhine. There were 80,000 in the
common lodging-houses of the City, and no authority to see that decency
and proper sanitary conditions were applied to any of them. Nor were the
homes of the agricultural peasants much better.
When Lord Ashley became Earl of Shaftesbury, and took possession of the
family estate, he writes: ‘Inspected a few cottages—filthy, close,
indecent, unwholesome.’ All England was a whited sepulchre, full of dead
men’s bones. But the climax of wickedness was only to be seen in a low
London lodging-house; let us enter one.
Mint Street, Borough, was better known than trusted some years not very
long ago. It was a nasty place to go down of a night, especially if you
happened to be the owner of a watch or had a sovereign or two in your
pocket, nor did the police much care to explore its mysteries. Somehow
or other the place bore a bad name, and has ever done so since the days
of Jonathan Wild and his merry men, who at one time are reported to have
resided there. In its low lodging-houses were to be found the very scum
of the earth—the virtuous and deserving poor, as they would have us
believe they are, always in search of employment, which they
unfortunately never find—who are dishonest, and lazy, and improvident,
and drunken, and dissolute, very much against their own inclination, and
to their own intense disgust—the victims of the wicked landlord or
wickeder capitalist. They live in the lodging-houses of the district,
which are generally pretty full, at the rate of fourpence a night, except
when the hop-picking is on, when away the inmates tramp by the hundred
down to the pleasant hop-gardens of Kent, or Sussex, or Hampshire,
carrying with them all the filth and squalor of the town, tainting the
air and polluting the fair face of Nature as they pass along. It is true
that now the city missionary follows in their steps, otherwise it would
be a bad look-out indeed.
Turning down into the street, avoiding the policeman who happened to be
on duty at the time, one summer evening might be seen a man and a woman.
They were tired and dusty, and had evidently travelled far. On both was
the mark of Cain, and they were fleeing from justice to quarters where
guilt and shame find convenient repose. They knocked at a door, where,
after they had been surveyed through a wicket, they were received on the
payment of such small sum as the deputy-keeper was legitimately entitled
to charge. It was a big room into which they entered, with a great fire
at one end, at which various cooking operations were going on; and on the
benches at the side some slept, or smoked, or talked, or read, as the
fancy suited them. Behind was a yard, in which one or two were engaged
in the process familiarly known as cleaning themselves up.
Neither the place nor the company would have been attractive to a decent
working man. There was a foulness in the air and talk of the place which
would have revolted him, yet in that crowd of needy and disreputable
creatures were men who had been to college and had had the benefit of a
University education, and women who had known something of the sunshine
of life; alas! all—all were given over to evil, utterly lost and
reprobate. It was not ignorance, not misfortune, not a wicked world,
that had made them what they were. They had been the architects of their
own lives. They had to lie on the beds they had made. Society is much
troubled about them. What if society were to leave them alone, and to
look better after the really deserving poor, who are always present with
us—who are so low down in the world as to be compelled to take wages on
which they cannot possibly live—who require and deserve the utmost
sympathy from all classes of the community in their sorrow and distress
and struggles? These are the weak, whose burdens the strong are bidden,
in the Book to which most of us appeal for instruction and guidance, to
bear.
‘Why, ye’re soon back again,’ said one of the inmates, engaged in the
interesting operation of frying a Yarmouth bloater—‘you’re soon back
again; I thought you was down at Sloville.’
‘Lor’ bless you! we han’t been near Sloville for years.’
‘Ah, I remember, I heard you were in the Black Country.’
‘Yes, we was there, but the fact was we had to hook it!’
‘Oh, I see, up to the old trick!’ said he with a smile.
‘Perhaps,’ was the reply.
The fact was that one afternoon the tramp and the woman met with an old
farmer coming home from market a little the worse for liquor, and him
they had kindly relieved of his watch, as he was far too gone to be able
to take proper care of it himself. The old farmer, naturally, was
aggrieved, and tried to defend himself. This led to a little compulsory
action on the part of his friends, and he was left senseless by the
roadside, while they made the best of their way out of the neighbourhood.
