ASYLUM FOR THE HOUSELESS POOR._London Labour and the London Poor, Vol. 3

There is a world of wisdom to be learnt at the Asylum for the Houseless

Poor. Those who wish to be taught in this, the severest school of all,

should pay a visit to Playhouse-yard, and see the homeless crowds

gathered about the Asylum, waiting for the first opening of the doors,

with their bare feet, blue and ulcerous with the cold, resting for

hours on the ice and snow in the streets, and the bleak stinging wind

blowing through their rags. To hear the cries of the hungry, shivering

children, and the wrangling of the greedy men, scrambling for a bed

and a pound of dry bread, is a thing to haunt one for life. There are

400 and odd creatures utterly destitute--mothers with infants at their

breasts--fathers with boys holding by their side--the friendless--the

penniless--the shirtless, shoeless, breadless, homeless; in a word, the

very poorest of this the very richest city in the world.

The Asylum for the Houseless is the confluence of the many tides of

poverty that, at this period of the year, flow towards the metropolis.

It should be remembered that there are certain callings, which yield

a subsistence to those who pursue them only at particular seasons.

Brickmakers, agricultural labourers, garden-women, and many such

vocations, are labours that admit of being performed only in the

summer, when, indeed, the labourer has the fewest wants to satisfy.

The privations of such classes, then, come at a period when even the

elements conspire to make their destitution more terrible. Hence,

restless with want, they wander in hordes across the land, making, in

vain hope, for London, as the great emporium of wealth--the market of

the world. But London is as overstocked with hands as every other nook

and corner of the country. And then the poor creatures, far away from

home and friends, find at last to their cost, that the very privations

they were flying from pursue them here with a tenfold severity. I do

not pretend to say that all found within the walls of these asylums

are such as I have described; many, I know, trade upon the sympathy of

those who would ease the sufferings of the destitute labourers, and

they make their appearance in the metropolis at this especial season.

Winter is the beggar’s harvest. That there are hundreds of professional

vagabonds drawn to London at such a time, I am well aware; but with

them come the unemployed workmen. We must not, therefore, confound one

with the other, nor let our indignation at the vagabond who will not

work, check our commiseration for the labourer or artisan who cannot

get work to do.

The table on the following page, which has been made up with

considerable care and no little trouble, shows the number of persons

from different counties sheltered at the Asylum for the Houseless Poor

in the Metropolis for fourteen years.

-------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+

| | | | | | | | | | | |

|1829|1830|1831|1832|1834|1840|1841|1842|1843|1844|1845|

| to | to | to | to | to | to | to | to | to | to | to |

|1830|1831|1832|1833|1835|1841|1842|1843|1844|1845|1846|

-------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Lincolnshire | 142| 40| 47| 50| 17| 80 |147| 110| 167| 89| 43|

Rutlandshire | ...| ...| ...| ...| 1| 5| 13| 13| 8| 10| 2|

Northamptonshire | 17| 20| 31| 15| 14| 77| 144| 108| 125| 124| 50|

Shropshire | 142| 36| 27| 23| 11| 32| 75| 74| 105| 60| 41|

Herefordshire | 18| 19| ...| ...| 9| 28| 61| 28| 85| 43| 18|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Norfolk | 82| 94| 73| 53| 37| 125| 167| 226| 268| 267| 135|

Suffolk | 53| 57| 35| 29| 21| 79| 164| 210| 239| 188| 81|

Cambridgeshire | 141| 49| 44| 33| 20| 70| 84| 106| 150| 90| 88|

Huntingdonshire | 13| 5| 6| 9| 2| 24| 46| 41| 44| 14| 8|

Essex | 101| 176| 165| 17| 44| 206| 324| 406| 715| 519| 133|

Oxfordshire | 71| 66| 15| 21| 9| 75| 127| 154| 234| 193| 99|

Berkshire | 142| 93| 43| 51| 33| 153| 264| 382| 641| 366| 244|

Wiltshire | 53| 62| 58| 34| 21| 99| 193| 201| 262| 202| 97|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Kent | 160| 242| 150| 120| 53| 271| 467| 539| 989| 649| 412|

