THE POOR OF LONDON.
BEYOND comparison London exceeds all other cities of Europe for
the number of its poor, and the misery and suffering of those who
individually make up the gross totals in work-houses, back slums, and
miasmatic tenements.
One of the most interesting--if not the most curious and cheerful
scenes in the metropolis--may be witnessed any day by a visit to the
East London "Half-Penny Soup House," an institution established by good
and merciful people, whereby the poor little castaways and waifs of the
city are provided with a dish of soup, a piece of meat, and a small
loaf of bread, once in each twenty-four hours.
The children are gathered from the promiscuous juvenile assemblages
that may be, at any time, found in the London streets, and are taken
to the Soup House where large and steaming dishes of soup are given
them, by charitable ladies, after which they are dismissed until the
next twenty-four hours have elapsed, when again they assemble to
partake of the same plentiful and grateful food. This nourishment costs
but a half-penny per head, all the attendance and time being given
gratuitously by the good ladies who seek the little ones for their own
merciful purpose.
The struggles of the London poor to keep soul and body together,
are very wonderful to understand or relate. Out of every five poor
families in London--it is known that at least three are compelled,
between Easter and Christmas, to denude their households of all the
most necessary articles of clothing and furniture, to take them to the
pawnbroker's shops in order that bread and meat may be procured for
their little ones. And what terrible scenes are witnessed in these
pawnbroker's shops, on Saturday nights when the goods are reclaimed by
dint of economy and hard scraping? None but God, the police, and the
pawnbroker, ever see such struggles.
[Illustration: A PAWNBROKER'S SHOP.]
One day I paid a visit to the Workhouse of St. Martin's, in the Fields,
which is not far distant from Trafalgar square. This workhouse looks
like a vast prison, stern, gloomy, and frowning, in the very busiest
quarter of the city. Opposite to its entrance was the barracks of some
regiment of infantry, and round the doors, were talking and smoking,
half-a-dozen of long-legged and slim-waisted private soldiers, in red
shell jackets, whose chief occupation seemed to be that of switching
their manly calves with slender rods which they jauntily carried in
their hands.
[Sidenote: THE MASTER OF THE WORKHOUSE.]
The workhouse door was shown to me by a squad of small boys who were at
play in the adjoining gutters, clad in a pauper's uniform of blue, and
on whose heads were dirty but comfortable caps of plaid pilot cloth.
"Yes, master, there is the Workus, over yander. Will ye give us a
penny? We are all Workus," said they in chorus.
I entered the low entrance and stood in a small vestibule, where stood
a shelf, or stand, upon which was placed an open blank or visitors'
book, in which each caller was to inscribe his name and residence,
together with his object for visiting the workhouse. On the opposite
page were blank spaces, on which an attendant entered the hours when a
visitor called and when he left the institution.
A miserable, worm-eaten looking old man, devoid of teeth, and shambling
in his gait, a perfect wreck, shuffled up to me with a deprecating look
in his eye, as if he were asking pardon for being alive. Heavens! how
the iron of poverty, and the bitterness of dependence, must have eaten
away that poor wretch's soul before such enduring lines of degradation
could have been impressed on his features.
This old pauper was detailed to wait upon the visitors, and to see that
their names were inscribed, with the warning that he should not attempt
to ask for or receive any gratuity.
He faintly said in a childish voice:
"What can I do for you, Sir? Do you wish to see the Workus? Ah, yes, of
course, a goodish bit of people comes to see the poor paupers, now and
then, but we are never allowed to take anything, Sir. No never, never.
Poor paupers, poor paupers," and so he mumbled away until the Master of
the workhouse was announced by his footsteps that came in echoes as I
sat in the little, poverty-stricken ante-room.
To the Master, who is the supreme authority in the workhouse, under
the direction of the Board of Guardians of the parish, I explained my
motives for visiting the paupers' residence, and he welcomed me with
much politeness, offering me every facility to inspect the place.
He was a medium sized man, of middle age, plainly dressed, and after
having issued orders to several of the inmates of the establishment
he prepared to accompany me through the premises. Here and there, in
the walks and corridors, and courts of the workhouse, we met with an
occasional pauper, the males in a grey, rough, shoddy uniform, and the
women in check or plaid gowns, of a coarse cotton material, and wearing
caps of a faded whiteness upon their heads.
They all had a vacant, listless look, and seemed lost in astonishment
to see a stranger with the Master, to whom they made the most servile
of salutations.
I had seen, in my travels on the English railways, when I sought
the not very wholesome refuge of the third class carriages to study
character--just such poor, faded-looking people, among the families
journeying wearily to their various destinations, as these poor old
relics, who were now clustering around the workhouse tea tables. Oh,
God! how lonely they looked, and distant from all human kind. The same
wan, woe-begone faces, but more quiet and reserved than those I saw in
the close railway cars devoted to poor people.
Smoking is a common thing in these crowded and close carriages, and
delicate women, and puny, weak children, are forced to travel for
hundreds of miles in these cattle boxes--I cannot call them aught
else--until they are sometimes known to vomit from the bad air and
worse stenches.
Making inquiries of this gentleman as I went through the buildings,
I may as well give his explanations of workhouse life, and of the
condition of the poor and destitute of London. I freely admitted to him
that I had heard very strange stories in regard to the treatment, food,
and medical attendance of the paupers in the Unions, and that I would
be obliged to him if he could clear up my reasonable doubts on many
points.
