common lodging-house; but men and women are occasionally met in
London that are even stared at and pitied by those who live in such
low places. The men and women of whom I speak would not be admitted
into the lowest common lodging-houses in London. They are so ragged
and filthy in appearance that if you gave one of them a sovereign
it would be impossible to get a bed until an alteration was made in
his or her appearance. Some of these have slept in their clothes so
often and been outcasts so long that they are really without the
least hope--not dejected for a few hours or days, as with others.
Their dreams, if they have any, are recollections of days gone, but
they have no hope in the future. Who has not seen them? Men and
women in such a condition that if a man gives them a penny he has
to avert his eyes; and the most kind-hearted women pass them by with
as quick a glance as possible. There is only one place open to these
poor wretches, and that is a Salvation Army shelter, where they pay
twopence and sleep on the floor. They think nothing of suffering;
one of them will sit on a seat, when it is raining hard, with the
utmost indifference, and there may be an arch that he could reach in
less than two minutes. So he gets wet and shivers all night, which is
common for him.
I have seen a man of this description refused a bed at a Salvation
Army lodging-house, and it did not take the officer many seconds to
come to that conclusion. Of course, it is not often--perhaps half a
dozen times in a year--that one of these poor people can afford to
pay fourpence for a bed; but sometimes they have the good fortune
to find a silver coin, or some gentleman gives it to them. If the
latter is the case, the gentleman is probably a stranger in London,
and comes from some happy new land where such extreme poverty is
not known. One night, when I was at the office paying for my bed, I
heard a man come in at the front door and stand behind me, but did
not turn my head, thinking that he was one of the many lodgers that
lived there. When I was about to leave I heard this man put down some
money and tell the lieutenant that he wanted a bed. As I did not hear
that officer make any answer, but rise from his stool instead to come
out of the office, I turned my head, thinking something strange was
about to happen. The lieutenant was soon out and standing before the
would-be lodger, looking at him from head to foot. "I should think
not," he said at last with an amused smile to think that the man had
asked such a question. "We have no bed for _you_," he continued; "you
had better go to the shelter in Blackfriars." The man was certainly a
pitiful, even disgusting, sight. His hair was very long, and so was
his beard; and the colour of his hands, his neck, and the hairless
part of his face was almost black. His clothes were in tatters,
showing his naked legs; his boots had no soles or heels, and the
uppers were kept together with string. This poor fellow had either
found a silver coin or had received it in charity; and, having slept
in his clothes for months, he wanted them off for one night and
the luxury of a warm bed. Not only that, but if this man had a bed,
he would also have the use of the washhouse all the next day, with
plenty of hot water to clean himself. But this was not to be, for the
lieutenant was too keen-eyed. This poor fellow, who was so ambitious,
did not seem at all surprised at the refusal, but picked up his money
and walked out without a word. Perhaps he had been to other places
with the same result, and would still go to others. The Christian
officer watched him going, and, when he was gone, turned to re-enter
his office. Seeing me standing there, a witness to what had happened,
he said, "What a face!" and entered the office laughing--he, he, he!