Sussex | 52| 64| 47| 54| 27| 135| 170| 175| 322| 230| 136|

Hampshire | 129| 134| ...| ...| 47| 134| 286| 341| 544| 406| 226|

Dorsetshire | 40| 27| 17| 23| 11| 37| 71| 62| 99| 79| 25|

Devonshire | 122| 118| 141| 153| 70| 83| 180| 206| 375| 225| 135|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Bedfordshire | 44| 48| 27| 35| 12| 43| 116| 114| 131| 92| 55|

Hertfordshire | 93| 104| 33| 24| 31| 164| 240| 262| 199| 259| 182|

Buckinghamshire | 40| 42| 24| 31| 11| 84| 190| 147| 258| 246| 187|

Somersetshire | 158| 153| 195| 181| 75| 210| 345| 262| 535| 327| 247|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Lancashire | 85| 221| 230| 195| 100| 285| 490| 716| 404| 604| 408|

Cheshire | 60| 21| 20| 35| 12| 37| 91| 100| 108| 53| 32|

Derbyshire | 29| 19| 25| 17| 6| 43| 79| 70| 91| 60| 39|

Nottinghamshire | 71| 40| 16| 21| 17| 43| 77| 52| 128| 51| 39|

Staffordshire | 48| 50| 25| 28| 7| 94| 175| 136| 270| 123| 50|

Leicestershire | 40| 44| 20| 23| 14| 55| 11x| 81| 168| 96| 41|

Warwickshire | 78| 112| 72| 60| 28| 163| 295| 384| 51| 242| 188|

Worcestershire | 62| 12| 27| ...| 12| 49| 96| 72| 114| 43| 33|

Gloucestershire | 119| 110| 32| 39| 18| 82| 137| 232| 352| 281| 138|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Northumberland | 9| 32| 24| 15| 11| 24| 49| 49| 88| 74| 19|

Durham | ...| 16| 6| 9| 8| 19| 68| 80| 134| 126| 26|

Cumberland | 18| 27| 23| 33| 6| 28| 35| 29| 45| 48| 10|

Westmoreland | ...| ...| 5| 9| 1| 10| 24| 20| 24| 7| 4|

Yorkshire | 98| 120| 49| 31| 52| 180| 330| 306| 282| 215| 121|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

Wales | 117| 115| 593| 887| 280| 138| 137| 103| 160| 559| 210|

Cornwall | 20| 29| 29| 31| 5| 29| 54| 67| 82| 47| 22|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

| | | | | | | | | | | |

London | 107| 115| 593| 887| 280| 138| 137| 103| 160| 559| 210|

Middlesex |1742|1251| 195| 217| 150| 774| 862| 576| 807| 390| 227|

Surrey | 263| 119| 151| 127| 38| 211| 294| 193| 355| 195| 151|

Ireland |1371|1311| 547| 403| 300| 896|1108|1305|1712|1253| 772|

Scotland | 213| 914| 241| 210| 139| 77| 136| 240| 299| 400| 294|

Guernsey and Jersey| 5| 14| ...| 2| 3| 5| ...| 7| 22| 8| 8|

France | 1| ...| 3| 7| 7| ...| ...| 1| ...| 10| 2|

Italy | 2| 2| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| 5| 13| 1| ...|

Germany | ...| ...| 7| 5| ...| 24| 36| 59| 60| 25| 27|

Holland | 11| 9| 2| 4| ...| ...| ...| 4| 6| 2| ...|

Prussia | 7| 9| 3| ...| ...| ...| ...| 6| 24| 8| 2|

Spain | 6| 6| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| 4| 21| 13| ...|

Portugal | 7| 7| 2| 11| 1| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...|

Russia | 1| 5| 3| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| 4| 10| ...|

Sweden | 7| 22| 4| 9| ...| ...| ...| ...| 8| ...| ...|

Norway | 16| 8| 3| 5| 1| ...| ...| 6| 3| 26| 4|

Australia | ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| ...| 2| ...| 6| ...|

America | 2| 31| 42| 32| 8| 20| 52| 80| 67| 56| 50|

East Indies | 9| 1| 5| 3| 6| 22| 39| 40| 57| 12| 200|

West Indies | 20| 22| 26| 11| 4| 16| 21| 57| 83| 44| 34|

Africa | 4| 11| 6| 7| ...| ...| ...| 5| 50| 24| 6|

| | | | | | | | | | | |

-------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+

+----+-----+----+-------+---------

|1846| 1847|1848| |for each

| to | to | to | Total.|year for

|1847| 1848|1849| |14 years.

