four books, which were regarded as literary successes, my library
consisted of only about fifty volumes, some of which were magazines,
and not worth a second reading. This being so, it is hardly likely
that I can ever forgive this world for keeping me without books when
my enthusiasm was great, for I don't want them now. I have often
envied the thousands of rich people that have well-stocked libraries
and no desire to use them. When my enthusiasm was greatest I was not
able to enjoy books owing to the circumstances under which they had
to be read. For instance, when I lived in a common lodging-house,
preferring freedom on a small income to drudgery on a large one, I
had plenty of time to visit free libraries. At those places I could,
by signing my name and address, borrow any book mentioned in the
catalogue, and read it on the premises. I often wish I now had some
of the books I read at that time and could not enjoy. The reason I
could not enjoy them at that time was owing to several causes, which
were strong enemies against enthusiasm. In the first place, I had
to give a false address, because the name of a lodging-house was
not respectable, and condemned me as unclean. Owing to this I could
never feel comfortable, for if I happened to look up from my book
and saw the librarian looking my way, I always thought that he was
weighing in his mind what manner of man I was. Sometimes a librarian
would stare at me so boldly that I lost no time in returning the
book, and leaving the place, thinking that he would soon come forward
and tell me to do so. Of course, I was very suspicious, under those
circumstances, but have often thought since that those men were not
thinking of me at all, but were lost in their own business, and did
not know what their eyes were doing. Another reason why I could not
enjoy books then was owing to a low and insufficient diet, which
kept my blood too cold to sit long in a room where the windows were
often wide open. The consequence was that I often returned a very
interesting book after an hour's reading, so as to take a walk and
get warm; a book which would, if I had a cosy little room of my own,
be read through at one sitting, though it took far into the night.
And when summer came, I wanted to read in the open air, but had no
friends to recommend me as a book-borrower. For that reason I could
not borrow books to take away and read at my leisure, and in whatever
place I liked.
Since those days, and now that I have made one or two friends, I
have other reasons to spoil my enjoyment of books. I cannot now read
with enjoyment books that are borrowed or are likely to be wanted
back. Such books are never any good to me, for, if I enjoy them, I am
robbed of that joy by the thought that they are not mine. I want to
see the books around me as my own property, else the sight of them
grieves me. My own books are kept on a shelf, and I look on them as
pure thoroughbred; but I keep apart all borrowed books, treating them
as wandering mongrels to whom I have given a temporary home, and am
as anxious to drive away as I was to receive them in the beginning.
For this reason I would not now take advantage of a library, even if
it were next door.
Unfortunately, in the country a book lover has to be well off, for he
can only buy new books; whereas in London, and other large cities, a
man can take, from stalls of second-hand books, an armful of classics
for the price of a moderate meal. And that leads me to another
thought--I do not care for the look of new books, much preferring
them to have lost their last coat of polish. Somehow it hurts my
conscience to see a dear old author shining before me in gold and
spotless green or red. I seem to hear his voice say: "You scorned my
coming in years past, and left me for these late and colder days."
There is not much excuse for a man living in London not having a good
stock of books. I have seen Shakespeare for fourpence, and Milton
for half that price. At this rate a man could in a few months have a
large stock of good books, and the outlay would not be much. If I had
been living in London during these last two years, my books would now
run into several hundreds, and I would not have spent five pounds.
Perhaps one of the best week's enjoyment I have ever had was in the
free library at Reading, in spite of the conditions under which I
then lived. I had left London three months before, and had been
wandering about the country, and had not read a book or magazine
during all that time. At this time I was aching with all my heart for
reading matter, dreaming of books day and night. Now it happened that
I had been in that town two months before, and on that occasion had
been in the library long enough to see that it was very comfortable
and had a good stock of papers and magazines. For, being a large
town, that library was really free, without any signs relating to
tramps--as I had seen in smaller towns--silence only being requested.