Any person in London can see these poor wretches, who are in as low a
state as it is possible to fall into. It is almost impossible to miss
them, whether they are seated or walking, for if you are not looking
their way you are almost certain of hearing strange sounds and having
your attention drawn to them. They all talk to themselves, and laugh
and swear; for cold nights and hunger have made them crazy to a great
extent. Two of them are seldom seen together, for each one has just
enough sense to know that he draws more attention than is good,
without inviting more. Time is nothing to these; if they have enough
bread to last the day, they are not likely to leave one particular
seat. As a rule each one has a certain spot to spend the day, and,
after being forced to walk all night, they return as soon as possible
to their favourite place. It is in the early morning that they get
their food, and where they get it is a secret each one keeps to
himself. This secret is their living, and that is another cause why
they should be reserved with one another. One of these men told me
once that he knew a certain large private house where a paper parcel
consisting of fragments of food was to be found every morning in the
back alley, close to the ash-bin. This paper parcel had kept him for
three years, but he had missed it several times. No doubt some stray
beggar had found it on those occasions, but, not knowing that such a
parcel was put there every morning, had never troubled to look for
it again. When I heard this I could not help thinking how likely it
was that something would happen to disappoint him; that the tenant's
absence or death would alter such an arrangement. But I did not give
the least hint of this, for I saw that the poor fellow thought he
was sure of bread for life. He had not the least doubt but what the
parcel would always be put there, and his only worry was that some
other beggar would follow him and learn his secret, or discover the
parcel by accident. In the winter this man spent all his days on one
particular seat, when he could get it, and as near to it as possible
when it was already taken. When I walked along the Embankment one
morning, at nine o'clock, he was then seating himself. He had his
paper parcel beside him, from which he had just taken a crust of
bread. When I came back that way, at four o'clock in the afternoon,
he was still there. Perhaps he would have a certain shady tree in one
of the parks for his summer days.
None of these are beggars; they never go to houses or beg of people
in the street, for they know that their appearance is so bad that
they dare not draw more attention than people like to give them.
Sometimes, not very often, a man has the courage to give them a
coin, but no woman ever has. They are so surprised at receiving
unsolicited charity that they forget to offer any thanks. The man
whom I have just mentioned, who had a parcel of food every morning,
would rather you passed him by without giving him money, for fear a
policeman would see the act and accuse him of begging, and move him
from his favourite seat. As I have said, most of them know places
where they can get food without begging, outside large factories and
elsewhere. They are seldom to be seen in private streets, because
they do not beg houses.
I have often seen men standing outside large factories and workshops,
waiting for the workmen, so as to get the food some of them have
left from dinner and, being frugal husbands, are taking home; but
who gladly give it to a man who they think wants it. These beggars
generally ask a workman, when they see him with his food-tin, if he
has anything left from dinner. Whether he has or not does not matter,
for the question draws the attention of those that have, and in a few
moments the beggar has enough for a couple of good meals. But these
poor wretches, who have fallen so low in their appearance, have no
need to speak at all, only to show themselves. For it is not only
apparent to every eye that they are homeless, but it almost seems as
if they never had homes. Such men are the only thorough outcasts,
for whom nothing can be done. Neither the Salvation Army nor the
Church Army will deal with them. And if one of these men went to the
Charity Organization he would not be admitted inside the doors, much
less receive the honour of being invited in and questioned. That
particular Society would not be interested as to what his father did
for a living or his grandfather's habits. In fact it does not need
those hard, smart, detective qualities of charity officers to see
that the date of social respectability must go back a very long way
indeed in this man's past.
XXII
The Lodger Lover
A lodger gave him the name of "Cinders," and he took to it kindly.
I was present in the kitchen on the day he arrived as a stranger,
nameless and alone, as far as the other lodgers were concerned, for
they did not know what name he had entered at the office. He was
in rags and tatters, and "Rags" or "Tatters" should certainly have
been his name. In fact the name was offered to him, but he returned
an unsatisfactory stare. He was preparing his tea at the same table
as "Punch," and the latter being in need of a pinch of salt, and
seeing none of his friends at tea, asked this stranger to oblige him,
saying: "Would you oblige me, 'Rags,' with a pinch of salt?" The man
stared at "Punch" for a moment, and then walked away without giving
an answer. He was at that time cooking a herring at the fire. Now it
so happened that a few moments later this man was pouring out tea,
when all at once there was a loud cry of "Whose herring is this?"