+----+-----+----+-------+---------

| | | | |

| 204| 81| 85| 1302| 93·0

| 24| 8| 24| 108| 7·7

| 227| 115| 67| 1135| 81·0

| 79| 80| 42| 827| 50·0

| 65| 54| 45| 445| 31·8

| | | | |

| 364| 161| 163| 2215| 158·2

| 385| 100| 133| 1783| 127·2

| 204| 114| 88| 1281| 91·5

| 34| 22| 25| 293| 20·9

|1034| 567| 392| 4799| 342·8

| 303| 136| 100| 1603| 114·5

| 767| 342| 287| 3788| 270·5

| 377| 205| 87| 1951| 139·3

| | | | |

|1458| 845| 523| 6878| 491·3

| 506| 230| 147| 2195| 15·7

| 730| 441| 414| 3832| 273·7

| 126| 57| 46| 720| 51·4

| 453| 237| 209| 2697| 192·6

| | | | |

| 171| 109| 55| 1052| 75·1

| 592| 377| 181| 2741| 19·6

| 314| 168| 88| 1830| 130·7

| 871| 556| 246| 4361| 311·5

| | | | |

|1272| 748| 811| 6509| 469·2

| 170| 51| 40| 830| 59·3

| 97| 46| 48| 669| 47·8

| 107| 62| 68| 784| 56·0

| 256| 121| 129| 1521| 108·6

| 163| 69| 79| 1007| 71·9

| 562| 256| 160| 2760| 197·1

| 128| 74| 36| 758| 53·4

| 267| 147| 163| 2048| 146·3

| | | | |

| 69| 51| 72| 586| 41·8

| 110| 71| 54| 727| 41·9

| 66| 32| 12| 412| 29·4

| 19| 14| 6| 143| 10·2

| 427| 298| 126| 2635| 188·2

| | | | |

| 878| 726| 343| 5236| 374·0

| 82| 52| 32| 581| 41·5

| | | | |

| 878| 726| 343| 5236| 374·0

|1065| 538| 214| 9008| 643·4

| 572| 329| 204| 3202| 22·9

|7576|10756|5068| 34378| 2455·5

| 172| 623| 344| 4331| 309·3

| 1| 25| 47| 147| 10·5

| 8| 24| 14| 77| 5·5

| 9| 5| 7| 44| 3·1

| 38| 36| 53| 370| 26·4

| ...| ...| ...| 38| 2·7

| 4| 5| ...| 68| 4·0

| ...| ...| 10| 60| 4·3

| ...| 2| 5| 35| 2·5

| 2| 10| 7| 42| 3·0

| ...| ...| ...| 50| 3·6

| ...| 3| ...| 75| 5·3

| 2| 4| ...| 14| 1·0

| 65| 76| 78| 679| 48·5

| 24| 38| 19| 475| 33·9

| 53| 25| 25| 446| 31·8

| 2| 6| 12| 132| 9·4

| | | +-------+---------

| | | |130,625| 87·496

+----+-----+----+-------+---------

A homeless painter gave me the following statement. His appearance

presented nothing remarkable. It was merely that of the poor artisan.

There was nothing dirty or squalid about him:--

“I was brought up a painter,” he said, “and I am now 27. I served my

apprenticeship in Yorkshire, and stayed two years after my term was out

with the same master. I then worked in Liverpool, earning but little

through illness, and working on and off as my health permitted. I got

married in Liverpool, and went with my wife to Londonderry, in Ireland,

of which place she was a native. There she died of the cholera in 1847.

I was very ill with diarrhœa myself. We lived with her friends, but I

got work, though wages are very low there. I never earned more than

2_s._ 6_d._ a-day there. I have earned 5_s._ 6_d._ a-day in Liverpool,

but in Londonderry provisions are very cheap--the best meat at 4_d._

a-pound. It was an advantage to me being an Englishman. English

workmen seem to be preferred in Ireland, so far as I can tell, and I

have worked in Belfast and Coleraine, and a short time in Dublin, as

well as in Londonderry. I came back to Liverpool early in 1848, and

got work, but was again greatly distressed through sickness. I then

had to travel the country again, getting a little employment at Hemel

Hempstead, and St. Alban’s, and other places about, for I aimed at

London, and at last I got to London. That was in November, 1848. When

in the country I was forced to part with my clothes. I had a beautiful

suit of black among them. I very seldom got even a trifle from the

painters in the country towns; sometimes 2_d._ or 3_d._ from a master.