Fortune always favours the brave, and our friends were in this respect no
exception to the general rule. They had had rather a successful
campaign—visiting lonely lanes untrodden by the police, and robbing
romantic young ladies fond of the country of what jewellery they might
happen to wear. People are always asking us to pity the poor worn-out
tramp. I am rather inclined to pity his victim.
‘But where’s the kid?’
‘Oh, we left him behind. But, lor’ bless you, we know where to find him
again. He’s safe to be in Parker’s Buildings, or somewhere thereabout.’
‘Got any money about you?’
‘Not much worth speaking of—not quite done for, either,’ continued the
tramp. ‘Look here,’ said he, peering cautiously about, and drawing out
of his coat-pocket a very dirty and ragged handkerchief, in which was
wrapped up a watch—an old-fashioned one, but real silver, nevertheless.
Seeing no one was looking on, he proudly exclaimed: ‘What do you say to
that?’
‘A beauty, but why didn’t yer spout it at once? Suppose the peeler had
collared yer—what a mess ye would have been in.’
‘Lor’ bless ye, I wa’nt such a flat as that. What could I ’ave got for
it on the tramp? Now, it is good for a round sum.’
‘Shall I go and spout it?’ said the old acquaintance.
‘Yes, me and missus have walked enough to-day; but ain’t it rather late?’
‘Yes, but there is the shop at the corner. You know they are not
particular.’
And that was quite true. The head of that respectable establishment
generally contrived to do a good deal of business, in spite of the law
and the police, and, if the receiver is as bad as the thief, was a very
bad man indeed. In a little while the messenger returned, bearing with
him a bottle of gin, a couple of pounds of rump steak, and the other
materials for a good supper, and a certain amount of cash, which he
handed over to the new-comer, and which seemed perfectly satisfactory.
As eagles round the carcase gathered the few casuals that happened to be
present. Most of them were old gaol-birds, all of them were the slaves
of drink—quarrelsome or good-tempered according to their respective
temperaments. They were ready for any feat, or not averse to any crime,
if it could be done in a sneaking, underhand manner. Literally their
hands were against everyone, and everyone’s hands against them. But now
they were all on the best of terms. There was a little drink going on;
who knew but what a drop might fall to their share. At any rate they
were all glad to see Carroty Bill as they called him once more in their
midst; in the line of life they affected his ruffianism made him a hero.
That night was an extra scene of festivity at the lodging house; one of
the inmates had been bagged, and had served his time, and had come back
resolved to qualify himself as soon as possible for another term of
imprisonment, at the expense of the unfortunate taxpayer. And there was
a good deal of sociable enjoyment in accordance with the old saying, that
when the wine is in the wit is out.
‘Anybody been in trouble, since I was here?’ asked our friend the tramp.
‘No, nothing particular—drunk and disorderly, that’s all. But we’ve had
some narrow shaves, and the sergeant told the guvnor last night that ’e’s
got his heye on hus.’
‘His eye be blowed! But who is yon cove?’
‘Oh, a poor banker’s clerk.’
‘And the fellow he’s talking to?’
‘Him with the red nose? Oh, we call him the Professor. He’s from Oxford
University he says, and gives himself very high and mighty airs when he’s
in his cups. But they’re all right.’
‘I’ll soon let you know who I am,’ said a lad who was listening to the
talk.
‘Well, who are you?’
‘I am a thief, and not ashamed to own it.’
Here there was a general cry of ‘Bravo!’
‘I ain’t done a day’s work in my life, and don’t mean to. Wot’s the good
on it? A fellow ain’t a bit the better for it at the year’s end. He’s a
deal to bear. He’s got to put up with his master’s whims; to put up with
his foreman and his mates; to toil from morning to night, never to have a
day’s pleasure; to be a poor slave. No, I know a trick worth two of
that.’
Again there were cries of ‘Bravo!’
