lying in bed, a type of injured youth and innocence, and another to meet
her in the cold light of 9 a.m. arrayed in the cheap finery of her
class. Her flimsy skirt was shrunk and warped after its adventure in the
pond, and with the best will in the world the nurses had been unable to
brush away the still damp mud which stuck to the gauged flounces and the
interstices of the "peek-a-boo" blouse. A damp and shapeless mass of
pink roses and chiffon adorned the beautiful hair, which had been
tortured and puffed into vulgarity, and to complete the scarecrow
appearance, her own boots being quite unwearable, she had been provided
with a pair of felt slippers very much _en evidence_ owing to the
shrinkage of draperies.
I am afraid I longed for a telegram or sudden indisposition--anything
for an excuse decently to break faith. There are not even cabs near our
workhouse, and so, under the escort of a mighty policeman, the forlorn
little procession set forth to brave the humorous glances of the
heartless street-boys until the walls of the police-court hid us, along
with other human wreckage, from mocking eyes.
Presently a boy of seventeen or eighteen, small and slight, in the
dress of a clerk, came up to my companion and hoped in a very hoarse
voice that she had not taken cold.
"This is the gentleman," said the girl, "who saved my life the other
night in the pond."
"I don't know how I managed it," said the boy, "but I was passing along
the Heath when I heard you screaming so dreadfully that I rushed down to
the pond and into the water before I really knew what I was doing, for I
can't swim a stroke. I just managed to catch your dress before you sank,
but the mud was so slippery I could hardly keep my footing, and your
weight was dragging me down into deep water. Fortunately I managed to
catch hold of the sunk fence, and that steadied me so that I could lift
your head out, and you came round. Yes, I have had a very bad cold. I
had to walk a long way in my wet clothes, and the night air was sharp.
But never mind that--what I did want to say to you is that you must buck
up, you know, and not do this sort of thing. We are here now, and we've
got to make the best of it." And, all unconscious of the tragedy of
womanhood, the boy read her a simple, straightforward lesson on the duty
of fortitude and trust in God.
Whilst he talked my eye wandered round the court and the motley
collection of plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses. The preponderance
of the male sex bore witness to the law-abiding qualities of women, for,
with the exception of the girl and myself, the only other woman was a
thin, grey-haired person very primly dressed.
"Yes, that is mother," said the girl, "but she won't speak to me. She
has taken no notice of me for more than a year. I've been such a bad
example to the younger girls, and they're all strict Chapel folks."
"Lily Weston!" cried a stentorian voice, and our "case" was bundled into
the inner court, mother and daughter walking next to each other in
silent hostility. The poor girl was placed in the prisoner's dock
between iron bars as if she were some dangerous wild beast, whilst "the
gentleman" who was the real offender ranged free and unmolested.
Constable X 172 told the story of attempted suicide, and then the boy
followed. Then the mother spoke shortly and bitterly as to the girl's
troubles being of her own making.
"Anything to say?" asked the magistrate; but the girl hung her head low
in shame and confusion, whilst the magistrate congratulated the boy on
his pluck and presence of mind.
The clerk came round and whispered in the ear of his chief, who looked
at the prisoner with grave kindliness under his bushy white eyebrows; he
had more sympathy than the laws he administered.
"Call Miss Sperling," he said to the policeman, and then to the
prisoner: "If I discharge you now, will you go away with this lady, who
will find a home for you?"
"Oh, yes, sir," cried the prisoner with a burst of hysterical weeping
as the bolts rattled from the dock and the kindly hand of the lady
missionary clasped hers.
A distinguished Nonconformist once told me that our Anglican Prayer Book
was a mass of ungranted petitions, which, after careful thought, I had
to admit was true; but at least on the whole I think our prayers for
this particular magistrate have been answered.
PUBLICANS AND HARLOTS
Verily I say unto you, that the publicans and harlots go into the
kingdom of God before you.
It was 7.30 p.m., and in the Young Women's Ward of the workhouse the
inmates were going to bed by the crimson light of the July sunset. Most
of the women had babies, and now and then a fretful cry would interrupt
a story that was being listened to with much interest and laughter and
loud exclamations: "Oh, Daisy, you are a caution!"