Unfortunately, the town's trade was very bad at this time, and
for that reason it would take me all day to sell enough laces to
keep me, and I would have no spare time for the library. So I left
Reading, with much regret, but determined to return if I could make
a few shillings to keep me idle for several days. One Friday night
I happened to be at Windsor and heard a couple of beggars in the
lodging-house speaking in good terms of Slough, a mile and a half
away. So, the next morning, being Saturday, I left Windsor and
started for Slough. When I reached that town, I began to knock at
doors without wasting any time, although it was quite early in the
day, for some of the better-class people had not yet cleared away
their breakfast things. I certainly had extraordinary luck, for I
took a shilling before dinner and, of course, the town would be much
better after that, because of the men having come home with their
pay. To understand my good fortune people must know that Saturday
morning is the worst time in the week for a beggar. It is so bad
that nine beggars out of ten attempt no business whatever until
after dinner, so as not to spoil themselves by being refused at good
houses that would gladly assist them later in the day. It is really
surprising the number of poor people there are who have spent the
last penny in the house on a Saturday morning before dinner. When I
thought of this it suddenly occurred to me that Reading library was
not far away. No sooner had this idea occurred to me than I made
up my mind to keep calling at houses until I had four shillings.
It was getting dark, and must have been about five o'clock, when I
stopped and counted a pocketful of pennies. First of all I counted
my laces, and found that I had sold a dozen pairs, which had cost me
threepence. But so many people had given pennies for nothing that
I was not at all surprised to find that I had four shillings and
tenpence, although one lady had insisted on having two pairs for
three-halfpence. In addition to this money I had food enough given me
for tea that night and breakfast the following morning. I was quite
delighted at this and started at once for Maidenhead, four miles
away. On the road there I sold three pairs of laces to men going home
from work, and also had threepence given me by a gentleman taking
a walk, which was unsolicited. So that I now had five shillings
and fourpence, a clear five shillings after paying for my bed at
Maidenhead. The next day, being Sunday, I walked with a light heart
into Reading, with five shillings in my pocket. That small amount
kept me for six days, and I never did, and never will again, have
so much enjoyment out of reading matter. Of course, what increased
my pleasure was the thought that I was letting a small income
accumulate, so as to publish a book of my own; the manuscript was in
my pocket then, and in two more months I would be an author.
XXV
Narks
A man cannot be a very long time on the road before he understands
the meaning of the word "narks." Beggars may forgive dirty beds,
vermin, broken crockery and bad fires, but to tell them that a
lodging-house is full of "narks" is the worst information that can be
conveyed to them. When I enquired of a beggar as to the comfort of
the lodging-house in the town to which I was going, he said: "Well,
mate, the bed is good, and a good fire is kept, but to tell you the
truth the house is spoilt by 'narks.'" As I was not an old traveller
in England, I did not understand him, but thought I would find out
for myself what a "nark" really was.
After I had reached the town, and paid the lodging-house keeper for
my bed, I entered the lodgers' kitchen, and there saw three men
seated before a good fire. Of my cheerful "Good afternoon," they
took not the least notice, neither did they offer to make room for a
stranger coming in out of the cold. I could see at once by this that
they were not true beggars and travellers, who are always eager to
make room for their fellows. I may as well say at once that these
three men were "narks." In other words, they were town beggars;
men that had lost their homes and had to take refuge in a common
lodging-house; or, if they did not belong to the town, they had been
there long enough to be known.
The "nark" is either a cattle-drover, a small hawker, a mechanic
that only has a couple of days' work a week, or a man that earns a
few pennies by doing odd jobs for people that know him. Sometimes
he is a man with a very small pension or income, and does nothing.
Although the lodging-house keeper often abuses him, and threatens
to cast him adrift, for all that he is allowed privileges which the
casual wandering tramp cannot like. All true wanderers hate him; even
the drunken, domineering grinder is treated with civility in a house
where beggars see a "nark."
That the "nark," with his mean tricks, is a nuisance to wandering
beggars is seen in a very short time. For instance, he takes the
utensils, which are meant for the common use of the kitchen, and
after using them will hide them away for his own future use; so
that strangers have often to make tea in a pot without a spout, and
look in vain for a saucer or a small saucepan. He also monopolizes
the fire with newly-washed clothes, and hungry strangers find great
difficulty in cooking their food. He will not oblige by removing
these things until the evening, when there would be less demand for
the fire. Again, he wants a certain place at the table to sit and eat
his food, and he often frowns at innocent strangers who are enjoying
their meal in his accustomed seat. He is often mean enough to allow
his things to remain on the table after he has done, in readiness
for the next meal--instead of clearing them away and making room for
hungry new-comers.
