Are not these ghastly figures? By just setting up a few Apparatuses, see what an immense amount of suffering would be saved, and consider what a multitude of human nuisances would he “moved on!”
The poor have a saying that none live long after they have been in a certain hospital. “He’s been in that hospital—he won’t live long.” They carry out such wonderful operations there—human vivisections, but strictly painless, of course, under chloroform—true Christian chopping-up—still the folk do not live long when they come out.
Why not set up the Apparatus? But a man must not die in peace. Starvation is for human nuisances.
These rich folk dwelling round about the great Babylon of Misery, where Want sits on the Seven Hills, have also distinguished themselves by yet another invention. This is the organization of alms. Charity is so holy we will not leave it to chance—to the stray penny—we will organize it. The system is very simple: it is done by ticket. First you subscribe a few shillings to some organization, with its secretary, its clerks, its offices, boardroom, and “machinery.” For this you receive tickets.
If a disagreeable woman with a baby in her arms, or a ragged boy, or a maimed man asks you for a “copper,” you hand him a ticket. This saves trouble and responsibility.
The beggar can take the ticket to the “office” and get his case “investigated.” After an inquiry, and an adjournment for a week; another inquiry, and another adjournment for a week; a third inquiry, and a third adjournment, then, if he be of high moral character and highly recommended, he may get his dinner.
One great advantage is conspicuous in this system: by no possible means can you risk giving a penny to a man not of high moral character, though he be perishing of starvation.
If a man asks for bread, will ye give him a stone? Certainly not; give him a ticket.
They did not understand how to do things in Judea Anno Domini I.
This organization of charity saves such a lot of money: where people used to give away five pounds they now pay five shillings.
Nothing like saving money. And, besides, you walk about with a clear conscience. No matter how many maimed men, or disagreeable women, or ragged boys you see, you can stroll on comfortably and never think about them; your charity is organized.
If the German thinkers had not found out twenty years ago that there was no Devil, one would be inclined to ascribe this spurious, lying, false, and abominable mockery to the direct instigation of a Satan.
The organization of charity! The very nature of charity is spontaneousness.
You should have heard Alere lash out about this business; he called it charity suppression.
Have you ever seen London in the early winter morning, when the frost lies along the kerb, just melting as the fires are lit; cold, grey, bitter, stony London?
Whatever can morning seem like to the starved and chilly wretches who have slept on the floor, and wake up to frost in Fleet Street?
The pavements are covered with expectoration, indicating the chest diseases and misery that thousands are enduring. But I must not write too plainly; it would offend.
XXX
A printer in the office crawled under the bed of the machine to replace something—a nut that had dropped; it was not known that he was there; the crank came round and crushed him against the brickwork. The embrace of iron is death.
Alere fed his helpless children, and apprenticed them when they were old enough.
Ten pounds was enough for him—without ambition, and without business-avarice; ten pounds was enough for his Fleet Street life.
It was not only the actual money he gave away, but the kindness of the man. Have you ever noticed the boys who work in printing-offices?—their elbows seem so sharp and pointed, bony, and without flesh. Instead of the shirtsleeve being turned up, it looks as if the pointed elbow had thrust its way through.
He always had something for them;—a plate of beef, soup, beer to be shared, apples, baked potatoes, now and then half-a-dozen mild cigars. Awful this, was it not? Printers’ boys will smoke; they had better have Flamma’s fine tobacco than the vile imitation they buy.
They always had a tale for him; either their mothers, or sisters, or someone was in trouble; Flamma was certain to do something, however little might be within his power. At least he went to see.
Had a man an income of a million he could not relieve the want of London; the wretch relieved today needs again tomorrow. But Alere went to see.
Ten pounds did much in the shaky hands of a man without ambition, and without business-avarice, who went to see the unfortunate.
His own palsied mother, at the verge of life, looked to Alere for all that the son can do for the parent. Other sons seemed more capable of such duty; yet it invariably fell upon Alere. He was the Man. And for those little luxuries and comforts that soothe the dull hours of trembling age she depended entirely upon him.
So you see the ten-pound notes that satisfied him were not all spent in drink.
But alas! once now and then the rats began to run up the wall in broad daylight, and foolish Alere, wise in this one thing, immediately began to pack his carpetbag. He put in his collars, his slippers, his sketchbooks and pencils, some of his engraving tools, and a few blocks of boxwood, his silver-mounted flute, and a book for Amaryllis. He packed his carpetbag and hastened away to his Baden-Baden, to Coombe Oaks, his spa among the apple-bloom, the song of finches, and rustle of leaves.
They sat and talked in the round summerhouse in Iden’s garden, with the summer unfolding at their knees; Amaryllis, Amadis, Iden, and Flamma.
By Flamma’s side there stood a great mug of the Goliath ale, and between his lips