Had a literary critic been present, he would have classed the tale as
belonging to the French realistic school of Zola and Maupassant. The
_raconteuse_, Daisy Crabtree, who might have sat as a model for
Rossetti's Madonna of the Annunciation, was a slight, golden-haired
girl, known to philanthropists as a "daughter of the State," and an
object-lesson against such stepmothering. Picked up as an infant under a
crab-tree by the police, and christened later in commemoration of the
discovery, she had been brought up in a "barrack-school," and a "place"
found for her at fifteen, from which she had "run" the following day;
the streets had called to their daughter, and she had obeyed. Since then
she had been "rescued" twenty-seven times--by Catholics, Anglicans,
Wesleyans, Methodists, Baptists, and Salvationists--but not even the
great influence of "Our Lady of the Snows" or "The Home of the Guardian
Angels" could save this child of vice, and most Homes in London being
closed against her, she perpetually sought shelter in the various
workhouses of the Metropolis, always being "passed" back to the parish
of the patronymic crab-tree where she was "chargeable." Here she resided
at the expense of the rates, till some lady visitor, struck by her
beauty and seeming innocence, provided her with an outfit and a
situation.
"Shut up, Daisy!" said one girl, quiet and demure as her namesake
Priscilla. "You're only fit for a pigsty."
"'The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth His
handiwork,'" sang Musical Meg, a half-witted girl, who had given two
idiots to the guardianship of the ratepayers. She was possessed of a
soprano voice, very clear and true, and, having been brought up in a
High Church Home, she punctiliously chanted the offices of _Prime_ and
_Compline_, slightly muddling them as her memory was bad.
"Hold your noise, Meg; we want to hear the tale."
"'Brethren, be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil as a
roaring lion walketh about, seeking whom he may devour, whom resist,
steadfast in the faith,'" chanted Musical Meg again.
The door opened and the white-capped attendant entered, leading by the
hand two little girls of about twelve and fourteen, who were sobbing
pitifully.
"Less noise here, if you please. Meg, you know you have been forbidden
to sing at bedtime. Now, my dears, don't cry any more; get undressed and
into bed at once; you'll see your mother in the morning."
"Why are you here, duckies? Father run away and left you all starving?"
asked an older woman who had been walking about the room administering
medicine, opening windows, and generally doing the work of wardswoman.
"Yes," sobbed the children; "they've put mother in another room, and we
are so frightened."
"There, stop crying, my dears," said Priscilla; "come and look at my
baby."
"What a lot of babies!" said the elder girl. "Have all your husbands run
away and left you?"
"Oh, Lor'! child, don't ask questions; get into bed, quick." The
children donned their pink flannelette nightgowns and then knelt down
beside their beds, making the sign of the Cross. There was deep silence,
some of the girls began to cry, "Irish Biddy" threw herself on her knees
and recited the Rosary with sobs and gasps.
"Oh, wash me and I shall be whiter than snow,
Whiter than snow, whiter than snow,"
sang a blear-eyed girl in a raucous, tuneless chant.
Musical Meg put her fingers to her ears. "You've got the wrong tune,
Rosie; listen, I'll hum it to you," but finding her attempts after
musical correctness were unheeded, she started herself the _Qui habitat_
of the _Compline_ office.
"Good Lord, girls!" came the shrill voice of Daisy Crabtree; "what's up
now? It gives me the hump to hear you sniffing and sobbing over your
psalm tunes; let's have something cheerful with a chorus: ''Allo! 'allo!
'allo! it's a different girl again----'"
"Oh! do be quiet, Daisy; wait until the poor little things has said
their prayers," came the gentle voice of Priscilla.
"'Different eyes and a different nose----'"
"Stow that, Daisy, or I'll drive those teeth you're so proud of down
your throat," said the tall wardswoman.
Temperance Hunt (known to her associates as "Tipsy Tempie," all
unconscious of the classical dignity of the oxymoron) was a clear
starcher and ironer, so skilled in the trade that it was said she could
command her own terms in West End laundries, but like many "shirt and
collar hands," she was given to bouts of terrible drunkenness, during
which she would pawn her furniture and her last rag for gin. Then she
would retire to the workhouse for a time, get some clothes out of the
charitable, sign another pledge, and come forth again, to the comfort
and peace of many households--for the wearers of Tempie's shirts
dressed for dinner without a murmur, and "never said a single 'damn.'"