The worst charge to make against a "nark" is that he is a spy and a
tell-tale, and that he lets the lodging-house keeper know all the
transactions of the kitchen. When lodgers are told the next morning
that they cannot have a bed at that house for another night, and
cannot get to know the reason why, they come to the conclusion that
they have been reported by a "nark" for complaining about a bad fire,
insufficiency of bed-clothes, teapots, saucers, or cups.
Most deputies in lodging-houses were in the first place "narks."
Sometimes a "nark" fails, in spite of being well known in the town,
to earn the price of his bed, or to borrow it, and returns to the
lodging-house for trust. After that he shows his gratitude by
sweeping the kitchen, or washing plates and tea-things, which the
lodging-house keeper had to do himself. The latter, seeing this,
asks him to do other things, and of course gives him bed and board,
and a shilling at the end of the week. He no longer goes out as
a drover, or seeking odd jobs, but sweeps, washes, scrubs, makes
beds, etc. Taking everything into consideration the work is not so
unremunerative as it appears, for every man in the house solicits his
friendship. From morning till night he is offered saucers-full of tea
from the many lodgers. In fact, he is often at his wits' end to know
how to spend his very small wages, for the lodgers supply him with
tobacco, beer, and even clothes and boots. He gets so many presents
every week that he makes money by selling them.
As may be expected, it is from the "narks" that he reaps the most
profit; for they never fail to share with him their titbits and
give him the price of beer, which makes him favour that class, and
prejudiced against casual lodgers.
Unfortunately the deputy has great power, against which there is no
appeal. He will allow a "nark" to cook on the fire until it is nearly
out; but when he sees a stranger cooking he will interfere, saying
that the fire must be attended to. After which he will put on so much
coke that the poor stranger is delayed an hour or more in doing what
he has perhaps half done. He has to put on one side a herring half
cooked, or a singing kettle, until the fire burns.
It is a good policy for strangers, as soon as they enter a
lodging-house kitchen, to not only speak pleasantly to the deputy,
but to slip a penny into his hand, so that they may be installed on
an equal footing with "narks." Men that do not think of doing this
must not be surprised if he "accidentally" overturns their teapots,
or shovels coke into their frying-pans. These little accidents always
add to the gaiety of "narks," and they the more generously reward
the deputy for affording them this extra entertainment.
I was in one lodging-house in the provinces that only had
accommodation for twelve lodgers, and in that house were six
"narks" and the deputy. The night I was there, there were only
three strangers, myself and two others, and we were almost afraid
to move. One "nark" was a rag-and-bone man, who worked the country
for miles around. While I was eating my frugal supper, he spread on
the table his dirty rags and bones--so near that one bone was found
on my plate, which I returned to him--with many thanks. Seeing that
the deputy appeared quite satisfied, I dared not say much, for if I
got into trouble and had my money returned, there was not another
lodging-house within six miles.
Another "nark" was a drunken drover, who left a saucepan on the fire
while he went out for a drink. When he returned he said that there
were only four potatoes and a half in the saucepan, whereas he had
put in five. It never occurred to his suspicious mind that one potato
had become small in the extra boiling, and we three strangers had to
tolerate his savage looks.
Another "nark" was a blacksmith, who was out of work. This man was
lying drunk at full length on a bench, so that the two strangers had
to wait until I had finished my meal before they could get a seat
at the table, for, with the exception of the drover, all the other
"narks" had had their supper.
The blacksmith had not paid his rent for two or three nights, and the
landlady--a very old woman--had ordered the deputy not to allow him
to go to bed. While I was asleep that night, I was suddenly awaked
by a slap on the face, and a croaking voice, which said--"Out of my
house, blacksmith." When I opened my eyes, I saw an old withered
face bending over mine--there must have been a hundred years in that
face. "I am not the blacksmith," I said feebly. "Liar," she shrieked,
holding the candle near my face. However, she saw her mistake, and
went away muttering, without making any apology for her mistake. No
stranger would ever think of staying two nights in a house like that.
