CHAPTER I.

HOW THE POOR LIVE, AND HORRIBLE LONDON

By George R. Sims

London

Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly

1889

PREFACE.

|The papers which form this volume appeared originally in _The Pictorial

World_ and _The Daily News_. The interest now evinced in the great

question of Housing the Poor leads me to hope that they will be of

assistance to many who are studying the subject, and would desire to

have their information in a convenient form for reference. Much that

I ventured to prognosticate when 'How the Poor Live' was written has

happened since, and I have the permission of the author of 'The Bitter

Cry of Outcast London' to say that from these articles he derived the

greatest assistance while compiling his famous pamphlet. I have thought

it well, all circumstances considered, to let the work stand in its

original form, and have in no way added to it or altered it.

If an occasional lightness of treatment seems to the reader out of

harmony with so grave a subject, I pray that he will remember the work

was undertaken to enlist the sympathies of a class not generally given

to the study of 'low life.'

GEORGE R. SIMS

HOW THE POOR LIVE.

CHAPTER I.

|I commence, with the first of these chapters, a book of travel. An

author and an artist have gone hand-in-hand into many a far-off region

of the earth, and the result has been a volume eagerly studied by the

stay-at-home public, anxious to know something of the world in which

they live. In these pages I propose to record the result of a journey

into a region which lies at our own doors--into a dark continent that is

within easy walking distance of the General Post Office. This continent

will, I hope, be found as interesting as any of those newly-explored

lands which engage the attention of the Royal Geographical Society--the

wild races who inhabit it will, I trust, gain public sympathy as easily

as those savage tribes for whose benefit the Missionary Societies never

cease to appeal for funds.

I have no shipwrecks, no battles, no moving adventures by flood

and field, to record. Such perils as I and my fellow-traveller have

encountered on our journey are not of the order which lend themselves

to stirring narrative. It is unpleasant to be mistaken, in underground

cellars where the vilest outcasts hide from the light of day, for

detectives in search of their prey--it is dangerous to breathe for some

hours at a stretch an atmosphere charged with infection and poisoned

with indescribable effluvia--it is hazardous to be hemmed in down a

blind alley by a crowd of roughs who have had hereditarily transmitted

to them the maxim of John Leech, that half-bricks were specially

designed for the benefit of 'strangers;' but these are not adventures

of the heroic order, and they will not be dwelt upon lovingly after the

manner of travellers who go farther afield.

My task is perhaps too serious a one even for the light tone of these

remarks. No man who has seen 'How the Poor Live' can return from the

journey with aught but an aching heart. No man who recognises how

serious is the social problem which lies before us can approach its

consideration in any but the gravest mood. Let me, then, briefly place

before the reader the serious purpose of these pages, and then I will

ask him to set out with me on the journey and judge for himself whether

there is no remedy for much that he will see. He will have to encounter

misery that some good people think it best to leave undiscovered. He

will be brought face to face with that dark side of life which the

wearers of rose-coloured spectacles turn away from on principle. The

worship of the beautiful is an excellent thing, but he who digs down

deep in the mire to find the soul of goodness in things evil is a better

man and a better Christian than he who shudders at the ugly and the

unclean, and kicks it from his path, that it may not come between the

wind and his nobility.

But let not the reader be alarmed, and imagine that I am about to take

advantage of his good-nature in order to plunge him neck-high into a

mud bath. He may be pained before we part company, but he shall not

be disgusted. He may occasionally feel a choking in his throat, but he

shall smile now and again. Among the poor there is humour as well as

pathos, there is food for laughter as well as for tears, and the rays

of God's sunshine lose their way now and again, and bring light and

gladness into the vilest of the London slums.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, in his speech at the opening

