Glimpses into the Abyss Part 19

FOOTNOTES:

[136] See pages 259-267.

[137] See p. 49. This lodging-house is now suppressed.

[138] See Appendix VIII.

[139] Reprinted from _Daily News_ of April 18th, 1905.

[140] This is not true, but where a doctor is not in residence it appears as if officials often will not take the trouble to detain tramps to see him, and permission if asked for is often refused. See pp. 43, 157.

[141] See p. 29.

[142] My friend was at one time accustomed to wash for a family of nine.

[143] See pp. 26, 213.

[144] See p. 171.

[145] See pp. 30, 49.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SYMPOSIUM IN A COMMON LODGING-HOUSE.

I.

My friend and I have the rights of friendship in a lodging-house which we frequently visit. The inmates of lodging-houses are often very dull on Sundays. They cannot walk the streets, full of well-dressed people.

No one can have any idea who has not tried, how they welcome a friendly visit, appreciate the gift of some magazines, and how often one or another is in want of food, or even a few pence short of a bed. Few beg on Sunday except from sheer necessity. This particular lodging-house therefore, we tried to visit every Sunday, to sing for or with them, and talk--not preach--to them. It was the "married and single quarters,"

which consisted of two long low rooms in an old building in very bad repair. I do not know whether it has anything to do with our frequent visits, but the place is a great deal cleaner and tidier than when first we went. It has been painted and whitewashed, and the floor seems to be kept cleaner. But this leaves much to be desired! The women's sitting-room upstairs (which always contains as many men as women) is a room with a c.o.ke fire, the fumes from which are often almost overpowering. A bench round the room, and tables covered with metal for protection const.i.tute the only furniture. The claim to be a "sitting-room" consists in the fact that no cooking is done there, but plenty of eating. There is but one gas-jet, and you can hardly see in the farthest corners. A stair out of the room leads upstairs, where, I am a.s.sured there are "good clean beds," a room for single women, and cubicles for married folk, who pay 6_d_., and 1_d_. for each child who sleeps with them, the unmarried paying 4_d_.

Poor as it is, this room contains "the aristocracy," for though both rooms appear to be free to all, you find above the regular residents who are residing some time, though some of these even have a preference for the democracy. Yet one can hardly understand why, for the room below must be uncomfortable in the extreme. It is, to begin with, a half cellar room approached by a stair, but leading out into the yard which contains the sanitary arrangements. The roof is in such bad repair that the laths of the ceiling are giving way, and water often drips from an imperfect pipe. The position of the doors ensures a through draught when they are opened, which is constantly happening. A dark entry with no door gives access to a room containing the lavatory accommodation--a set of wash-basins, above each of which is inscribed the motto, "Be just."

This room, which is quite open to everyone, is the sole lavatory accommodation for both men and women. In the centre of the room is a huge stove, the heat from which is terrific, and makes this part of the room near the solitary gas-jet almost unbearable. Yet these two rooms accommodate about sixty inmates, and I am a.s.sured that the cooking arrangements are so deficient that they cannot get their food except in turns, and dinner is often delayed till very late in the afternoon for this reason. The place is, however, always full, for it is the cheapest place in town, and the beds, I am told, are far better than many others where the sitting room and lavatory accommodation is superior. There are clean sheets once a week! A woman can keep herself respectable, as the deputy and his wife endeavour to exclude prost.i.tutes.

In these rooms are gathered every Sunday a motley a.s.sembly of men, women, and usually a few children. The inmates change, but there are always enough of the old to carry on the tradition of friendship, and some few are permanent. There is a living to be had in a lodging-house for a woman who can repair clothes, or earn a little by cleaning the rooms, or do a little washing.

To this lodging-house I took one Sunday night a letter "On Tramps, by a Tramp," which appeared in _The Daily News_, and reads as follows:--

"SIR,--I am a tramp, a man without a habitat. No outcry uprose in winter while the East End sheltered the tramp. When he trudges west after waste food and a gra.s.sy couch, the press rises up in arms. Each one of these 'bundles of rags' on the gra.s.s has a history, some an interesting one. I have been despoiled of the fruitage of my labours; have acted the role of errand lad, shop a.s.sistant, clerk, traveller, market-man, barber, canva.s.ser, entertainer, mummer, song-writer, and playwright. I have dwelt within workhouse, asylum, and prison-walls; have scrubbed the filthy, tonsured the imbecile, tended the aged, soothed the dying.

