I really looked forward to writing in my notebook the next Sunday. I had quizzed Sam about his life when he was wandering the streets in the month before he came here, and I wanted to write it all down. He was pleased with my interest, but made me promise not to write a book in advance of his and steal his thunder, so to speak. Here is more or less how he described that month.

“I shall say nothing here of how I was driven to destitution. That is a tale in itself, and in all probability will be told ere long in a court of law.

“My last month of freedom was a terrible one. At its commencement I found myself homeless, with a fairly good suit on my back, and a few shillings in my pocket. The cash was soon spent - chiefly in clean beds, which are expensive things in London. Then such articles of clothing as I could dispense with were sold or pawned. In this way I got through about ten days. The following three weeks were spent - alternately a night, or perhaps two in succession, in the streets, and the next two in a casual ward, want of sleep and absolute hunger compelling me to take shelter in the latter.

“Outside of the casual ward, I passed the days in the parks at the West End of London. Fortunately for me, it was warm for the time of the year, and for the most part dry, or I should not now be recounting what befell. I was very far from being the only homeless and destitute individual living, or, rather, trying to hang on to life, in this way, at the same date. I am convinced from what I saw, especially far on in the night, that there were over a thousand persons doing much the same as myself - with a single exception. Most of these people knew how to mooch or beg with skill and effect, while I could not beg at all, and indeed never could bring myself to make the attempt.

"During the day the open spaces of the Parks - particularly of St. James's - were absolutely black with these gentry, laid at full length on the grass, with their backs to the weak spring sun. On one occasion I could count no less than one hundred and nine thus stretched out, and in sight at the same time, within two hundred yards of Piccadilly. Here they slept soundly for long hours, and were thus enabled to rouse fresh and strong for the nightly prowl. It was a thing I could never do. I often felt sleepy enough during the night, between twelve o'clock and three; but, as day drew on, the drowsiness invariably vanished.

“So long as the light lasted, I could not rest for any length on the Park benches. Bitter thoughts acting on an irritable temperament kept me constantly on the move, and thus wore me out while the sun was yet high. Thus I was compelled to betake me to a resting place during the only time I could rest - that is, the night - long hours before it would have been necessary, had I husbanded my strength; and in consequence I felt the heavy night dews far more than I otherwise would have felt them.

“One thing seemed to me then, as it seems still, very remarkable. I did not feel the want of food as other people. There was none of that torturing gnawing in the stomach which I have heard others describe. I grew faint and dizzy from long fasting, and that was all. Perhaps this ought to be attributed to the fact that I was continually drinking copiously at one or other of the public fountains; indeed, I was careful to confine my wanderings within easy distance of a few of them. At night, however, I seldom drank at all.

“My place of resort, by preference, during the hours of darkness was one of the niches of Blackfriars Bridge. I tried London Bridge, but did not like it nearly so well. The niches there are not so deep, while the fencing walls are lower. On these two bridges, on the seats along the Thames Embankment and on those in Trafalgar Square, the homeless of the metropolis are allowed to pass the night without being ordered to move on by the police. The places named are the only ones where they are permitted to rest at night; and a great privilege they consider it.

“The more reckless know how to find better shelter by climbing the Park railings, or getting into empty houses, or such as are in the course of building - running some risk, of course. The bridges, the embankment, and Charing Cross are resorted to by the more tame and law-abiding.

“At the same time there are great numbers who do not rest at all, but spend the live-long night in traversing the streets. I have more than once taken a round, lasting from half-past ten to four in the morning, and I never paced a hundred yards without passing the wanderers of the night in couples or threes. These were not what may be termed professional wanderers, be it well understood, but in all cases persons in the same condition as myself.
 
“The Thames Embankment is too much exposed to be much frequented, except by persons who, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase, are cut on the loose. Perhaps the seats opposite the National Gallery are the most comfortable of any; but I did not learn that night-wanderers were at liberty to rest their weary forms upon them until my month of suffering was nearly out.

“Persons of both sexes and all ages crowd the niches of the bridges named, and the seats of Trafalgar Square. I have seen children of eight to twelve there; plenty of youths, and even grey-headed women. I have noticed one elderly woman in particular in the same niche, and nearly on the same spot, every time I paid a nightly visit to Blackfriars Bridge - that is about seven times in three weeks - and have reason to believe that she spent the whole of these twenty-one nights in the same spot.