‘Why should I work hard for a master to make money by me! Here I can
lead a free life. If I am hill, can’t I go to the ’ospital? If I ain’t
got a shot in the locker, can’t I nurse up at a soup-kitchen? At the
worst I can go into the work’ouse, and get my keep out of the parish.
And then when I’m in luck, what a life I can have at the music-halls and
with the gals! I heard the chaplain of the gaol preach a sermon about
honesty being the best policy. That’s all very fine, but somehow or
other I did not seem to see it.’
Here there was more applause.
The speaker continued:
‘I’ve done nothing wot’s good. I know I’m a bad un.’
‘Yes, we all know that.’
‘And why?’
‘Ah, that’s the question!’ said the interested group of listeners.
‘I’ll tell you for why. I han’t no father—at any rate, I never knowed
one. My mother turned me out o’ doors at the age of thirteen. I then
stole a pair o’ boots, and was sent to prison for one month for it. What
could I do when I came out but go back to thievin’? In a little while I
was convicted for stealing out of a till, and sent to prison for three
months. Arter a little spreein’ about, and a few ups and downs, I came
to grief again in an attempt to steal a watch, and this time got six
months. After I came out I renewed my wicious courses’ (here a laugh
went round the room), ‘and I got four months for stealin’ a purse. As
soon as I came out I run agin a perliceman, against whom I had a spite,
as he was always ’avin’ his heye on me, and got fourteen days’
imprisonment for assault. The next time I had three months for an
attempt to rob a drunken old sailor in the Borough. Then I ’ad six
months for stealin’ a watch. And the next time—and that I did not
like—twelve months for stealin’ a purse. However, when I came out I
enjoyed my liberty, and did not make a bad use o’ my time. Arter that I
got a long sentence, and now for good behaviour I am out with a liberty
ticket.’
‘Well, well, such is life!’ said the red-nosed curate, who had been
listening attentively. ‘I suppose we’re all villains of necessity, and
fools by a divine thrusting on. What’s the odds as long as we’re happy?
Look at my learning, my abilities, my virtues—where am I the better? Are
we not all on the same low level? All, if I may be pardoned the phrase,
a little shaky, a little down in the world? Let’s liquor up,’ said he,
bringing out of his side pocket a bottle of rum, and passing it round,
often tasting with evident gusto its contents.
In the midst of the excitement a gent came in apparently much excited. I
say gent, as he was not a gentleman. He had too red a nose and too
sodden an appearance to be taken for anything of the kind. He was a
perfect picture of a human wreck as, unwashed and unshaven, with a short
pipe in his mouth, he joined the drinking group.
‘Hollo, parson,’ they all exclaimed, ‘wot’s the row? Anythink up?’
‘Nothing particular, only a highway robbery in the Black Country, and a
farmer left for dead.’
‘In the Black Country? Where’s that?’ asked the tramp. ‘Whoever heard
of such a place?’
‘Why, you just said you’d been down there,’ said one of the party.
‘Well, what if I did? You don’t suppose I had anything to do with the
job?’ said the new-comer angrily.
‘Of course not,’ was the universal reply.
Harmony being restored, the bottle of gin was drunk, and another sent
for. The fun grew fast and furious. The conviviality was of the
choicest character, or rather it degenerated into an orgie. Does the
reader recollect that splendid passage of Lord Bacon, in which he tells
us, ‘In Orpheus’s theatre all the birds assembled, and forgetting their
several appetites—some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel—stood all
sociably together, listening to the concert, which no sooner ceased, or
was drowned by some louder noise, but every beast returned to his own
nature.’ The gin in the low lodging-house had produced a similar effect.
While it lasted the partakers for the time being had forgot their several
appetites—some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel—and stood or sat
all sociably together. No sooner had the supply of liquor ceased than
the good-fellowship became changed into hate and discord, as the various
natures of the guests reasserted themselves.