In London I could get no work, and my shirts and my flannel-shirts

went to keep me. I stayed about a month, and having nothing left, was

obliged to start for the country. I got a job at Luton, and at a few

other places. Wages are very low. I was always a temperate man. Many

a time I have never tasted drink for a week together, and this when I

had money in my pocket, for I had 30_l._ when I got married. I have,

too, the character of being a good workman. I returned to London again

three weeks back, but could find no work. I had again to part with any

odd things I had. The last I parted with was my stopping-knife and

diamond, for I can work as a glazier and plumber; country painters

often can--I mean those apprenticed in the country. I have no clothes

but what I have on. For the last ten days, I declare solemnly, I have

had nothing but what I picked up in the streets. I picked up crusts

that I saw in the streets, put out on the steps by the mistresses of

the houses for the poor like myself. I got so weak and ill that I had

to go to King’s College Hospital, and they gave me medicine which did

me good. I often had to walk the streets all night. I was so perished

I could hardly move my limbs. I never asked charity, I can’t; but I

could have eaten anything. I longed for the fried fish I saw; yes, I

was ravenous for that, and such-like, though I couldn’t have touched it

when I had money, and was middling well off. Things are so different

in the country that I couldn’t fancy such meat. I was brought to that

pitch, I had the greatest mind to steal something to get into prison,

where, at any rate, I said to myself, I shall have some food and

shelter. I didn’t--I thought better of it. I hoped something might turn

up next day; besides, it might have got into the papers, and my friends

might have seen it, and I should have felt I disgraced them, or that

they would think so, because they couldn’t know my temptations and my

sufferings. When out all night, I used to get shelter, if I could,

about Hungerford Market, among the straw. The cold made me almost dead

with sleep; and when obliged to move, I couldn’t walk at first, I could

only crawl along. One night I had a penny given me, all I had gotten

in five bitter nights in the streets. For that penny I got half a pint

of coffee; it made me sick, my stomach was so weak. On Tuesday I asked

a policeman if he couldn’t recommend me to some workhouse, and he told

me to come here, and I was admitted, and was very thankful to get under

shelter.”

The next was a carpenter, a tall, fine-built man, with a pleasing

expression of countenance. He was dressed in a flannel jacket and

fustian trousers, with the peculiar little side-pocket for his

foot-rule, that told you of his calling. He was about 40 years of age,

and had the appearance, even in his destitution, of a most respectable

mechanic. It is astonishing to mark the difference between the poor

artisan and the labourer. The one seems alive to his poverty, and to

feel it more acutely than the other. The labourer is more accustomed

to “rough it,” as it is called; but the artisan, earning better wages,

and used to better ways, appears among the houseless poor as a really

pitiable character. Carpenters are among the classes of mechanics in

which there appears to be the greatest amount of destitution, and I

selected this man as a fair average specimen of the body. He said,--

“I have been out of work nearly three months. I have had some little

work in the mean time, an odd job or two at intervals, but nothing

regular. When I am in full work, on day work, I can make 5_s._ a-day

in London; but the masters very generally wishes the men to take

piece-work, and that is the cause of men’s work being cut down as it

is, because men is obliged to take the work as they offers. I could get

about 30_s._ a-week when I had good employment. I had no one but myself

to keep out of my earnings. I have saved something when I have been on

day-work; but then it went again as soon as I got to piece-work. This

is generally the case with the carpenters. The last job I had was at

Cobham, in Surrey, doing joiners’ work, and business with my master got

slack, and I was discharged. Then I made my way to London, and have

been about from place to place since then, endeavouring to get work

from every one that I knew or could get recommended to. But I have not

met with any success. Well, sir, I have been obliged to part with all I

had, even to my tools; though they’re not left for much. My tools are

pawned for 12_s._, and my clothes are all gone. The last I had to part

with was my rule and chalk-line, and them I left for a night’s lodging.