“As to the numbers sheltering in the places named, there are, if I remember aright, eight seats in Trafalgar Square - one row down below by the fountains, the other on the footway above each seat will accommodate eight persons with ease; but when closely packed, ten or even twelve. On the few occasions when I saw them after midnight they were crowded thus. Moreover, there were some scores of persons lying in all positions on the bare stones of the square, just behind the lower row of seats, and close to the sheltering wall. I should say that never fewer than one hundred and twenty persons rest themselves here during the nights.

“A much larger number was always to be found on the bridges. Each of the five-seated niches of Blackfriars Bridge is capable of seating twenty to twenty-five persons, but I never saw more than two quite full. Some are preferred to others, according to the direction of the wind. If the breeze from the river blow directly into a row of niches, they become intolerable to all but the hardiest. I have counted two hundred and fifteen persons at one time crouching on Blackfriars Bridge, and one hundred and fifty on London Bridge.

“On no occasion, however, did I see them at their best - or worst - as regards thronging; that is, to say, on Saturday nights. There are several reasons why the bridges should contain more wanderers on that night than on any other. It is pay-night with thousands upon thousands, and drinking-night above all others; therefore just the night when mouthing pays best. The craft, therefore, is plied unremittingly while the taverns remain open, and as long after as there are revellers about the streets. It is not until the last of these revellers have disappeared from such haunts as the Haymarket that the moochers betake them to the bridges, in anticipation of certain good things on Sunday morning.

“Early on that morning, as I have been assured by many, the leading members of a truly charitable association make the round of London and Blackfriars Bridges, distributing tickets to all the homeless whom they find there. These tickets being presented in the proper quarter - somewhere in the Borough - entitle the holders to a substantial breakfast, which includes a liberal allowance of meat.

“But the reason just given is not the only one why wanderers prefer to pass Saturday night on the bridges. There are a good many places in London where free breakfasts and teas are given to the destitute on the Sabbath solely - the only conditions attached to the gift being, that the recipients shall join in several hymns, and listen to a few prayers and an exhortation of indefinite length. I may observe that they do not dislike the hymns, but would much prefer breakfast and tea without prayer or exhortation.

“But the bridges are no pleasant places of sojourn, even on the finest nights of midsummer. There is the keen air from the river piercing one through; and the heavy dews penetrate the half-starved and scantily clothed bodies to the bone. Meanwhile the stone seats abstract the heat from the body in a way acutely painful. From twelve o'clock forward the wretches begin to shiver and crowd together for warmth, dozing however, and even sleeping, as they sit upright. They must not venture, however tempted, to lie down, or even recline; for the policemen on the beat peer round with lighted lanterns at frequent intervals, to rouse up those who abandon the upright position, and, if it be necessary, to move them on.

“Towards morning most are in pitiful plight - chilled all over, and longing intensely for the sun to rise and warm them.

“A night on the bridges is bad at best; but it becomes something awful in a drizzle. This is generally borne with patience by the wanderers, who are too weary and weak to care to move, unless under absolute compulsion. I myself have sat under a three hours' drizzle, nor did I notice above two quitting the shelter during the whole time. A temporary squall, even though accompanied by heavy rain, is not so bad. Here the shower falls slanting - very much so in most cases - and one can generally escape all but a few drops, by choosing one's corner judiciously, according to the direction of the blast.

“But when the rain comes down direct and heavily, and for long hours at a time, as I have had it, there is nothing for it save to rise and be off through the streets, keeping on the leeward side, and stealing odd rests in doorway and entry while the policeman is out of the way.

“I had two such nights. The rain began about half-past twelve, and lasted, without intermission, for exactly eight hours in the first instance. It was my first night in the streets. I knew nothing of the ways of wanderers at that date, and found myself in the vicinity of the East London Hospital, in Mile End Road, when the rain began. Having been afoot and without food from early morning of the preceding day, I was unspeakably weak and worn, hardly able to drag my legs after me. Fortunately the police were kindly, and allowed me to rest at intervals in one or other of the numerous covered passages thereaways. Still the long hours, until the pawnbrokers' shops opened, were very trying. On that occasion my coat went, an old thing that I picked up for a few pence in the neighbourhood having to do duty instead.

