favouritism. I have seen hundreds of instances where a man could
be comparatively happy were it not for a prejudiced porter or
kitchen-man. I was not long in one large house before I saw this,
in the case of a porter, a bully, and a gentleman. The bully was
drunk and going from place to place, insulting everyone, especially
those that were better dressed than himself. Few of the lodgers took
any notice of him, until he came to one that had on a silk hat and
a frock-coat. This man lost his temper and told the bully that he
had no right to interfere with men that wanted to be quiet. He was
in the act of uttering this dignified rebuke when a porter came and
stood before them. "What's the matter?" he asked. The well-dressed
man began a quiet explanation, but the bully interrupted him; so
the former stopped at once, thinking he would have a chance to speak
when the other had done. "You had better go to bed," said the porter
to the bully, "and"--addressing the well-dressed man--"you come with
me to the office." When they arrived at the office the porter said
a few words to the clerk, and the latter returned the well-dressed
man his money, telling him to go elsewhere for a bed. There were
very few lodgers in the house that did not know the meaning of this
injustice. The well-dressed man was a gentleman, and, in spite of his
low circumstances, did not forget it. He looked on the porters as his
servants and, when he met them in the street, never invited them to
have a drink. Again, there was no necessity for him to rise early,
whereas the bully gave a porter sixpence a week to be called every
morning.
I was not many weeks at this house before I thoroughly understood
these matters. One night, when I was going to bed, a man, who was
quite tipsy, wanted to detain me in conversation, and I was doing
my best to escape, when up the stairs ran one of the porters. "Why
don't you go to bed?" he said to me. "You haven't to get up in the
morning, and others have." This porter had not heard my voice, and
he could see that the other man was drunk, but of course he set upon
me because the other paid to be called early. This porter became
more civil after, which I could well understand. I used to tip the
bath-porter twice a week, and seeing that they shared their tips--one
being in a better position than another to get them--so, no doubt,
the bath-porter had pointed me out for civility. There was no appeal
against these porters. They allowed some men to do things which
they got others turned out for, and it was no use trying to explain
oneself to the manager. Although I believe that he was a very just
man, he could not do otherwise than trust his men, say what they
would. In fact, I believe that this manager was so just that he would
have dismissed a porter at once if he could prove that that porter
was prejudiced against any of the lodgers and having them turned out
for his own spite.
When I left this house and went to one that was in the hands of
Christianity, I found the same state of things. The Christian officer
behind the food-bar gave thick slices of bread to those he liked and
thin slices to others; and he skimmed the top of the soup for those
he did not like or was indifferent to, but his ladle went to the
bottom for favourites. The consequence was that some lodgers would
have hot, greasy water, while others would have thick soup that was
almost Irish stew. It was well worth while to bribe this man with a
drink of whisky. One artful lodger did better than that, as he told
me in confidence. This man behind the bar was not supposed to take
money for food; the lodgers had to buy tin checks at the office, with
which they paid for what they wanted. But my artful dodger would go
to the bar when no one was there to see, put a penny down and receive
what he asked for. The officer behind the bar would quickly take this
money, in spite of the strict rules and the severe discipline of that
Christian army. But if a newly-arrived stranger put money down, that
officer would shout, loud enough to be heard at the office--"We don't
take money behind the bar; go to the office for checks."
When I first went to that lodging-house I had a small bundle, in
which were an extra shirt, a pair of stockings, a brush, razor,
and a few other articles. Seeing that all the lockers were in use,
I had no other option than to ask the kitchen-man to look after it,
for which I gave him twopence, although he had no claim to anything.
Whether the bar-man saw this deed or was told about it I cannot say,
but I know that I soon became one of his favourites. I may as well
say here that, judging by my later experience at this place, it was
well that I did tip the kitchen-man, for he often took a notion to
sell the things in his charge, only holding such property sacred as
had been tipped for. And yet on a Sunday afternoon these two, the
bar-man and the kitchen-man, would be seen one on each side of the
captain, and heard crowing like two cocks that challenge each other.
When the captain prayed one would shout "Hallelujah!" The other would
no sooner hear this than he would stretch his neck, grow red in the
face, and cry fiercely, "Praise the Lord!" These doings not only
amused the lodgers, but the principals as well; for, judging by their
faces, it was all they could do to keep from laughing outright.