I have no other clothes but what you see me in at present. There are a

vast many carpenters out of work, and like me. It is now three weeks

since the last of my things went, and after that I have been about the

streets, and gone into bakers’ shops, and asked for a crust. Sometimes

I have got a penny out of the tap-room of a public-house. It’s now

more than a fortnight since I quitted my lodgings. I have been in

the Asylum eight nights. Before that, I was out in the streets for

five nights together. They were very cold nights; yes, _very_.” [The

man shivered at the recollection.] “I walked up one street, and down

another. I sometimes got under a doorway, but it was impossible to

stand still long, it was so cruel cold. The sleet was coming down one

night, and freezed on my clothes as it fell. The cold made me stiff

more than sleepy. It was next day that I felt tired; and then, if I

came to sit down at a fireside, I should drop asleep in a minute. I

tried, when I was dead-beat, to get into St. Giles’s union, but they

wouldn’t admit me. Then the police sent me up to another union: I

forget the name, but they refused me. I tried at Lambeth, and there

I was refused. I don’t think I went a day without some small bit of

bread. I begged for it. But when I walked from St. Alban’s to London,

I was two days without a bit to put in my mouth. I never stole, not a

particle, from any person, in all my trials. I was brought up honest,

and, thank God, I have kept so all my life. I would work willingly, and

am quite capable: yes, and I would do my work with all my heart, but

it’s not to be got at.”

This the poor fellow said with deep emotion; and, indeed, his whole

statement appeared in every way worthy of credit. I heard afterwards

that he had offered to “put up the stairs of two houses” at some man’s

own terms, rather than remain unemployed. He had told the master that

his tools were in pawn, and promised, if they were taken out of pledge

for him, to work for his bare food. He was a native of Somerset, and

his father and mother were both dead.

I then took the statement of a seaman, but one who, from destitution,

had lost all the distinguishing characteristics of a sailor’s dress

of the better description. He wore a jacket, such as seamen sometimes

work in, too little for him, and very thin and worn; a waistcoat,

once black; a cotton shirt; and a pair of canvas trousers. He had

an intelligent look enough, and spoke in a straightforward manner.

He stated:--“I am now thirty-five, and have been a seaman all my

life. I first went to sea, as a cabin-boy, at Portsmouth. I was left

an orphan at fourteen months, and don’t know that I have a single

relation but myself. I don’t know what my father was. I was brought

up at the Portsea workhouse. I was taught to read and write. I went

to sea in 1827. I have continued a seaman ever since--sometimes doing

pretty well. The largest sum I ever had in my possession was 38_l._

when I was in the Portuguese service, under Admiral Sartorius, in the

‘Donna Maria’ frigate. He hadn’t his flag aboard, but he commanded

the fleet, such as it was; but don’t call it a fleet, say a squadron.

Captain Henry was my last captain there; and after him I served under

Admiral Napier; he was admiral out there, with his flag in the

‘Real,’ until Don Miguel’s ships were taken. The frigate I was in,

(the ‘Donna Maria,’) took the ‘Princessa Real;’ she was a 44-gun ship,

and ours was a 36. It was a stiffish thing while it lasted, was the

fight; but we boarded and carried the ‘Princessa.’ I never got all my

prize-money. I stopped in Lisbon some time after the fight; and then,

as I couldn’t meet with a passage to England, I took service on board

the ‘Donegal,’ 74 guns, Captain Fanshawe. I liked Lisbon pretty well;

they’re not a very tidy people--treacherous, too, but not all of them.

I picked up a very little Portuguese. Most of my thirty-eight pounds

went in Lisbon. The ‘Donegal’ brought Don Carlos over, and we were

paid off in Plymouth; that was in 1834. Since then I have been in the

merchant service. I like that best. My last voyage was in the ‘Richard

Cobden,’ a barque of 380 tons, belonging to Dundee; but she sailed from

Gloucester for Archangel, and back from Archangel to Dundee, with a

cargo of hemp and codilla. We were paid off in Dundee, and I received

4_l._ 8_s._ on the 13th of October.” [He showed me his discharge from

the ‘Richard Cobden,’ and his register ticket.] “I went to Glasgow

and got a vessel there, an American, the ‘Union;’ and before that I

stayed at a lodging-house in Dundee that sailors frequent. There was

a shipmate of mine there, a carpenter, and I left my things in his

charge, and I went on board the ‘Union’ at Glasgow, and stayed working

on board eighteen days; she was short of men. The agreement between me

and my old shipmate was, that he should send my things when I required

them. My clothes were worth to me more than 5_l._ The ship was to sail

on Friday, the 15th of November. Sailors don’t mind getting under weigh

on a Friday now; and I got 10_s._ from the skipper to take me to Dundee

on Thursday, the 14th; but when I got to Dundee for my clothes, I found

that the carpenter had left a fortnight before, taking all my things

with him. I couldn’t learn anything as to where he had gone. One man

told me he thought he had gone to Derry, where some said he had a wife.