The man turned quickly at the sound, and beheld his herring making a
few spasmodic motions, as it dangled on a long wire. He immediately
ran to the rescue, but alas! too late; for the tatters of his loose
clothes encompassed him like a deadly plant, and when he arrived
the herring was lying motionless under the grate. After great care
he succeeded in bringing it to the light, covered with ashes and
cinders. Still, with great care, he washed it and, after placing it
flat on a plate, returned it to the fire. "I hope you do not blame me
for that accident, 'Cinders,'" said kind-hearted "Punch." "Oh, no,"
answered the man newly named "Cinders." "'Cinders' has too much sense
for that," said "Red-Nosed Scotty," who happened to be sitting near.
"Whose teapot is this?" cried the kitchen-man, who was about to build
the coke fire, and wanted all food and teapots removed. "It belongs
to 'Cinders,'" said a number of voices. From that day to this his
name is "Cinders," owing to the accident to his herring when he first
came. If he was arrested, it would be--"'Cinders' is in jail"; and if
he died it would be--"'Cinders' is dead."
If a man who goes to live in a common lodging-house does not utter
his own name in a very short time, the lodgers will give him one.
Brown had a large nose, and would most certainly have been named
"Nosey," had he not on the first day recorded a simple anecdote of
his childhood, in which he had cause to call himself William Brown.
I remember the day well, when the "Dodger"--a man who gladly helped
others to spend their earnings on ale and, when they sat penniless
and hungry, sat himself down alone to beefsteak and onions--I
remember the day well when this man caused a never-to-be-forgotten
sensation in the lodging-house kitchen. A letter was at the office
for Algernon Dudley, and the manager had been in the kitchen several
times in quest of that gentleman. It was near seven o'clock in
the evening when he came into the kitchen for the fifth time and
cried--"Is Algernon Dudley here?" "Yes," answered a man in the
corner, and coming quickly forward. All eyes turned towards him,
and who do you think Algernon Dudley was? No other than the common
"Dodger." "Fatty," who claimed to be a fighting man, whom no man had
ever succeeded in knocking down, said, in conversation to Brown,
"You could have knocked me down with a feather."
Brown's remarks on this occasion were very sensible, as they usually
were. "It was, is, and always will be the custom," said he, "for
a woman that gives birth to a child to name it. For this reason
she is no sooner on the trot again than she begins scheming to
that end. Now," continued Brown, "we must not picture the 'Dodger'
as he is--God help him!--but as he was, a child in the arms of a
doting woman. Such was the case, and has been the same with others,
including ourselves, and will always be. Now this poor woman--some
people would call her foolish--no doubt had great respect for the
'Dodger' as a babe and, to distinguish him from the common race of
mankind, named him in such a manner as we have just heard. Perhaps I
am right, perhaps I am wrong; but if the true facts of the case were
known, you would probably find that I was not far from the truth. In
spite of all this, I quite agree with our friend's remark, that it
fills us with astonishment." The "Dodger" had lived in the house for
more than two years, when this incident caused so many comments.
But let us return to the man "Cinders," for that gentleman was
no helpless wreck in a doss-house; he was really a gay spirit and
capable of love. He was a man with a long, melancholy face, seeing
no humour in life and, if the truth must be told, he was positively
ugly. Yet this man "Cinders" had been seen on several occasions
walking the streets with a woman on his arm. One of the lodgers said
her looks were passable, and another said that they were more than
passable compared to "Cinders." Brown had seen them together and,
said he, "Although a man ought to believe his own eyes, I would never
believe such to be the case, had not 'Cinders' said, 'Good night, Mr.
Brown.' And if a man is not to believe both eyes and ears, then what
is he to believe?"
Of course, there could be no union between these poor souls; for
she was in service, and he did odd jobs at the market, earning a
shilling, or a little more on lucky days. As the manager said, it was
amusing and could not amount to anything serious. They could go on
walking arm in arm all their lives, for they would never be able to
marry and walk apart.
This courtship had been the talk of the house for over three months
when, one night, it was brought to an end in a strange manner.