Of course, in a house where there is only one "nark," he tries to
ingratiate himself with casual men, for the sake of social company,
but they do not encourage his advances, knowing how careful they
must be of what they say. They are suspicious of him, in spite of his
good-natured offers to oblige them with a shake of pepper. By the
way, the sight of a pepper-box in a lodging-house kitchen is always a
sure sign that the man behind it is a "nark." Wanderers, however much
trouble they take to carry tea, salt, soap, thread, needle, comb,
and many other little things which must not interfere with space for
food--would never think of carrying a pepper-box, though they may
carry a little pepper in paper.
No, a "nark" is not a desirable companion, and to inform a tramp that
he is going to a house that is full of them, is to daunt him more
than to say that the teapots are spoutless and cracked, the saucers
have no rims, the beds are dirty, and that the fire is small and
often out.
XXVI
The Scribe in a Lodging-house
A man who is seen writing in a common lodging-house will soon have
his services sought so often that he must be offended, however
kind-hearted he may be. He will be pestered by illiterate seekers
of work, and even begging-letter impostors. In the latter case the
men are cunning enough to invent pitiful tales, but they lack the
education to write them. Many a man who has only lived a short time
in a lodging-house, and is innocent of the world, has written letters
for these rogues, and not known what he was doing. Strange to say,
very few of these men are able to write their own letters; and,
seeing that they usually pose for men that have lost good positions,
it is not to be wondered at when they have no courage to face a
personal interview. With regard to honest seekers of work, a man
will soon be sorry that he has obliged them, because of the awkward
position in which it places him. For instance, if they do not receive
any answer to your letter, or one that is not favourable, they are
very apt to blame the letter-writer. One day a man came to me, who
had often seen me writing, and asked if I would write him a few lines
in answer to an advertisement. Seeing that he brought a stamped
envelope and a sheet of writing-paper, and I already had pen and ink
before me, I did so at once, to my sorrow. The poor fellow received
no answer at all, and he was under the impression that I could so
word a letter that it was certain to be successful. It never occurred
to him that the advertisement being in a leading paper would be
answered by hundreds of men. When several days passed, and no answer
came, no doubt he came to the conclusion that he would have been
more successful himself, and that I had spoilt him of that job by my
manner of writing. So he was very cold after, leaving me with one
consolation--that I had not only received no benefits from him, but
wanted none, whether he was successful or not.
One man, who could hardly read or write, brought me his aunt's
letter to be deciphered, from whom he was getting assistance every
week. I had so much difficulty in reading her letter that I told him
after that his aunt's writing was very bad. Hearing this he began
to throw out hints that the fault must be with me, for his aunt had
married a rich brewer, and was now a widow with seven servants.
Seeing what a simple man I had to deal with, I tried to explain
that the handwriting of some of the greatest people was bad, and
that it was not their handwriting made them great, but the thoughts
and language they used. But I saw that he could not understand my
meaning, and he brought me no more of his aunt's letters.
In fact, the letters I have written to oblige others have made me
more enemies than friends. The most grateful thanks I have received
for doing this kindness was not from a man living in a lodging-house,
but from one on the outside. I was in the lodging-house kitchen one
night when "Brummy" Sam brought a married friend of his to see me.
The former lost no time in explaining to me that his friend Alf had
a daughter in service in the country. Now this daughter had been
written to several times, by her mother, sister, and brother, but
none of them could get an answer; so Alf, "Brummy" Sam explained,
"wanted to know the ins and outs of her reasons." The latter, who had
been drinking, confided to me with deep emotion that his friend Alf
was a faithful old dog, and, "as for Alf's old woman, there wasn't a
better-natured bleeding old cat in all London." Although he whispered
this information, it was quite loud enough for Alf to hear, and the
big fellow looked at Sam with gratitude. After saying these words
Sam straightened himself and said: "I have been telling Alf about
you, as how you can write, and we think you can put the letter in
such a way that she will answer at once." Hearing this I was not very
well pleased, for I could hardly hope to be more successful than the
girl's own mother. It was most likely that there was nothing the
matter at all, and that she was only waiting a convenient time to
write. However, I wrote a letter to Alf's daughter, which he received
with so much delight, and such a pressing invitation to drink,
that it quite upset me, thinking that the letter would be no more
successful than others. But I am pleased to say that she not only
answered it at once, but asked her mother who had written it. Perhaps
she thought it was a lawyer, and was afraid that further neglect in
not reporting herself at home would lead to the police court. Alf was
so grateful that his friendship became a nuisance, especially when he
was drunk; and I was very glad that he only came to the house as a
visitor, and did not live there altogether.