The skipper paid me for what days I had been employed, and offered to

let me work a passage to New York, but not on wages; because I had no

clothes, he couldn’t take me. I tried every ship in the Broomilaw, but

couldn’t get a job, nor a passage to London; so me and two other seamen

set off to walk to London. I started with 3_s._ One seaman left us at

Carlisle. We didn’t live on the way--we starved. It took us a month to

get to London. We slept sometimes at the unions; some wouldn’t admit

us. I was very lame at last. We reached London a month ago. I got three

days’ work as a rigger, at 2_s._ 6_d._ a-day, and a week’s shelter in

the Sailors’ Asylum. I had five days’ work also on stevedore’s work in

the ‘Margaret West,’ gone to Batavia. That brought me 12_s._ those

five days’ work. Since that I’ve done nothing, and was so beat out that

I had to pass two days and nights in the streets. One of those days I

had a bit of bread and meat from an old mate. I had far rather be out

in a gale of wind at sea, or face the worst storm, than be out two such

nights again in such weather, and with an empty belly. My mate and I

kept on trying to get a ship, but my old jacket was all against me.

They look at a man’s clothes now. I passed these two nights walking

about Tower-hill, and to London-bridge and back, half dead, and half

asleep, with cold and hunger. I thought of doing something to get

locked up, but I then thought that would be no use, and a disgrace to a

man, so I determined to bear it like a man, and try to get a ship. The

man who left us at Carlisle did no better than me, for he’s here too,

beat out like me, and he told me of this Asylum. The other man got a

ship. I’m not a drinking man, though I may have had a spree or two, but

that’s all over. I could soon get a ship if I had some decent clothes.

I bought these trousers out of what I earned in London. I spun out my

money as fine as any man could.”

The poor fellow who gave me the following narrative was a coloured

man, with the regular negro physiognomy, but with nothing of the

lighthearted look they sometimes present. His only attire was a sadly

soiled shirt of coarse striped cotton, an old handkerchief round his

neck, old canvas trousers, and shoes. “I am twenty,” he said, in good

English, “and was born in New York. My father was a very dark negro,

but my mother was white. I was sent to school, and can read a little,

but can’t write. My father was coachman to a gentleman. My mother spoke

Dutch chiefly; she taught it to my father. She could speak English, and

always did to me. I worked in a gentleman’s house in New York, cleaning

knives and going errands. I was always well treated in New York, and

by all sorts of people. Some of the ‘rough-uns’ in the streets would

shout after me as I was going to church on a Sunday night. At church I

couldn’t sit with the white people. I didn’t think that any hardship. I

saved seven dollars by the time I was sixteen, and then I went to sea

as a cabin-boy on board the ‘Elizabeth,’ a brigantine. My first voyage

was to St. John’s, New Brunswick, with a cargo of corn and provisions.

My second voyage was to Boston. After that I was raised to be cook.

I had a notion I could cook well. I had cooked on shore before, in

a gentleman’s house, where I was shown cooking. Pretty many of the

cooks in New York are coloured people--the men more than the women.

The women are chiefly chambermaids. There was a vacancy, I was still

in the ‘Elizabeth,’ when the cook ran away. He was in a bother with

the captain about wasting tea and sugar. We went some more voyages,

and I then got engaged as cook on board a new British ship, just off

the stocks, at St. John’s, New Brunswick, the ‘Jessica.’ About four

months ago I came in her to Liverpool, where we were all paid off. We

were only engaged for the run. I received 5_l._ I paid 2_l._ 10_s._ to

my boarding mistress for two months’ board. It was 5_s._ and extras

a-week. I laid out the rest in clothes. I had a job in Liverpool, in

loading hay. I was told I had a better chance for a ship in London. I

tramped it all the way, selling some of my clothes to start me. I had

6_s._ to start with, and got to London with hardly any clothes, and no

money. That’s two months back, or nearly so. I couldn’t find a ship.

I never begged, but I stood on the highways, and some persons gave me

twopences and pennies. I was often out all night, perishing. Sometimes

I slept under the butchers’ stalls in Whitechapel. I felt the cold very

bitter, as I was used to a hot climate chiefly. Sometimes I couldn’t

feel my feet. A policeman told me to come here, and I was admitted.