I was at one lodging-house where the beds were clean, the cooking
accommodation good, and, according to the small rent to be paid,
everything as could be desired. But this place was also spoilt by a
common kitchen-man, who made things uncomfortable for all those that
did not give him either money, ale, or tobacco. This man would build
the fire up when a disfavoured lodger was in the middle of cooking
a meal, and then sweep the dusty floor when he was at his meals.
Of course, these things had to be done, so that there was no use
in reporting him to the manager. Still, there was no reason why he
should make more dust around _your_ food, and take longer under your
table than others, and build up the fire before there was actual need
of it. Yes, there was a reason--known to himself--you never gave him
anything.
This kitchen-man upset me so much that I agreed with another lodger
to share a furnished bed sitting-room. Alas! I was soon back in the
same lodging-house, in spite of its crazy kitchen-man. The man with
whom I shared the room disappeared suddenly, and when I heard his
character I did likewise. Without my knowledge, he borrowed of the
landlady; and the vicar came to me saying that my friend had told him
that I was on the point of starvation, and got a shilling on that
account. Not knowing what else he had done in the neighbourhood, I
could not feel at ease. Therefore, not having the courage to give my
landlady notice, I put on all my clothes--two pairs of trousers, two
shirts, a waistcoat, two jackets, and an overcoat--and crept to the
front door. Seeing that I had filled the pockets with a number of
small articles, it did not surprise me much to find great difficulty
in moving. I do not know what I would have done if the landlady had
been at the front door, because I could not have squeezed past her,
and she could not have helped seeing that I was as broad as I was
long. What upset me was that she had said she would not have let the
room to him, but had trusted my face. However, I did not owe her any
rent, and if I ever meet her when I am better off I will give her a
sovereign.
I have seen this favouritism even in prison. It came under my notice
in an American jail, where I had to serve fifteen days, and I was
as innocent as a new-born babe. All the prisoners were in one long
room, with cells on each side, in which they slept at night. At the
end of the room there was a square hole in the wall, which had a
slide; and it was through this hole that the prisoners received their
meals. When I went for my first meal, I could see the face of the old
cook--who was a prisoner--and was rather surprised to see him nod and
smile, as though he knew me. This smile was followed by a large plate
of food, much more than others. Perhaps the old prisoner-cook thought
he saw in me a fellow-prisoner in some other jail, and he may have
been right, for I had been in many others; or perhaps I resembled a
son of his. Whatever it was, it was quite clear that he did not give
me the plate that came to my turn, but kept one apart.
XVI
A Law to Suppress Vagrancy
We are all deeply interested in any scheme that proposes to suppress
the workhouse tramp, who has not only become a pest to the ratepayers
of our country--who support so many workhouses--but has also brought
the true beggar to his wits' end to earn a livelihood. To all true
beggars, who systematically pursue their calling, the workhouse tramp
has become as much of an eyesore as he is to the working classes of
our land. This vagrant--whom the Law seems so much to disfavour--is,
without doubt, a madman; but, if rightly dealt with, is not, I
believe, incapable of being cured. That he will not work to maintain
himself in a good home, with food, bed, and clothing; and that he
prefers to break so many hundredweight of stone--a heavy task to be
performed on a bowl of thin gruel, or limited supply of bread and
water--that he prefers to do the latter is sufficient proof of the
man's mental deficiencies. To turn such a one into a useful member
of society would be to confer as great a benefit on him as on the
ratepayer of this country. Sometimes he cavils at the injustice of
such tasks, and is sent to prison for refusing to perform them; or,
the task being done, he tears in shreds his old rags, thinking to
obtain a new outfit at the ratepayers' expense. For this he is also
sentenced; for, though he has without doubt earned a cheap suit of
clothes, he is by no means entitled to any--not even to a pair of
stockings. Of course, our workhouses are not hotels, neither are they
rough boarding camps, so that the ratepayers are, after supporting
them, far from being relieved, seeing that this tramp is forced
to make personal application for more food, or starve. But what I
mention is that this man works hard and gets little for his trouble,
and that he could be made a useful member of society and obtain more
necessities--aye, even luxuries--by performing far less labour.