"Cinders" and his love had been all the evening in the "Borough"
drinking ale. He, seeing some smoked haddock, fancied some for his
supper and, after making a purchase, rejoined his fair companion. It
was near midnight when it suddenly occurred to "Cinders" that the
manager closed the house at twelve p.m., and if he--"Cinders"--was
not there by that time, he would be out for the night. Reminding his
lady of this, they both started for home, her road lying the same way
as his. The manager was just closing the door when "Cinders" arrived.
Now, goodness knows what demon put it into this woman's head to cook
her lover's fish, but this she seemed determined to do. "I am coming
in to cook your supper," said she. "No," said the manager, "this is
a house for men only, and we do not allow women to enter. Not only
that, the kitchen is now closed, and I would not open it again for
'Cinders' or any other man. He will have to go supperless to bed,
or seek lodgings elsewhere." The lady then started to abuse the
manager in a loud voice, but that gentleman, not heeding her, caught
"Cinders" by the shoulders, saying, "Go to bed, you old fool," at the
same time shutting the door in the lady's face.
The next morning, when "Cinders" was cooking his haddock, the manager
lectured him severely on what had occurred the previous night;
telling him that if he could afford to keep a lady cook he must seek
better lodgings. Brown, who happened to be within hearing, gave
evidence that he distinctly heard a woman's voice say, "I am going to
cook his fish," but thought he must be dreaming. Even now he believed
it was all a dream, and he would like to hear the truth from the
manager's own lips, as to whether it was an actual fact or not. On
being told that it was, Brown turned his eyes towards "Cinders" and,
seeing that gentleman hold down his head in wordless shame, Brown
was forced to believe it all. Probably that was the end of their
courtship, for they were never seen together after that.
XXIII
The Handy Man
The handy man is to be found in all places where men are either too
poor to pay for professional experience, or, not being so poor, yet
live in out-of-the-way camps which women have never visited, and
which are too temporary for tradesmen to open business. The former
places are common lodging-houses, where the handy man volunteers
his services as laundryman, cook, tailor, cobbler, barber, etc. In
fact, according to his boasted qualifications, it would be far more
interesting to learn what he cannot do than what he can. He has
learnt all these trades with his eye, and, when about to practise,
his confidence is unshaken. Says he, "I will shave you, and you will
not feel the razor going over your face." And when he covers your
face with blood he blames pimples, which you never had, and expects
to be thanked for removing them; for in addition to shaving you, has
he not also performed a successful surgical operation?
In this manner he earns a shilling or more a day, and he is not
agreeable that any man should shave himself, sew or wash clothes; or
he would not earn the price of his bed and board, and gifts of ale
and tobacco. If he sees me preparing to shave, he makes a rush and
possesses himself of the razor, and commands me to be seated. There
is nothing else to do but obey, for he takes me by the shoulder and
leads me to a seat; he then forces me down and pushes my head back
until it is within an inch of the nape of my neck. For this indignity
I give him a penny, and then, while I am washing, he shouts in a
loud voice--"Next." He never thinks that I would object to my soap,
brush, and razor being used on other faces; and truly it is for that
reason--and not economy--that I shave myself. But thank goodness the
kitchen is almost empty, and there is no answer to his "Next." Then,
with an eye to future custom, he carefully wipes the razor, dries it
on his clothes, washes the brush, rolls the soap in a piece of clean
paper, and returns them to the owner. After which he again borrows
the razor, for he has seen a hair on the throat, and, as he says--"A
good craftsman likes to make a neat job." He then laments the number
of pimples that had to be removed, and wanders in quest of other jobs.
Probably he now sees a man in the act of repairing a boot. If he
does, he rushes in that direction, wrestles with the man for the
boot, and is soon heard hammering with all his might. He makes so
much noise that any man would think him a man of confidence and great
practice. Of course he blames the tools for every mistake, and says
modestly that no man living could do better under such conditions.
For rendering this assistance he receives two or more coppers.