I want to get a ship. I have a good character as a cook; my dishes

were always relished; my pea-soup was capital, and so was my dough and

pudding. I often wished for them when I was starving.” [He showed his

white teeth, smiling as he spoke.] “Often under the Whitechapel stalls

I was so frozen up I could hardly stir in the morning. I was out all

the night before Christmas that it snowed. That was my worst night, I

think, and it was my first. I couldn’t walk, and hardly stand, when the

morning came. I have no home to go to.”

The next was a brickmaker, a man scarce thirty, a stout, big-boned man,

but a little pale, evidently from cold and exhaustion. His dress was

a short smockfrock, yellow with dry clay, and fustian trousers of the

same colour, from the same cause. His statement was as follows:--

“I have been out of work now about seven weeks. Last work I done was

on the Middle Level Drainage, in Cambridgeshire. Brickmaking generally

begins (if the weather’s fine) about February, or the beginning of

March, and it ends about September, and sometimes the latter end of

November. If the weather’s frosty, they can’t keep on so long. I was

at work up to about the middle of November last, making bricks at

Northfleet, in Kent. I was with the same party for three years before.

After that, brickmaking was done for the season, and I was discharged

with ‘five stools’ of us beside. Each stool would require about six

people to work it; so that altogether thirty hands were thrown out of

work. After that I went to look for work among the ‘slop’ brickmakers.

They makes bricks ‘slop-way’ right through the winter, for they’re

dried by flues. I am by rights a sand-stock brickmaker. Howsomever,

I couldn’t get a job at brickmaking slop-way, so I went down on the

Middle Level, and there I got a job at river-cutting; but the wet

weather came, and the water was so strong upon us that we got drownded

out. That’s the last job I’ve had. At brickmaking I had 3_s._ 10_d._ a

thousand, this last summer. I have had my 4_s._ 6_d._ for the very same

work. Two years ago I had that. Six of us could make about 35,000 in

a-week, if it was fine. On an average, we should make, I dare say, each

of us about 1_l._ a-week, and not more, because if it was a showery day

we couldn’t do nothing at all. We used to join one among another in

the yard to keep our own sick. We mostly made the money up to 14_s._

a-week when any mate was bad. I did save a few shillings, but it was

soon gone when I was out of work. Not many of the brickmakers save.

They work from seventeen to eighteen hours every day when it’s fine,

and that requires a good bit to eat and drink. The brickmakers most of

them drink hard. After I got out of work last November, I went away to

Peterborough to look for employment. I thought I might get a job on the

London and York Railway, but I couldn’t find none. From there I tramped

it to Grimsby: ‘perhaps,’ I said, ‘I may get a job at the docks;’

but I could get nothing to do there, so I came away to Grantham, and

from there back to Peterborough again, and after that to Northampton,

and then I made my way to London. All this time I had laid either in

barns at nighttimes, or slept in the casual wards of the unions--that

is, where they would have me. Often I didn’t get nothing to eat for

two or three days together, and often I have had to beg a bit to keep

body and soul together. I had no other means of living since November

last but begging. When I came to town I applied at a large builder’s

office for work. I heard he had something to do at the Isle of Dogs,

but it was the old story--they were full, and had plenty of hands till

the days got out longer. Then I made away to Portsmouth. I knew a man

there who had some work, but when I got there he had none to give me

at the present time. From there I went along the coast, begging my way

still, to Hastings, in hope of getting work at the railway; but all to

no good. They had none, too, till the days got longer. After that I

came round to London again, and I have been here a fortnight come next

Monday. I have done no work. I have wandered about the streets any way.

I went to the London Docks to see for a job, and there I met with a man

as I knowed, and he paid for my lodging for one or two nights. I walked

the streets for two whole nights before I came here. It was bitter

cold, freezing sharp, indeed, and I had nothing to eat all the time. I

didn’t know there was such a place as this till a policeman told me.

A gentleman gave me 6_d._, and that’s all I’ve had since I’ve been in

this town. I have been for the last three nights at the Asylum. I don’t

suppose they’ll take my ticket away till after to-morrow night, and

then I thought of making my way down home till my work starts again. I

have sought for work all over the country, and can’t get any. All the

brickmakers are in the same state as myself. They none of them save,

and must either starve or beg in the winter. Most times we can get a

job in the cold weather, but this year, I don’t know what it is, but I

can’t get a job at all. Former years I got railway work to do, but now

there’s nothing doing, and we’re all starving. When I get down home I

shall be obliged to go into the union, and that’s hard for a young man

like me, able to work, and willing; but it ain’t to be had, it ain’t to

be had.”