For my own class, whom I as a proud member represent, the outlook
is indeed serious. Only yesterday an incident occurred which will,
I believe, explain how the workhouse tramp stands in the light of a
true beggar. I had seen a gentleman approaching in the distance, and
had in my own mind resolved that he should not pass without first
hearing my story. Being a clean man, keeping myself well shaved and
brushed, I had very little fear of disgusting him by my personal
appearance, making him seek to escape my importunities. It happened
as I expected. During my narrative he stood smiling for a minute or
two, for, you may depend, I gave him no time for excuse or question.
At last I finished, and stood waiting the result of my confessions,
which had been unusually pathetic. "My good fellow," said he, "I
have just given the last threepence to another unfortunate man, who
apparently was in greater need of assistance; I am very sorry."
There was no other course than to continue my journey, for it was
impossible to talk money out of an empty pocket. In five minutes
after I was hailed by a voice from the hedgerow, and, looking in
that direction, saw the most ragged man I had ever set eyes on,
with his matted hair a foot long. "Did you meet a gentleman on your
way?" he asked. "I did," said I; "and what of that?" "That man,"
said this ragged tramp, "was a thoroughbred. He saw me sitting here
and, without a word from either of us, he emptied his pocket into my
hand"--saying which he withdrew his fingers from the palm of his hand
and disclosed to my view three pennies. Now, here was a workhouse
tramp--for he was no other, or he would at once have stepped into
the road and accosted the gentleman--receiving unsolicited alms;
and I, who earned my living by the use of my tongue, must suffer in
consequence.
But the worst charge to be made against this class of vagrant is that
he does, by reason of his workhouse experience, look on common bread
as a luxury, and receives it with so many thanks, from the various
people on whom he calls, that these people soon become impressed
with the notion that dry bread can be applied with satisfaction as
a poultice in every case. In this way he spoils the road for good
beggars who, not going into workhouses, need coppers for their beds,
and who always make use of that indefinite term "something to eat,"
but would not, on any account, remind their hearers of "a crust of
dry bread."
Again, he spoils true beggars by his lack of system. A workhouse
tramp has not that energy and concentration which is required for
success. Sometimes he knocks at the first door in a street, after
which he walks to the next street, where he knocks at the middle
house, or perhaps the last; and, when the true beggar comes after
him, and beholds this timid fool running from side to side of a
street, he knows very well that the street is being spoiled, for
he cannot tell exactly where the other has been. In a case of this
kind it is best for the true, systematic beggar to go at once into
the next street, and it is not unlikely then but what he will soon
recognize the workhouse tramp at its other end. If the true beggar
had no other system than this--running here and there to chance
houses, at the sign of a green gate, or a church announcement in a
front window--he would soon be so confused as to where he had, or had
not been, that a good-sized town would in a very short time become
useless to him.
To a true beggar the workhouse tramp is a mystery. The former cannot
understand how the latter can perform such stone-breaking feats on
a bread-and-water diet, and he wonders where lies the fascination
of such a life. He, himself, though he may rise penniless in the
morning, has confidence in the day's fulfilment, and he sometimes
meets with a surprise in the shape of a piece of silver. Sometimes
he calls at an alehouse, where a merry party is in full song, and to
them he offers to render harmony, provided they will favour him with
a collection. This proposition is invariably favoured, and the true
beggar then flatters the loudest and most persistent singer of the
party by giving him his cap to make that collection. Of course, he
is offered a glass of ale before he begins, and during the intervals
between verses he is not forgotten. As a rule he is not a sweet
singer, but his voice is thought to be remarkable, especially if he
sings a familiar air with a good chorus. If his hearers are half
blind with drink, and incapable of using their feet, it is well
for the true beggar to end his song with a dance. The most awkward
shuffling will appear to them as the movements of lightning. This
kindness on his part calls forth extra coppers and a more liberal
supply of ale. Now, what happens to shame this true beggar, and to
spoil him in the act of earning a livelihood? Why, one of these
ragged workhouse tramps walks in and begs a drink of water. Water!
mark you, when this true beggar is earning ale and money! Then what
wonder that such a man should become an eyesore to all classes of
men? He has no self-respect, for, whereas he often passes stores and
houses without calling at them, he is nothing backward in making
known his wants to true beggars. For sometimes he by accident picks
up sixpence, works for it, or receives it unsolicited, with which
he pays for his bed at a lodging-house. Then he, without shame or
self-respect, begs tea of one, sugar of another, and makes himself
a pest to all those who with an independent spirit do their begging
outside instead of inside a lodging-house, as he does. It is
fortunate for us that he does not get these sixpences often, and
that he is compelled almost night after night to the workhouse for
accommodation.