[Sidenote: SUGAR AND TEA.]
In answer to one of these doubts the Master took me into a large, long
and clean-looking room, in which were about forty female paupers. These
women were engaged in getting supper for themselves, and were all
above middle age, and haggard-looking.
[Illustration: A THIRD CLASS RAILWAY CARRIAGE.]
"Now, Sir," said he to me, "you, of course, can see something of which
you speak, for yourself. Here is one of the busy wards of the Union.
Each of these old women is allowed an ounce of dry tea per day, and
enough sugar to moderately sweeten four cups of tea, which they make in
their own tea-caddies, or, sometimes they mess together--three or four
in a mess--and those who do not care for sugar will trade their surplus
sugar for the surplus dry tea with some other paupers."
All the women arose from their low seats or benches, some of them being
clustered around a grate in which were a moderate stock of burning
coals, and bowed to the Master, who waved his hand and told them to sit
down again, which they did with courtesies and many feeble expressions
of thanks.
"That old woman over there in the corner," said the Master, pointing
to a female of sixty years of age, who sat alone rubbing her bare
arms, and chatting to herself senselessly, "has lost her wits. She is
here forty-five years, and will die here in all probability. We have
about 400 in-door paupers in this workhouse, and perhaps twice as many
out-door poor, whom the parochial authorities assist as well as they
can. Every pauper whom we support in this house costs the rate-payers
of this parish about seventeen pounds six and ten-pence per head, which
does not include charge for rent, taking the interest of the value
of the property. For the children we have a school, and they get the
rudiments and that's all. It is an idea with some, and I am afraid,
with many poor people, "once a pauper always a pauper." The children
who are born in this place, would never become independent of the
parish if it were not that as soon as they grow up we send them to
schools of an industrial kind outside of London, where they learn a
trade, or are taught some occupation, such as gardening, blacksmithing,
carpentering, or, in fact, anything that will enable them to make a
living. The feeding and schooling of the children, with the nursing,
&c., costs more per head for them, strange to say, than it does for a
grown person's subsistence and clothing in London.
[Sidenote: WORKHOUSE RATIONS.]
"In this parish alone we have to take care of 478 children, and in some
of the London parishes in Bethnal Green, and Hackney, or Stepney, they
sometimes have to provide for from 1,500 to 2,000 children, of both
sexes. Of course, in the very large parishes they cannot afford to
educate the children, but have to content themselves with feeding and
clothing as many as they can inside the workhouse, while the majority
receive, with their parents, out-door relief, but the large and heavy
parishes could not afford to have such fine schools as we have in the
suburbs, with grounds attached, and sometimes goodish pieces of land,
where farming and gardening can be taught the children. It costs the
rate-payers of this parish twenty pounds a year to support and educate
the parish children, and, along with all the rest of the taxes, it is
no wonder that the people are grumbling and asking why we do not send
the beggars to America or Australia."
"And why do you not?" said I to him, "if the sustenance of a pauper,
together with his clothing, costs the parish £21 annually."
"Because, the people of London have an idea somehow or other, that the
Americans will not receive paupers, and then again, if £21 was given to
a pauper to go to America, they would raise a row in Parliament that
too much money was going out of the country. Why," said he, "down at
Birkenhead, near Liverpool, schools were built for paupers at a cost of
£15,000, with bath-rooms and fine dining-rooms, and the people there
raised an awful row because the cost to the rate-payers came to ten
shillings per head per annum to every inhabitant in the place. They
didn't want to give them bath-rooms or fine dining-rooms. They turned
a man away there who was frozen, and he had to lose all of his toes on
account of their neglect. In some of the work-houses, in the North of
England, they are beginning to let the children out to board by the
week, with farmers and families who can afford to take them, the parish
authorities allowing, for each child, three shillings per week for
board, with an outfit on leaving the workhouse, and six shillings and
sixpence a quarter for mending and repairing their clothes, an offer
which has been very cheerfully accepted by many families who are in
decent circumstances."
"A 'Casual,'" said the Master, "is a pauper who is house-less and
destitute in a different parish from which he has lived. When he finds
himself in a strange place, as in London, he has to apply at the Police
Station for a ticket, which is given him as a reference to ask for one
night's lodging at the workhouse in the district. The ticket is shown
to the Master, who receives him, and I will send him down here, but
before he is sent down he gets a loaf of bread, weighing a pound and a
quarter. He must apply to the House for lodgings before ten o'clock at
night, or we will not let him in. Then he takes the loaf of bread and
eats half of it for his supper, and the other half he saves for his
breakfast. We give him, with the remaining half loaf of bread in the
morning, a half pint of coffee or tea. But before he goes he has got to
earn the breakfast which we give him, and is compelled to pick oakum
from six o'clock in the morning until nine, when he leaves the House."
Before I left the workhouse the Master allowed me to inspect the beef,
bread, butter, and beer, which are served out daily to the paupers.
Each grown man and woman receives a twelve ounce loaf of bread, a pint
of the best beer, an ounce of butter, daily, and five days in the week
they receive six ounces of fresh meat, the other days being especially
devoted to beans, and a liquid compound known to seafaring men as
"skillagelee."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: MAP of the CITY of LONDON.]
[Illustration]
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