Then came a tailor, a young man only twenty-one years old, habited in a

black frock-coat, with a plaid shawl twisted round his neck. His eyes

were full and expressive, and he had a look of intelligence superior to

any that I had yet seen. He told a story which my inquiries into the

“slop trade” taught me was “ower true.”

“I have been knocking about for near upon six weeks,” he replied,

in answer to my inquiries. “I was working at the slop-trade at the

West-end. I am a native of Scotland. I was living with a sweater. I

used to board and lodge with him entirely. At the week’s end I was

almost always in debt with him--at least he made it out so. I had very

often to work all night, but let me slave as hard as I might I never

could get out of debt with the sweater. There were often as many as six

of us there, and we slept two together in each bed. The work had been

slack for some time, and he gave me employment till I worked myself

out of his debt, and then he turned me into the streets. I had a few

clothes remaining, and these soon were sold to get food and lodging. I

lived on my other coat and shirts for a week or two, and at last all

was gone, and I was left entirely destitute. Then I had to pace the

streets all day and night. The two nights before I came here I never

tasted food nor lay down to rest. I had been in a fourpenny lodging

before then, but I couldn’t raise even that; and I knew it was no good

going there without the money. You must pay before you go to bed at

those places. Several times I got into a doorway, to shelter from the

wind and cold, and twice I was roused by the policeman, for I was so

tired that I fell asleep standing against a shop near the Bank. What

with hunger and cold, I was in a half-stupid state. I didn’t know what

to do: I was far from home and my mother. I have not liked to let her

know how badly I was off.” [The poor lad’s eyes flooded with tears

at the recollection of his parent.] “I thought I had better steal

something, and then at least I should have a roof over my head. Then I

thought I’d make away with myself. I can’t say how; it was a sort of

desperation; and I was so stupid with cold and want, that I can hardly

remember what I thought. All I wanted was to be allowed to sit down on

some doorstep and die; but the police did not allow this. In the

daytime I went up and lay about the parks most part of the day, but I

couldn’t sleep then; I hardly know why, but I’d been so long without

food, that I couldn’t rest. I have purposely kept from writing to my

mother. It would break her heart to know my sufferings. She has been a

widow this ten years past. She keeps a lodging-house in Leith, and has

two children to support. I have been away eight months from her. I came

to London from a desire to see the place, and thinking I could better

my situation. In Edinburgh, I had made my 1_l._ a-week regularly;

often more, and seldom less. When I came to London, a woman met me in

the street, and asked me if I wasn’t a tailor? On my replying in the

affirmative, she informed me if I would come and work for her husband,

I should have good wages, and live with her and her husband, and they

would make me quite comfortable. I didn’t know she was the wife of a

sweater at that time. It was a thing I had never heard of in Edinburgh.

After that time, I kept getting worse and worse off, working day and

night, and all Sunday, and still always being in debt to them I worked

for. Indeed, I wish I had never left home. If I could get back, I’d go

in a moment. I have worked early and late, in the hope of accumulating

money enough to take me home again, but I could not even get out of

debt, much more save, work as hard as I would.”

[Illustration: ASYLUM FOR THE HOUSELESS POOR, CRIPPLEGATE.

[_From a Sketch._]]

I asked if he would allow me to see some letters of his mother’s, as

vouchers for the truth of his story, and he produced a small packet,

from which, with his permission, I copied the following:--

“My dear Son,--I have this moment received your letter. I was happy

to hear from you, and trust you are well. Think of that God who has

carried you in safety over the mighty deep. We are all much as you

left us. I hope you will soon write. Ever believe me,

“Your affectionate mother,

“---- ----.”

This was the first letter written after his absence from home. Since

then his mother, who is aged and rheumatic (his letters vouched for

this), had been unable to write a line. His brother, a lad of 16, says,

in one of his letters,--

“I am getting on with my Greek, Hebrew, Latin, and French, only I am

terribly ill off for want of books. My mother was saying that you

would be bringing me a first-rate present from London. I think the

most appropriate present you can bring me will be a Greek and English,

or a Hebrew and English Lexicon; or some Hebrew, Greek, or Latin book.”