Tipsy Tempie was a very powerful woman, and the song died on Daisy's
lips as she came towards her, a threatening light in her eyes. "All
right, keep your 'air on; if I mayn't sing I'll tell you another tale.
When I was in the Haymarket last Boat-race night----"
"Now, duckies, you go and get washed; your poor faces are all swelled
with crying--can't go to bed like that, you know; we lidies in this ward
are most particular."
"Please, teacher," said the elder child, "governess downstairs said as
we were to go straight to bed; we had a bath yesterday directly we came
in."
"Do what I tell you. A little drop of water'll stop the smarting of all
your tears, and you'll get to sleep quicker."
"Now, then, Daisy," she exclaimed, as the two children obediently
departed, "if you tell any more of your beastly stories before them two
innocent dears, I'll throttle you."
"Then you will be hung," said Daisy airily.
"Do you think I'd care? Good riddance of bad rubbish, as can't help
making a beast of itself. But one thing I insists on--don't let us
corrupt these 'ere little girls; we're a bad lot in here; most of you
are--well, I won't say what, for it ain't polite, and I don't 'old with
the pot calling the kettle black, and I know as I'm a drunkard. My
father took me to church hisself and had me christened 'Temperance,'
hoping as that might counterrack the family failing; but drink is in the
blood too deep down for the font-water to get at. Poor father! he
struggled hard hisself; but he kicked my blessed mother wellnigh to
death, and then 'anged hisself in the morning when he found what he
done; so I ain't got no manner of chance, and though I take the pledge
when the lidies ask me, I know it ain't no good. Well, as I said before,
we're a rotten lot, but not so bad that we can't respect little kiddies,
and any one can see that these little girls aren't our sort. I ask you
all--all you who are mothers, even though your children ain't any
fathers in particular--to back me in this." ("'Ear, 'ear!" said
Priscilla.) "I ain't had the advantage some of you have; I ain't been in
twenty-seven religious homes like Daisy, and I don't know psalms and
hymns like Meg; but I've got as strong a pair of fists as ever grasped
irons, and those shall feel 'em who says a word as wouldn't be fit for
the lady Guardian's ears."
The frightened Daisy had crept meekly into bed; the two little children
came back, and Tempie tucked them up with motherly hands, kissing the
little swollen faces; Musical Meg started a hymn.
The assistant matron came up from supper, and her brows knitted angrily
as she heard the singing. But at the door of the ward she paused, handle
in hand, for, from the lips of the fallen and the outcast, of the wanton
and the drunkard, led by the strangely beautiful voice of the
half-witted girl, rose the hymn of high Heaven--
Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty!
All Thy works shall praise Thy Name, in earth, and sky, and sea;
Holy, Holy, Holy! Merciful and Mighty;
God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity.
OLD INKY
There be two things that grieve my heart; and the third maketh
me angry:
A man of war that suffereth poverty.
A cab stood at the door of the workhouse, and a crowd of children and
idlers collected at once. A cab there often contained a lunatic or a
"d.t." case, or some person maimed or unconscious--generally something
sensational. The cabman slashed his whip several times across the window
to apprise the fares of his arrival, but there was no movement from
within, and an enterprising boy, peering in through the closed windows,
announced gleefully: "Why, it's old Inky and his wife, drunk as lords!"
A volunteer rang the bell, and an aged inmate at once opened the door,
and finding that matters were beyond him, fetched a liveried officer,
who gazed contemptuously at the cabman and asked satirically what he had
got there.
"I have just driven back the Dook and Duchess of Hinkerman to the quiet
of their suburban residence after the h'arduous festivities of the
season. Her Grace was a little overcome by the 'eat at the crowded
reception of the King of Bohemia, and was compelled to withdraw. I sent
the footman round to the town 'ouse to say as their Graces would not
dine at 'ome this evening, so I must ask you kindly to assist her Grace
to alight."
The crowd roared loudly at this sally, and the porter, opening the cab
door, drew out an aged and infirm man, whom he dragged off roughly
through the whitewashed lobby. Then he returned for the wife, a shrunken
little body in a state of stupefaction, whom he flung over his shoulder
like a baby, and then the hall door shut with a bang.