The tramp’s female companion became suspicious. She was not so drunk as
the rest, and had become conscious that there was a reward of ten pounds
offered to anyone who should give such evidence as might lead to the
conviction of the perpetrator or perpetrators of the recent outrage. The
company she knew comprised more than one individual who was quite ready
to earn a ten-pound note in such a way, and she determined, as far as it
was in her power, not to give them the chance. Unperceived she slipped
out, and fled as fast as she could and as far as she could. All at once
there was a cry on the part of the tramp and his friends, ‘Where’s Sal?’
Some searched for her under the table, others investigated the sleeping
apartments, others the back premises, which were of the most capacious
kind, but no Sal was to be found.
The curate summoned up all his dignity, and, approaching the inebriated
tramp, said to him:
‘My friend, I have a painful revelation to make.’
‘A wot?’
‘A painful revelation.’
‘I don’t know wot yer mane; but out with it, old man, and don’t stand
there as if you was chokin’.’
‘Your wife has bolted.’
‘Oh, has she? Let her bolt. She’s no wife of mine. There are others as
good as she.’
‘You don’t seem much affected by the loss,’ replied the Oxonian. ‘You’re
quite a philosopher. You seem perfectly aware how _femina mutabile
est_.’
‘Now, don’t come that nonsense with me,’ said the man angrily. ‘When I
drinks, I drinks; and I don’t bother my head about anything else. Why
should I? As to women, they’re like all the rest of us—here to-day, gone
to-morrow.’
‘Ah, I see you’re a man of the world.’
‘I believe yer, my boy,’ said the tramp, who felt flattered at the
intended compliment.
‘You don’t think she’s gone to split,’ whispered one of the party in the
tramp’s ear.
‘No, I should think not. Let me catch her at it!’
‘Or me,’ added his chum. ‘We’ll be sure to mark her, and serve her d---
well!’
The sentiment being favourably received, more exhilarating liquor was
circulated. That which cheers and inebriates at the same time by many is
much preferred to that which cheers alone. In that long room and low
company it was intoxicating liquor that had done the mischief. Without
character, without clothes, without food, without money, filthy and
fallen, these poor wretches had given up all for drink. For that the
mother was ready to sell her child, or the husband his wife. For that
the criminal was ready to give up an accomplice, and to turn King’s
evidence, or to commit any deed of shame. In time the drink supply was
stopped, and the drinkers staggered upstairs to the crowded bedrooms,
redolent of filth and blasphemy.
‘I say,’ said the tramp’s friend, ‘where do you think that woman’s gone?’
‘Gone; how should I know? Perhaps she’s gone back to Sloville.’
‘To Sloville! why?’
‘To look after the boy.’
‘A child of hers?’
‘What do you want to know for?’ said the tramp angrily. ‘You’re too
inquisitive by half,’ said he, in a drunken tone, and in the next moment
he sank into a drunken sleep. And the questioner—he, too, in a moment
was in the Land of Nod, dreaming of the days of innocence, when he was a
bright, happy boy, guarded with a mother’s love and father’s care, in a
well-appointed home, with gardens where grew fruits and flowers, and
musical with the song of birds; where the sun shone bright and the air
was balmy; in a home where care and filth and sorrow and disease and want
and woe seemed almost unknown. His pals carried him off to bed.
Suddenly he woke up and asked himself where he was. Presently he lifted
himself up in bed and looked around. At the far end a dim gas-light
helped him to realize the horrors of his situation. He was in a long,
filthy, evil smelling, low room, with thirty beds in a row, side by side,
packed as close together as sardines in a box. Every bed was occupied.
And as he gazed on the sad faces near him he gave a scream which drew
down on him many a curse.
‘Hush! why can’t you be quiet?’ said the deputy keeper, ever fearful of
the police.
But the scream was renewed.
‘Why, I’m blessed,’ said one, ‘if he ain’t got the D.T.!’
Could anything be more horrible, as the angry keepers mocked and jeered
and maddened him? Struggling and shrieking, he was borne off by men
stronger than himself to the nearest hospital, and for awhile there was
peace.