of the Royal College of Music some years ago, said: 'The time has come

when class can no longer stand aloof from class, and that man does his

duty best who works most earnestly in bridging over the gulf between

different classes which it is the tendency of increased wealth and

increased civilization to widen.' It is to increased wealth and to

increased civilization that we owe the wide gulf which to-day separates

well-to-do citizens from the masses. It is the increased wealth of this

mighty city which has driven the poor back inch by inch, until we

find them to-day herding together, packed like herrings in a barrel,

neglected and despised, and left to endure wrongs and hardships which,

if they were related of a far-off savage tribe, would cause Exeter Hall

to shudder till its bricks fell down. It is the increased civilization

of this marvellous age which has made life a victory only for the

strong, the gifted, and the specially blest, and left the weak, the

poor, and the ignorant to work out in their proper persons the theory of

the survival of the fittest to its bitter end.

There are not wanting signs that the 'one-roomed helot' and his brood

are about to receive a little scientific attention. They have become

natural curiosities, and to this fact they may owe the honour in store

for them, of dividing public attention with the Zenanas, the Aborigines,

and the South Sea Islanders. The long-promised era of domestic

legislation is said to be at hand, and prophets with powerful telescopes

declare they can see the first faint signs of its dawn upon the

political horizon. When that era has come within the range of the

naked eye, it is probable that the Homes of the Poor will be one of

its burning questions, and the strong arm of the law may be extended

protectingly, even at the risk of showing the shortness of its sleeve,

as far as the humble toilers who at the present moment suffer only its

penalties and enjoy none of its advantages.

That there are remedies for the great evil which lies like a cankerworm

in the heart of this fair city is certain. What those remedies are you

will be better able to judge when you have seen the condition of the

disease for which Dr. State is to be called in. Dr. State, alas! is as

slow to put in an appearance as his parish _confrère_ when the patient

in need of his services is poor and friendless.

Forgive me this little discourse by the way. It has at any rate filled

up the time as we walk along to the outskirts of the land through which

we are to travel for a few weeks together. And now, turning out of the

busy street alive with the roar of commerce, and where the great marts

and warehouses tower stories high, and where Dives adds daily to his

wealth, we turn up a narrow court, and find ourselves at once in the

slum where Lazarus lays his head--even as he did in the sacred story--at

the very gates of the mighty millionaire.

We walk along a narrow dirty passage, which would effectually have

stopped the Claimant had he come to this neighbourhood in search of

witnesses, and at the end we find ourselves in what we should call a

back-yard, but which, in the language of the neighbourhood, is a square.

The square is full of refuse; heaps of dust and decaying vegetable

matter lie about here and there, under the windows and in front of the

doors of the squalid tumble-down houses. The windows above and below are

broken and patched; the roofs of these two-storied 'eligible residences'

look as though Lord Alcester had been having some preliminary practice

with his guns here before he set sail for Alexandria. All these places

are let out in single rooms at prices varying from 2s. 6d to 4s. a week.

We can see a good deal of the inside through the cracks and crevices

and broken panes, but if we knock at the door we shall get a view of the

inhabitants.

If you knew more of these Alsatias, you would be rather astonished that

there was a door to knock at. Most of the houses are open day and night,

and knockers and bells are things unknown. Here, however, the former

luxuries exist; so we will not disdain them.

Knock, knock!

Hey, presto! what a change of scene! Sleepy Hollow has come to life.

Every door flies open, and there is a cluster of human beings on the

threshold. Heads of matted hair and faces that haven't seen soap for

months come out of the broken windows above.

Our knock has alarmed the neighbourhood. Who are we? The police? No. Who

are we? Now they recognise one of our number--our guide--with a growl.

He and we with him can pass without let or hindrance where it would

be dangerous for a policeman to go. We are supposed to be on business

connected with the School Board, and we are armed with a password which

the worst of these outcasts have grown at last sulkily to acknowledge.

This is a very respectable place, and we have taken it first to break

the ground gently for an artist who has not hitherto studied 'character'

on ground where I have had many wanderings.