The cabman looked rather crestfallen, and requested that the bell might
be rung again, and again the aged inmate blinked forth helplessly.
"I am waiting," said the cabman, "for a little gratuity from his Grace;
his own brougham not being in sight, I volunteered my services."
The liveried officer again appeared, and a heated altercation ensued, in
the midst of which the Master of the workhouse arrived and endeavoured
to cut short the dispute, observing that his workhouse not being Poplar,
he had no power to pay cab fares for drunken paupers out of the rates.
The cabman gulped, and, dropping his Society manner, appealed to the
Master as man to man, asking what there was about his appearance that
caused him to be taken for "such a ---- fool as to have driven a ----
pair of ---- paupers to a ---- workhouse unless he had seen the colour
of a florin a kind-'earted lady had put into the old man's hand afore
the perlice ran them both in."
He appealed to the public to decide "whether he looked a greater fool
than he was, or whether they took him for a greater fool than he
looked." In either case, he "scorned the himputation," and if the Master
thought cabmen were so easy to be had he (the Master) had better
withdraw to a wing of his own work'us, where, he understood, a ward was
set apart for the "h'observation of h'alleged lunatics."
The crowd roared approval, and orders were sent that the old couple
should be searched, and after a breathless ten minutes, spent by the
cabman with his pink newspaper, a florin was brought out by the aged
inmate, reported to have been found in the heel of the old lady's
stocking. The crowd roared and cheered, and the cabman drove off
triumphant, master of the situation.
I found old "Inky" a few days later sitting in a corner, surly and
sullen and pipeless, having been cut off tobacco and leave of absence
for four weeks. I suppose discipline must be maintained, but there is
something profoundly pathetic in the sight of hoary-headed men and
women, who have borne life's heavy load for seventy and eighty years,
cut off their little comforts and punished like school-children.
He stood up and saluted at my approach; his manners to what he called
"his betters" were always irreproachable. I brought him a message from a
teetotal friend urging him to take the pledge, but he sniffed
contemptuously; like many a hard drinker, he never would admit the
offence.
"I warn't drunk, not I; never been drunk in my life. 'Cos why? I've got
a strong 'ed; can take my liquor like a man. Small wonder, though,
ma'am, if we old soldiers do get drunk now and then. Our friends are
good to us and stand us a drop; and we need it now and then when we get
low-spirited, and this work'us and them clothes"--and he glanced
contemptuously at his fustians--"do take the pluck out of a man. We
ain't got nothing to live for and nothing to be proud on; and it takes
our self-respeck--that's what it does--the self-respeck oozes out of our
finger-tips. Old Blowy, at St. Pancras Work'us, 'e says just the same.
Don't you know Old Blowy, ma'am--'im as had the good luck to ride at
Balaclava? I'm told some gentleman's got 'im out of there and boards 'im
out independent for the rest of his life. Can't you get me out, ma'am? I
ain't done nothin' wrong, and 'ere I am in prison. If it weren't for the
missis I'd starve outside. I can play a little mouth-organ and pick up a
few pence, and my pals at the 'King of Bohemia' are very good to me. I
can rough it, but my missis can't--females are different--and so we was
druv in 'ere. The Guardians wouldn't give me the little bit of
out-relief I asked for--four shillings would have done us nicely. They
listened to some foolish women's cackle--teetotal cant, I call it--and
refused me anything. 'Offered the 'Ouse,' as they say; and, though me
and the missis half-clemmed afore we accepted the kind invitation, a
man can't see 'is wife starve; and so 'ere we are--paupers. Yes, I
fought for the Queen"--and he saluted--"Gawd bless 'er! all through the
Crimean War; got shot in the arm at Inkermann and half-frozen before
Sebastopol, and I didn't think as I should come to the work'us in my old
age; but one never knows. The world ain't been right to us old soldiers
since the Queen went. I can't get used to a King nohow, and it's no good
pretending; and Old Blowy at St. Pancras says just the same. I suppose
we're too old. I can't think why the Almighty leaves us all a-mouldering
in the work'uses when she's gone. However, I'm a-going out; I shall take
my discharge, if it's only to spite 'im and show my independent spirit,"
and he shook an impotent fist at the Master, who passed through the
hall. "It's warm weather now, and we can sleep about on the 'eath a bit.