And now he sees a man whose eyesight is bad endeavouring to thread
a needle. "Allow me," cries the handy man, springing forward,
and wrestling with the other for the needle and thread. Getting
possession of these, in spite of the other's loud-spoken annoyance,
he, instead of returning them, demands the article to be sewn. "No,
thank you," says the other; "I can manage it myself." With much
reluctance the handy man surrenders, and begs a pipeful of tobacco
for threading the needle. But he still keeps his eye on the other,
and when he sees him take up a shirt and a patch, the handy man again
springs forward and in a loud voice commands the other to halt. "I,"
says he, "have a piece of stuff that exactly matches your shirt,
whereas yours is far different." Snatching the shirt from the other's
hand, he disappears for a moment, and then reappears with a piece
of stuff that, it must be admitted, is a better match. The other,
being well pleased at this, says: "If you don't mind waiting we will
have a drink after I have done this job." The handy man, hearing
this, and not feeling inclined to wait long, also thinking that an
additional kindness would meet its reward in an additional drink,
answers: "You had better let me do it, for by the way you hold the
needle it is plain that you are not used to such work." The other,
seeing that he has already given tobacco, and is compromised for
a drink, is now quite willing to have the handy man's assistance.
"Now," says he, when the job is done, where every stitch is seen to
lie in its own deep valley surrounded by hills--"Now," says he, "all
it requires is to be pressed with a hot flat-iron, after which you
need not be ashamed to show it to the best tailor in the land. If
you like, we will use the interval, while the iron is in the fire,
for refreshment."
The handy man, though he often spoils good things which, with a
little professional care, might be made almost as good as new, is
not to be altogether despised. Though he is not the handy man of
his claim, he certainly deserves credit for keeping handy tools.
Wherever he finds discarded boots or clothes, he cuts patches and
saves them for emergency. He always keeps a pair of scissors, a
razor, strap, brush, pincers, and many other useful things, and he
is seldom short of nails. But to one who is determined to do without
his services, he is often a very unpleasant spectator. For instance,
if I am shaving the handy man stands two feet away, glaring like a
discomforted demon; and when I stand before the glass, and the razor
is on my face, he stands behind my back, so that to my confusion
and danger two faces are reflected. If he sees a man who has
persistently declined his aid, and who is in the act of sewing, the
handy man either stands in the light, or stands seemingly counting
the stitches, critically watching, until the man must either prick
his finger or spoil his work. When he sees a man repairing a boot he
says sarcastically: "Take care you strike the right nail." The other
laughs, but proves his confusion when the next instant he strikes off
the nail of his left-hand thumb.
The handy man even prescribes for the sick, but in nine cases out of
ten his cure is an intoxicant, the time being immaterial. I allowed
him to cut my hair, and he seemed well pleased at the result; but
after one glance in the glass, I decided not to remove my cap for
three weeks, whether at meals or not.
Perhaps nothing worse could befall a house than to have two rival
handy men. I was at one place where a man claimed to have given
satisfaction for a number of years. He was certainly liked, for even
those who scorned his talents could not resist his ways as a cadger
of tea, sugar, tobacco, and other things. But alas! his fatal day
came when a man, who was receiving a good pension, took lodgings at
the same house, and, wanting something to occupy his mind, began
shaving, cutting hair, and mending boots free of charge. "Look here,"
said the old handy man to the new one--"Look here, before you came I
could always pay for my bed, tobacco, not to mention a glass or two
of ale; but your coming here has spoilt all that." "Well," answered
the good-natured pensioner, "you are one of the biggest and strongest
men in the house, and why don't you look for a man's labour, instead
of loafing about for a woman's work--sewing and washing clothes? I am
not taking pennies from poor fellows old or broken in health who as
paper-men, toy-sellers, and sandwichmen, barely earn enough for their
own wants." Not many days after this the big, healthy schemer had to
walk out for his living, and had heavy tasks put before him, which he
was well able to perform. Then the poor lodgers had peace to do their
own washing and mending, while the good-natured pensioner attended to
their boots, beard, and hair.
XXIV
On Books