But in a very common lodging-house it is not often that a man is
asked to write a letter. I used to write for one man to his mother,
about once a month, and he was very thankful to me, for I would
never take anything from these poor fellows. It was a dreadful task
for me to write a letter of that kind, for he had nothing to say
except--"Give my love and say I am all right, and remember me to Aunt
Sarah." And the simple man not only expected me to fill two or three
papers on this meagre information, but wanted to know if I had enough
paper. This man was a consumptive, and when I wrote one letter for
him he was about to go into a hospital. He asked me then if I would
write a few lines to his mother if anything serious happened to him.
I promised to do so, but am glad to say he was back in a few weeks,
although not much better.
I shall never forget writing one letter for a man who was leading
a double life. He had only just come to our lodging-house, but he
was so well known to all the old lodgers that I could see that he
had been there before. When this man first came under my notice,
he was in the act of sewing a patch on the knee of his trousers,
the latter being still on his body. I may as well say here that he
made a very bad job of it, for he sewed his trousers to a pair of
drawers that were underneath; which made him swear so much that
night, when he undressed, that irritated lodgers, disturbed from
sleep, threatened to throw him out of the window. One day I asked a
lodger what this man did for a living, thinking that he was either
a toy-seller, paper-man, or market porter. The lodger began to
chuckle, and said: "If you are down Brixton way to-morrow, you are
likely to see him." As I asked the question for the sake of being
sociable, and not from curiosity, I thought no more of the matter.
However, some time after this I happened to be in Brixton, and saw
the man I mention, standing in the gutter--blind. He saw me too,
for he made an awful expression, which I translated into these
words--Don't stop and speak to me, pass on. A few days after this
unexpected meeting, he no sooner saw me entering the lodging-house
kitchen than he came forward with an envelope and a sheet of writing
paper. "Will you write me a letter?" he asked. "I will pay you."
Now, I had been out all day and was hungry, and was just about to
prepare my tea. So I told him sharply that if I wrote the letter I
wanted nothing for doing it, and, whether I wrote it or not, he must
give me a chance to have my tea first. Nearly all men that live in
common lodging-houses talk to each other in this strain, for they
are all more or less short-tempered, or, as they say--"scatty." So
I knew that he would not take offence, and was not surprised to
see him come forward, after he had given me ample time for tea. "I
am not much of a scholar," he began. "What do you want me to write
about?" I asked. "Well," said he, "a gentleman saw me in the street
and took my address, and has just sent me a parcel of clothes, and
I want to thank him. Here is his letter, with address, which was in
the parcel." "All right," I answered, and did so at once. After I
had done, I read aloud what I had written, and asked if it would do.
He considered for a moment, and then said: "Perhaps you will write a
little more and say as how Heaven will reward him for pitying a blind
man." I could not help laughing at this, for he spoke so exactly that
I believe the rogue had forgotten that he was not really blind.
It is very pathetic on a Christmas morning to see seventy or eighty
men in a lodging-house, and not six of them receive any greetings
from the outside world. In one house, where the manager's charming
little daughter received scores of letters and presents from
school-friends and friends of her parents, there were not ten out of
ninety lodgers who received a single letter--on a Christmas morning!
It was when I saw this that it came on me in full force to know what
an isolated plague spot a common lodging-house is. Men who have spent
years in such places must feel deeply the loneliness of their lives
at that season, when every person outside a lodging-house finds time
to either visit friends and relatives, or write to them.
XXVII
Licensed Beggars