We shan't want much to eat--we're too old."
* * * * *
A week or so later I heard of the death of old "Inky." He had been found
in a half-dying condition on one of the benches on the heath, and had
been brought by the police into the infirmary, where he passed away
without recovering consciousness. As we "rattled his bones over the
stones" to his pauper grave I said a sincere _Laus Deo_ that another man
of war had been delivered from poverty and the hated workhouse.
A DAUGHTER OF THE STATE
Quis est homo, qui non fleret?
"No, ma'am, I've never had no misfortune; I'm a respectable girl, I am.
Why am I in the workhouse, then? Well, you see, it was like this: I had
a very wicked temper, and I can't control it somehow when the mistresses
are aggravating, and I runned from my place. I always do run away. No,
there was nothing agen the last mistress--it was just my nasty temper.
Then I got wandering about the streets, and a policeman spoke to me and
took me to a kind lady, and she put me here to prove me, and left me to
learn my lesson. She takes great interest in my case. Yes, Matron says
it is a disgrace for a strong girl to be on the rates, but what am I to
do? I ain't got no clothes and no character, so I suppose I shall always
be here now. No, it ain't nice; we never go out nor see
nothing--leastways, the young women don't. There's no sweet puddings and
no jam. Some of the girls say jail's far better. Yes, I am an orphan--at
least, father died when I was very little, and the Board gentlemen put
me and my brothers into the schools. No, I never heard any more of
them. Mother came to see me at first, but she ain't been nor wrote for
five years; perhaps she is dead or married again. No, I don't know how
old I am; Matron says she expects about eighteen. Oh, yes, I have been
in places. The Board ladies got me my first place at a butcher's, only
he was always coming after me trying to kiss me, and the missis did not
seem to like it somehow and she cut up nasty to me, and there was words
and I went off in a temper. No gentleman! I should think not. A damned
low scoundrel I call him. I beg your pardon, ma'am, I know 'damned'
isn't a word for ladies. I ain't an ignorant girl, but there's worse
said in the Young Women's Room sometimes. Then after that the Salvation
Army took me in and found me a place in a boarding-house. Heaps to do I
had, and such a lot of glasses and plates and things for every meal. I
always got muddled laying the table, and the missis had an awful nasty
temper, quite as bad as mine, and one day she blew me up cruel, and I
ran away. Then this time some nuns took me to their Home, and there I
made a great mistake; I thought it was a Church of England Home, but
they was Cartholics. Oh, yes, the nuns were very kind to me--real good
ladies--but the lady who takes an interest in my case said as I had made
a great mistake; I don't know why except that I always was a Church of
England girl. No, ma'am, I hope I may never make a worse mistake--for
they was good, and they sang beautiful in the chapel. Then the nuns
found a place for me with two old homespun people; they was very dull
and often ill, and I was always getting muddled over the spoons and
forks, an that made them _urri_table, and one day I felt so low-spirited
and nasty-tempered that I ran away again. The worst of places for me is,
no porters sit at the front doors and I run away before I think, and
then I get no character. But this time I have been proved, and I have
learnt my lesson. I won't do it any more. No, ma'am, I never knew I
could be taken to the police-courts just for running away--none of the
ladies never told me; I thought you were only copped for murders and
stealing. Daisy White--she pinched her missis's silk petticoat to go out
in on Sunday, and now she's out of jail no one won't have her any more.
But it's mostly misfortunes that brings girls here, and fits of course.
Blanche, that big girl with the squint eye, went off in a fit yesterday
as we were scrubbing the wards. No, I don't have no fits, and I'm honest
as the day. Would I be a good girl and not run away if you get me a
place? Oh, ma'am, only try me. The kind ladies quote textesses to me,
but they never get me a job. No, I don't mind missing my dinner. Matron
will keep it hot for me, but it's only suet pudding to-day with very
little sugar. In situations they give you beautiful sweet puddings
nearly every day, and Juliet Brown--she that's in with her third
misfortune--she says she's lived with lords and ladies near the King's
Palace at Buckingham--at least, she pretends she has--well, she says in
her places the servants had jam with their tea every day.