To the particular door attacked there comes a poor woman, white and thin

and sickly-looking; in her arms she carries a girl of eight or nine with

a diseased spine; behind her, clutching at her scanty dress, are two or

three other children. We put a statistical question, say a kind word to

the little ones, and ask to see the room.

What a room! The poor woman apologizes for its condition, but the

helpless child, always needing her care, and the other little ones to

look after, and times being bad, etc. Poor creature, if she had ten pair

of hands instead of one pair always full, she could not keep this

room clean. The walls are damp and crumbling, the ceiling is black and

peeling off, showing the laths above, the floor is rotten and broken

away in places, and the wind and the rain sweep in through gaps that

seem everywhere. The woman, her husband, and her six children live,

eat, and sleep in this one room, and for this they pay three shillings

a week. It is quite as much as they can afford. There has been no

breakfast yet, and there won't be any till the husband (who has been out

to try and get a job) comes in and reports progress. As to complaining

of the dilapidated, filthy condition of the room, they know better. If

they don't like it they can go. There are dozens of families who will

jump at the accommodation, and the landlord is well aware of the fact.

Some landlords do repair their tenants' rooms. Why, cert'nly. Here is a

sketch of one and of the repairs we saw the same day. Rent, 4s. a week;

condition indescribable. But notice the repairs: a bit of a box-lid

nailed across a hole in the wall big enough for a man's head to go

through, a nail knocked into a window-frame beneath which still comes

in a little fresh air, and a strip of new paper on a corner of the wall.

You can't see the new paper because it is not up. The lady of the rooms

holds it in her hand. The rent collector has just left it for her to put

up herself. Its value, at a rough guess, is threepence. This landlord

_has_ executed repairs. Items: one piece of a broken soap-box, one yard

and a half of paper, and one nail. _And for these repairs he has raised

the rent of the room threepence a week._

We are not in the square now, but in a long dirty street, full of

lodging-houses from end to end, a perfect human warren, where every door

stands open night and day--a state of things that shall be described and

illustrated a little later on when we come to the ''appy dossers.' In

this street, close to the repaired residence, we select at hazard an

open doorway and plunge into it. We pass along a greasy, grimy passage,

and turn a corner to ascend the stairs. Round the corner it is dark.

There is no staircase light, and we can hardly distinguish in the gloom

where we are going. A stumble causes us to strike a light.

That stumble was a lucky one. The staircase we were ascending, and which

men and women and little children go up and down day after day and night

after night, is a wonderful affair. The handrail is broken away, the

stairs themselves are going--a heavy boot has been clean through one of

them already, and it would need very little, one would think, for the

whole lot to give way and fall with a crash. A sketch, taken at the

time, by the light of successive vestas, fails to give the grim horror

of that awful staircase. The surroundings, the ruin, the decay, and the

dirt, could not be reproduced.

We are anxious to see what kind of people get safely up and down this

staircase, and as we ascend we knock accidentally up against something;

it is a door and a landing. The door is opened, and as the light is

thrown on to where we stand we give an involuntary exclamation of

horror; the door opens right on to the corner stair. The woman who comes

out would, if she stepped incautiously, fall six feet, and nothing

could save her. It is a tidy room this, for the neighbourhood. A good

hardworking woman has kept her home neat, even in such surroundings. The

rent is four and sixpence a week, and the family living in it numbers

eight souls; their total earnings are twelve shillings. A hard lot, one

would fancy; but in comparison to what we have to encounter presently

it certainly is not. Asked about the stairs, the woman says, 'It is a

little ockard-like for the young 'uns a-goin' up and down to school now

the Board make 'em wear boots; but they don't often hurt themselves.'

Minus the boots, the children had got used to the ascent and descent, I

suppose, and were as much at home on the crazy staircase as a chamois on

a precipice. _Excelsior_ is our motto on this staircase. No maiden

with blue eyes comes out to mention avalanches, but the woman herself

suggests 'it's werry bad higher up.' We are as heedless of the warning

as Longfellow's headstrong banner-bearer, for we go on.