A pedlar of toys, many a time I have enjoyed a night on a turfy bed, the stars my coverlet, the hedge fruit my morning meal, my bath the shallow stream. Nature suns the nomad as well as the traveller. Derelicts, wastrels, paupers, pests, vagrants, bundles of rags! dub us what men will, we are human. There are tramps and loafing tramps; ill-clad and well-tailored loafers. Make all work, west and east. Loafing is infectious.

"Rowton House.

"O. QUIZ."

We visited downstairs first, and, sitting on the table, as the cleanest place, giving a view of the company, I read it in a tone of voice calculated to reach the further corners of the room. It elicited great admiration. "That chap knows what he's writing about"; "He's put it well together." I joined in the praise, and told them I had come to get their opinion on tramp wards. I wanted them to help me for a speech I was going to give on vagrancy, and I had in my mind a good many things to say, and wanted to know if they were all right. One man burst out about detention. He wanted to know what chaps were to do if they were kept in till eleven if they went for a night's shelter. He said a man couldn't get work, and all he could do was to walk ten or fifteen miles to another workhouse, and then he was no better off. I mentioned a neighbouring workhouse where they were detained two nights, and let out at an early hour. But they appeared to dislike two nights' detention upon such poor diet, and said they had "no right" to keep a man more than one night. One said that by favour he had got out at 5.30, and that was much better; it gave a man a chance.

I next proposed discussion on the diet. One and all waxed eloquent on this topic. They declared it was "starvation," bread and water, scalded meal in some workhouses. "It wouldn't hurt them to give us a drink of tea." Most of the gruel went to the pigs and there wasn't bread enough to keep a man from being hungry. Prison fare was better. "What about the tasks set?" I said. "Three sleepers to saw," said one man; "15 cwt. of stone to break," said another. "It isn't good enough." One man reckoned you could _earn_ 3_s_. 6_d_. for sawing that amount of wood (two saw together). "How much do you reckon the bed and food is worth?" I said.

"Bed!" broke out one, "you gets two blankets and bare boards; sometimes three in a cell. Twopence is all it's worth, and 3_d_. the food." "Then you think they make something out of you?" "Yes," replied another, "you could get 2_s_. 6_d_. in the roads for less stone-breaking. A chap goes in tired and hungry, because he's nowhere to go, and they set him hard work, and he comes out worse." "What about the bath?" "The bath's all right, but they stove your clothes, and they come out all soft and creased." "Then they can tell you've been in the workhouse?" I said.

"Yes, or in jail." "And that doesn't help a man to get work." "I should think not!" was the response. One man waxed eloquent with indignation.

"I was pa.s.sing a workhouse when the chaps was coming out," he said. "I hadn't been in myself, but I seed one or two I knew and they had on good clothes the day before, they were all crumpled" (here he took hold of his trouser leg and creased it up), "and burnt in places. One man showed me his shoes; they had even put _them_ in the oven, and the toes was turned up with the heat; he couldn't get them on his feet and had to walk barefoot." There was a chorus of indignation. The verdict was that tramp wards were to be avoided. The open was better, but a "cold shop"

any night of the year, but a man could go on his way any time he liked.[146]

I then explained to them the German system of Relief Stations and Workmen's Homes. They were much interested and thought it excellent.

They gave appreciative particulars of experiments in this direction in Manchester, and of an "ex-convict" who "knowed what a chap's feelings were," who had during the last winter opened a large room every night and let in as many men as it would hold, and let them stay till morning.

I had not heard of this before. They said hundreds were turned away from the Church Army Shelter, where they could chop wood for bed and board.

I then introduced the subject of Colonies to set a man on his feet.

Opinion seemed in favour, but not enthusiastic. Thanking them for their frankness, we left them after singing "Abide with me," the tramp's favourite hymn, and went upstairs.

II.