The question is not altogether without humour, for these workhouse
tramps actually call themselves our brothers on the road. They stop
us familiarly on our way, and ask for information of workhouses, as
though we were one of themselves. One advises me not to go to a
certain workhouse, for they will make me break stones all the day
following, on a little dry bread and water. As though I ever, for one
moment, dreamed that such a lot would be mine! "My good fellow," says
I, "_lodging-houses_ are made for true beggars, and not workhouses."
For the above reasons I have become deeply interested in any scheme
to improve the condition of the workhouse tramp, for, as I have said,
he is not only a burden on the ratepayers of the country, but mars
the success of all true beggars. We are often, when in the act of
begging money for our beds, told to go to the workhouse; which is
owing to this workhouse tramp having communicated the intelligence
that he would be satisfied with bread, and that he is not in need of
money for a place to sleep, seeing that the workhouse can accommodate
him. For he becomes hardened to the indignities and heavy tasks set
before him, and at last looks on such a cold, wretched place as a
home, aye, even as a playground.
XVII
Stubborn Invalids
It is a pathetic sight to see men dying in a lodging-house, fighting
against death day after day. The few healthy men that are present
are quite indifferent to life, and do not care if their health is
impaired through breathing in the same room as a dozen consumptives.
These healthy men are so thoughtless of themselves that they offer
their dying comrades saucers of tea, after which they drink with
their own lips perhaps on the same place as their unfortunate fellows
used. I have offered many a one of these poor fellows a drink of tea,
but was always very careful not to use the saucer after them. When
they wanted to return my kindness, and I did not like to wound their
feelings by refusing them, I always took a clean saucer from the
shelf, instead of using theirs.
I well remember one man, who was in a terrible condition for the last
three months before he was carried to the hospital. He was a man of
about middle age, and his face was very white, and all day long he
was coughing and spitting in the kitchen, with only enough strength
in his body to take him to bed. Although I sat with my back to him at
meals, I could not help but hear the poor fellow, and could not help
a feeling of revulsion. In fact I began at last to look upon these
consumptives as murderers who, by their stubbornness in not going to
the hospital, were killing me and others with their breath.
Some of these men are in receipt of small pensions, or get a little
assistance from relatives on the outside, and for this reason they
die sooner; for they have more leisure than others--who must go out
to earn a few pennies--at the coke fire. Little Punch is dead, who
might have lived for many more years, had he not been kept indoors so
much by outside assistance. In the spring this little fellow used to
set off with his pack as a pedlar through the country, and when he
returned at the end of summer was always in good condition, but was
as bad as ever after a month in the lodging-house. I believe he could
have prolonged his life ten or fifteen years, if he had rambled both
winter and summer.
These men fight against going to the hospital and sit dying day after
day, making no complaint; until the lodging-house keeper is surprised
some morning to find them lying in bed, without the strength to rise.
Even then they swear it is only temporary indisposition, and that
after a few hours' rest they will be well again. Then the doctor is
called, and then comes the ambulance; but it is too late, for if
the men do not die on the way, they die soon after they reach the
hospital.
Poor old Peter saw himself wasting away. He was six feet two inches
in height, but thin enough to be exhibited. He kept himself alive
by a merry heart, but his hollow, spasmodic laughter refused to
make his body fat. Up to the last he affected great cheerfulness,
but he could not cheat death any longer. It was impossible to feel
any revulsion against Peter; he did not spit about the place, and
though he was always coughing, the poor fellow had no strength to
make a disturbing noise: he could not be heard if you were not seated
next him. You could feel him cough, by the vibration of the bench
or table, more often than you could hear him. I also believe that
he had consideration for others, knowing that a sick man can make
himself unpleasant. Peter did nothing but win pity and goodwill, and
he returned it by endeavouring to be witty and cheerful.
