I saw one old man with a long, white beard, clad in the gaberdine—a long, black coat—typical of the Ghettos of Eastern Europe—and presently there emerged into the street a fine-looking old woman, of about seventy, draped in a red shawl, heavily embroidered. I have seen such a figure very often in the Jewish quarter of Warsaw. It was not only the shawl that was symbolic; this mother in Israel belonged to the old order, under the dispensation of which a married woman always shaved her head, no matter how young or beautiful she might be. The theory was, that as a wife she must no longer appear beautiful in the eyes of any man, though it seems hard her husband was not the exception. In Warsaw you continually meet an old Jewess with an ill-fitting wig that does not cover her bald head, and it came on me as a startling surprise that I should find such an one in Whitechapel.
Trucks of newly-baked bread, rolls and French twists, and delicious little brioche were wheeled about the streets and a stall was already busy with the morning coffee.
It is in Whitechapel also that all kinds of small goods are bought and sold. Here is the market for metal trifles such as I dealt in, and I unearthed a little factory where they turn out cigarette cases and match boxes, the equal of any German products. Here, also, street vendors can buy garters at wholesale prices, powder puffs and boxes of chocolates, etc., all the stock-in-trade of the men and women who work public-house bars and serve the queues outside the theatres. It is too risky to try to get rid of these articles on the kerbstone, unless your position with the police is very strong.
Whitechapel, moreover, is one of those places where goods acquired by mysterious means can, without difficulty, be disposed of. There is a certain public-house I know, where I have seen model dresses change hands for as many shillings as a Bond Street establishment would charge pounds. Here also come Paris hats, the proceeds of either a wholesale robbery or the outcome of a good shoplifting. You will see in the Whitechapel Road many a hat which smells of Rue de la Paix, worn by a girl obviously unable to buy it in open market. Furs, also, change hands in the saloon bars of this district, and the less valuable, and also less traceable goods are occasionally bought by the street vendors, who dispose of them to a special clientele.
This is one of the few points where what is known as the criminal world touches the destitute. Generally speaking, the two are separate and distinct. The lawless spirits who adventure in crime, would not tolerate the conditions which the destitute patiently endure. Sometimes, as we have seen, the prostitute crosses the border line and occasionally steals something and is sent to prison. But this is generally the exception; the two sections are not interchangeable.
Into these bars, where barter and sale nightly take place, the more dejected of the homeless do not come. These have their recognised houses of call, when they have sufficient money to buy themselves a drink. But this is very rarely. Indeed, so low is their scale of living that when a piece of luck enables them to have a glass of beer it not infrequently overpowers them. We often read of a woman without visible means of support, who has been found drunk and incapable in the street. Her ragged condition has been described, and in nine cases out of ten it is traced to the drink craze, which it is presumed is responsible for her destitution. This, I am convinced, is not the case. What has happened is that the poor thing has been given ale, stout, or even a little whisky, and has been unable to withstand its effects. Quite a number of the destitute have lost the desire for drink; they are so unaccustomed to its taste that they do not desire it. The elder women like tobacco, when they can get it, which they generally chew, and others have a strong partiality for snuff.
The morning had grown apace when I reached Blackfriars Bridge and joined the huge crowd of women of all ages who daily journey to the City. The spectacle of this activity roused again my desire for some form of regular work. I reported myself to a Labour Exchange, and was sent to an eating house to wash dishes. I got paid eightpence an hour, and for three hours stood at a sink at a backbreaking angle, dealing with grease-laden dishes, basins and knives and forks.
It was a noisome occupation, and I could not face the possibility of practising it daily. The space was confined and the ventilation inadequate. By the time I signed off I was physically sick.
It is, I think, the re-invigoration of the open air that enables the homeless to carry on for so many years. Even in the meanest London street you feel the effects of the open sky and the lack of space within the four walls of a building tries you very heavily. This factor must be taken into account in judging those tramps, of whom it is so often said that they object to regular work. I found the confines of a building pressed very hardly on my spirits after but a short period of life in the streets. And if this was the effect on me, who had but tasted destitution, what must the influence of the open air be to those who can remember no other form of existence? It is one of the most curious facts that even in the depth of physical degradation, there are compensations, and those who find themselves at the close of a long day without the hope of a bed, will feel that they have the endurance to go through the night and start again the following morning.
I have been