It is 'werry bad' higher up, so bad that we begin to light some more

matches and look round to see how we are to get down. But as we continue

to ascend the darkness grows less and less. We go a step at a time,

slowly and circumspectly, up, up to the light, and at last our heads are

suddenly above a floor and looking straight into a room.

We have reached the attic, and in that attic we see a picture which will

be engraven on our memory for many a month to come.

The attic is almost bare; in a broken fireplace are some smouldering

embers; a log of wood lies in front like a fender. There is a broken

chair trying to steady itself against a wall black with the dirt of

ages. In one corner, on a shelf, is a battered saucepan and a piece of

dry bread. On the scrap of mantel still remaining embedded in the wall

is a rag; on a bit of cord hung across the room are more rags--garments

of some sort, possibly; a broken flower-pot props open a crazy

window-frame, possibly to let the smoke out, or in--looking at the

chimney-pots below, it is difficult to say which; and at one side of the

room is a sack of Heaven knows what--it is a dirty, filthy sack, greasy

and black and evil-looking. I could not guess what was in it if I tried,

but what was on it was a little child--a neglected, ragged, grimed,

and bare-legged little baby-girl of four. There she sat, in the bare,

squalid room, perched on the sack, erect, motionless, expressionless, on

duty.

She was 'a little sentinel,' left to guard a baby that lay asleep on the

bare boards behind her, its head on its arm, the ragged remains of what

had been a shawl flung over its legs.

That baby needed a sentinel to guard it, indeed. Had it crawled a

foot or two, it would have fallen head-foremost into that unprotected,

yawning abyss of blackness below. In case of some such proceeding on its

part, the child of four had been left 'on guard.'

The furniture of the attic, whatever it was like, had been seized the

week before for rent. The little sentinel's papa--this we unearthed

of the 'deputy' of the house later on--was a militiaman, and away; the

little sentinel's mamma was gone out on 'a arrand,' which, if it was

anything like her usual 'arrands,' the deputy below informed us, would

bring her home about dark, very much the worse for it. Think of that

little child keeping guard on that dirty sack for six or eight hours at

a stretch--think of her utter loneliness in that bare, desolate room,

every childish impulse checked, left with orders 'not to move, or I'll

kill yer,' and sitting there often till night and darkness came on,

hungry, thirsty, and tired herself, but faithful to her trust to the

last minute of the drunken mother's absence! 'Bless yer! I've known that

young'un sit there eight 'our at a stretch. I've seen her there of a

mornin' when I've come up to see if I could git the rint, and I've seen

her there when I've come agin at night,' says the deputy. 'Lor, that

ain't nothing--that ain't.'

Nothing! It is one of the saddest pictures I have seen for many a day.

Poor little baby-sentinel!--left with a human life in its sole charge

at four--neglected and overlooked: what will its girl-life be, when it

grows old enough to think? I should like some of the little ones whose

every wish is gratified, who have but to whimper to have, and who live

surrounded by loving, smiling faces, and tendered by gentle hands,

to see the little child in the bare garret sitting sentinel over the

sleeping baby on the floor, and budging never an inch throughout the

weary day from the place that her mother had bidden her stay in.

With our minds full of this pathetic picture of child-life in the 'Homes

of the Poor,' we descend the crazy staircase, and get out into as much

light as can find its way down these narrow alleys.

Outside we see a portly gentleman with a big gold chain across his

capacious form, and an air of wealth and good living all over him. He is

the owner of a whole block of property such as this, and he waxes rich

on his rents. Strange as it may seem, these one-roomed outcasts are

the best paying tenants in London. They pay so much for so little, and

almost fight to get it. That they should be left to be thus exploited

is a disgrace to the Legislature, which is never tired of protecting the

oppressed of 'all races that on earth do dwell,' except those of that

particular race who have the honour to be free-born Englishmen.