Old Scotty Bill, the flycatcher, is also dead. Consumption did
not claim him as a victim, for he died at the advanced age of
eighty-three, which was wonderful for a man who had spent the best
part of his life in a lodging-house. No doubt if he had lived under
better conditions, he would have reached a hundred years with ease.
All his interest was in flies. While other lodgers were discussing
the abundance of fish in Billingsgate, Scotty could be seen counting
the flies in the kitchen, as a sign whether he should go out with
his fly-papers or not. His language was very bad, and the last words
he was heard to utter surprised even those who were accustomed to
him, by their unusual weight and speed. He was another stubborn
invalid, and fought hard against going to the hospital. His death
was quite characteristic, and I can hardly imagine it otherwise. He,
like many another one, was found one morning helpless in bed, and
the manager, seeing that he was very ill, in spite of his assurance
to the contrary, sent at once for the doctor. But when the latter
arrived he and the manager were surprised to find the bed empty. On
making enquiries they were told that Scotty was in the kitchen, and
it was there that they found the old man, reading a newspaper. In
spite of this the doctor saw that Scotty was not in good condition
and tried to persuade him to go to bed, but this the old man swore
that he would not do, and demanded some reason for such a request.
Then there was a whispered consultation between the manager and the
doctor, and it was decided to send for the ambulance and have him
taken to the hospital whether he would or no. Now Scotty had lived in
that same lodging-house for over thirty years, and for that reason
was well known in the locality. Therefore, when the ambulance arrived
at the door, and a woman outside enquired of a lodger as to who the
ambulance was for, and was told of Scotty Bill, the news soon spread
abroad. In less than five minutes between twenty and thirty women
had assembled at the door. These women of the slums were never very
clean, and at the present time not one of them was in a fit condition
to answer her own door; but they forgot this in their anxiety to see
poor Scotty Bill and wish him a speedy recovery. At last the old
man appeared, and it staggered him to see the number of women at the
door. But when he heard them say, "Poor Bill"; and "Good luck to you,
Scotty"; his fury knew no bounds. Standing with one foot on the step,
he paused, and then poured forth such a torrent of abuse that some
of the women lost all sympathy with him and feebly retaliated. He
told them to go home and scrub their dirty faces, instead of coming
there to watch him--and other things not fit to mention. It was, they
confessed, the worst language they had ever heard--and more than one
of them was capable of using very strong words. That was the last
seen of Scotty Bill, and that was his dying speech, for he died on
his arrival at the hospital.
I have heard of the death of a number more, men that lingered with
such determination that it almost seems as if they have taken
advantage of my absence and died; for they all seem to have gone one
after the other since I left. "One-eyed" Jim is dead. A terrible
cough he had, but his face and neck were always like raw beef. That
one eye of his blazed with such power that I have often imagined the
devil hard at work shovelling half a ton a coal a minute to supply
its fierce light. He also went off suddenly, walking the kitchen
floor on Monday, and lying cold and dead on the following day.
"Rags" is also dead, the great drinker; the man who when abroad
complained that whiskey made him totter, whereas it was an
earthquake, that tumbled towers and made the firm-footed houses
reel. "The whiskey's in my legs," said "Rags," not knowing it was an
earthquake.
"Monkey" Sam and the "Dodger" are both dead, and there is no doubt
but what the Dodger's death hastened Sam's. These two were the slyest
pair that I have ever met. I believe they understood each other's
thoughts so well that when one's body itched the other could, without
seeing his friend make a motion, scratch his own body at the exact
place. These two conversed by looks, and uttered very few words.
They were so well-matched and thought so much of one another, that
something more than accident must have brought two such men together.
It was always clear that if anything happened to part them, neither
one would seek friendship elsewhere.
I had seen all these men fighting against death day after day, but
with such determination, that I can hardly believe the report that
calls them dead; especially as there is no proof of lettered stone,
seeing that they are all in paupers' graves. All these poor invalids
in common lodging-houses are under the impression that doctors,
when they find that their patients have no friends, and cannot be
thoroughly cured, kill them. That is why they are so stubborn, and
fight till they cannot move, before they will enter a hospital.
XVIII
The Earnings of Beggars