We spent an hour over a lively discussion which would have done credit to any debating society. I read the letter as before, and it was received with admiration. "That chap's a champion writer." They told me about one part of London that was "sleeping-out" quarters; one park went by the significant name of "The Lousy Park." I wondered if its frequenters by day knew this. I asked them why a man preferred to sleep out to going to the tramp ward. A man got up and stood in the middle of the room and waxed indignant. Food and detention, as below, came in for scorn. "The Local Government Board will give you 2_s_. 6_d_. for breaking 10 cwt. of stone, and _they_ gives you 15 cwt. and prison if you don't do your task." "A man comes in who has walked fifteen miles, and they give him bare boards to sleep on," broke in another. "How is a fellow to get work when he's let out at eleven, I should like to know; he can only tramp to another workhouse." "There was a councillor once,"

broke in another, "he met a chap in the road, and he says, 'Young man, change clothes with me. I've got plenty of good clothes at home,' then he changes clothes and goes in the tramp ward; he's quite upset by what he sees, and when he's coming out he says, 'You can have my share, I'm going to have a good breakfast.'" "Yes," said another, "that was Councillor S---- of S----, and he did _give_ it to the guardians." "What about prison fare?" I said. "Prison is better; you get good soup, better food all round."[147] "And what about the work?" I said. "They don't make you work harder than you're able. Hard work may be oak.u.m picking."

"The worst of prison is the being kept in," broke in another. "You can do with a week, but a fortnight is too much of it." Then it suddenly seemed to occur to them that they had been "giving themselves away."

"We're a nice lot," he said, "prison and workhouse, but I've been in prison more than once; I'm not ashamed to own it." Wishing to "save their face," as the Chinese say, I suggested that it was not hard for a man who was down to get into prison. "That's true for you," he replied.

"I got a month once for sleeping out.[148] I was going to N----, where they keep a week at May day" [He is a cripple who gets his living by singing] "and I went the night before. The workhouse was full and the lodging-houses were full, so we had to sleep out. We goes to a heath that was common ground, but there was a bit of private ground near it, and we gets among the bushes. A bobby comes round. 'You might let us stop,' I says; 'we can't get in.' 'Keep where you are and don't let any other police see you,' he says. In about five minutes he comes back; 'Come along of me,' he says, and locks us up. I gets a month for that, 'trespa.s.sing and sleeping out.'" I remarked that in court the prisoner's side was often not properly heard. "Yes," he said, waxing indignant.

"When they says, 'Any questions to ask the officer?' I says, 'Didn't you tell me to stay where I was and not let the officers see me?' 'No, I did not,' he says. 'Very well,' I said, but I knowed what he had been after--he had been down to the police-station and told on us, and the superintendent had told him to lock us up." We all agreed it was a mean trick. "They'll kiss the book and swear themselves red in the face,"

said another. "I've seen 'em, they know they're not telling truth, but it's 'We must believe an officer,' and if you say a word it's 'Wow, wow, wow'"--and with a significant gesture he showed how the magistrates put down a man who attempted self-defence, and all the room laughed in sympathy. "Perhaps you've had a drop of drink," he said, "but you're walking steady; an officer puts his hand on your shoulder and gives you a shove, if you say anything he has you, 'Drunk and disorderly!' A magistrate once saw an officer take a man who was quite quiet, and he followed him. The man got let off."

I was able to cap their story by a true incident that had come under my own observation. A quiet little man, devoted to his wife and children, and decidedly henpecked and without vices, was taking a country walk one Sunday and saw a knot of men in a quarry. Interested in their proceedings he got on a hill and watched them. He and they were raided in by the police; they were gambling and he was charged with "aiding and abetting." The police swore he was signalling! As a matter of fact when suddenly arrested he lifted his arms and said, "My G.o.d!" This was interpreted as a "warning." It was only through the good character given him by his parson that he got off. The room appreciated the story. "What about relieving officers?" I said, feeling the way was open. A look of unutterable disgust crept into their faces. A woman came forward and began to relate how they treated an old man, but she was not allowed to speak, for everyone had something at the tip of his tongue. "If the public knew their carryings on and how they blackguards you," one summed up, "there'd be a stop put to it, it's shameful." Evidently if a policeman's reputation was bad, that of a poor law officer was worse.

"They've no right to do it," was the general verdict. Prison again came in for preference. "You've nothing to do but walk up to an officer and hit him in the ear-hole, and you'll get sent down for free lodgings.

Breaking plate-gla.s.s windows is the way they do it in London."[149]

I asked some questions about preference with regard to plank, chain, or straw beds to change the subject, but all agreed that "they weren't worth calling _beds_." "You do get a _shelter_," said one, raising his hand and arching it to imply there was something over your head, "but _beds_! You get the floor and two blankets, perhaps three in a cell if they are full.[150] I think they ought to give you that free; it's not worth 2_d_. The Salvation Army give you what they call a bunk--like a coffin, and oilcloth to put over you--for 2_d_.! That's charity for you and religion!"

I propounded the German Relief Station system as below. It was received with great attention and warm appreciation. "It would be ever so much better," they all agreed. "The Salvation Army has a metropole at Leeds," one volunteered. Another referred appreciatively to Central Hall, Manchester. "You can go in at 3.0 and work and get out in the morning early." I mentioned earning tickets for food and shelter. "That would do for us men," he said, "but not for women--they'd give anything for drink." A chorus of protest and laughter greeted him. "You're very hard on the ladies," I said. "You're wife won't thank you for a character." "But it's true," he said. It was a warm subject, so I changed it by asking about accommodation for women. I learnt in reply some startling facts. It was stated that in some towns, notably Leeds, women could not get sleeping accommodation. Lodging-houses had been pulled down where women used to be taken, and they actually could not get shelter. "It's harder on them than us; we can protect ourselves, but a woman gets run in." Evidently here is a great social lack. Women's lodging-houses--and what can be more needful for the morals of the community? I asked about accommodation in this town. "They take women everywhere," was the reply. "Not everywhere," said another; "there are not so many that take women as there used to be." All agreed that accommodation was short for women in many towns, and might be for men, but of that they were not sure, only they knew numbers were taken up for sleeping out. "Four men were taken up for sleeping in a hole near a coal-pit the other day," they said. I suggested prices of beds might go up, but this did not seem to have happened. 4_d_. a bed was the standard, but 6_d_. for a married couple was not always accepted, and children were charged for. "I have two children in an Industrial Home,"

said one.

I mentioned the Labour Colony, but though I sang its praises, it did not seem to be very acceptable, though tolerable if a step to better things.

Regular tramps known by the name of "hedge sparrows" could always get a living. Either "he" or "she" hawked or "did some'at" and got a living for both. _They_ never went into the workhouse, they "knew better." It was "us poor folks that was hard up had to go in."[151]

"How about the regular workhouse diet," I said. "No one gets fat on it."

"See them come out, they can hardly crawl." "The pigs get most of the porridge." "Porridge and skim till we're sick of it." "They're very hard on us young men." "'Marjery Jane'--that's what we calls it--and bread."

"Bread and cheese for your Sunday dinner." A chorus of disapprobation!

Evidently to be an inmate was not inviting. One told a legendary story of a guardian who stood by when a man complained of his porridge and argued with another guardian who wished to change his food. "What would become of the pigs?" the guardian was reported to have said as a clinching argument! The humane guardian was reported to have gone off the Board in disgust! One woman began to relate that a workhouse existed where they were allowed rations freely and it didn't cost the guardians half so much, but she was promptly put down by two others, a man and a woman. Such a thing was out of the question. _He_ had been in the union she mentioned and it was no such thing. Finally she had to admit she had "heard tell of it" but "had not been in herself." I thanked them for their stories and information. I ventured to inquire into a practice I knew existed in the workhouse of selling food.

"A man will do anything for baccy," said one; "if you've been used to it, and are sitting with a roomful of men all smoking you fair crave for it. I'll tell you what. I went into the workhouse for sickness, and all I had was 3_d_. I laid it out 1-1/2_d_. on sugar, 1-1/2_d_. on tea, and I kept selling a bit. I sold my cheese too, eating the dry bread, and when I came out I had half a sovereign! It was cold and wet the day I was going out, and knowing I had been ill the officer said, 'What are you doing, going out such a day; you haven't got nothing to go with.'

'Look here! I've got that!' says I, and shows him the half-sovereign, but he couldn't take it off me!"

Having myself been offered a halfpenny for a screw of sugar in the Tramp Ward I could believe him. I thanked them again for their information, and told them I should try to make a good use of it, and couldn't "give them away," not knowing any names. We closed our interview by singing "Light in the darkness, sailor," and I spoke a few words about my sincere desire that some change in our country's laws should create a better "life-boat" than the present Tramp Ward.

FOOTNOTES:

[146] See p. 51.