“But, miserable as was the night, I was far from being the only outcast afoot in Mile End Road. There were not less than fifteen unfortunates in the same predicament: there were a husband and wife; there were a number of half-grown lads; and there were quite a dozen men of all ages.

“It seemed odd to me then that a group would cower under the same shelter for an hour at a time, without a single one exchanging a word with another. However, I soon grew used to that sort of thing. It is the rule among people on their introduction to the final stage of ruin - the streets. They shrink from companionship and conversation. I have repeatedly sat, one among twenty, on Blackfriars Bridge for weary hours without hearing a single word spoken.

“I had a second and worse night a little later. The rain began earlier, came down more heavily, and kept at it longer. It scattered the houseless from the bridges, but not immediately nor willingly. I was even weaker and more fatigued than on the first occasion. But this time the policemen I encountered were ubiquitous, pouncing upon me wherever I paused with their eternal 'Move on!' and keeping me trotting under the shower until I was ready to drop with cold, fatigue, wet, and famine.

“How I got through the ensuing day I cannot now remember. The following night, however, one of my legs gave way completely, becoming inflamed, perfectly crimson all round from heel to knee, and swollen besides to double the natural size. I could then fully understand that species of old-world judicial torture, termed 'the boot.' My own boots were making me suffer it at every stride. It was a fearful time!

“Worse still, this night to be remembered was followed by a day of incessant squalls of the fiercest kind - carrying hail as well as rain with them - which rendered it equally impossible for me to try the parks or sit on any of the bridges. I was kept afoot until I was well-nigh mad with manifold torture. I spent the ensuing night in a casual ward, driven into it in spite of my rooted repugnance to such places. The piece of dry bread I received there for supper was the first food I had tasted for thirty-six hours. And on two occasions afterwards I fasted quite as long, and was relieved in precisely the same way.

“However, before I say my last of the bridges, it is but fair to remark that all my experiences of them were not evil. On two different occasions - once in the evening and once again in the early morning - I have been beckoned from my seat by different working-men, whom I never saw before, and have never seen since. Each of these men insisted on taking me to an adjacent coffee tavern, and giving me a meal, forcing a few pence into my hand besides.

“The strangest assistance, however, that I received came from one of the strangest characters I ever encountered. He was a religious enthusiast or maniac, which you please. Constantly afoot, he only paused here and there to warn people to repentance, and to beg a little food. In the towns he spent his nights in the streets; in the country, in the fields. He carried with him a piece of tarpaulin and a sack. When he felt in need of rest, he selected a sheltered corner of a field, crept into his sack, rolled his tarpaulin round him and it, and so bivouacked in defiance of all weathers. He told me, and I fully believed, that he had slept thus among the snows of the mountains of Glamorganshire. He was stout and hale, though with hairs beginning to grizzle, and seemed capable of bearing any amount of fatigue. The man's skull was large, and the face a fine open one. His heart, too, in spite of his mania, was in the right place. This person picked me out from a number, and insisted on sharing an al fresco breakfast with me. It was composed of odds and ends. All, however, were good; and there was enough and to spare - the overplus being pressed upon my acceptance. This done, the man stood up, and thundered out his accustomed warning to the passengers, of whom there were many; for it was now between five and six in the morning, and crowds were hastening across the bridge to their places of employment. Afterwards he gathered his bundle upon his shoulder and went his way; and I saw him no more.

“These three pieces of unasked-for aid come to me, each one in the very nick of time. As to my experience of the casual wards of London - six of which I entered, and in three of which I spent successive Sundays - I am afraid I can say but little in their favour. They are all harsh, though in various degrees, that of Marylebone being the harshest of any. Here the casuals are confined in separate cells. They have each four pounds of oakum to pick, with not a single one of the usual aids. 'We do not allow you to beat the oakum here,' remarked the taskmaster in truculent tones to myself. And every particle of the work has to be done before the casual is released.

“There is a metal pot, with a cover, in every cell; but the cover does not fit tight, and the pot, which serves as latrine, emits in consequence a most noisome smell. If ever the cholera visits London, I am quite sure that it will make an early appearance in Marylebone Workhouse, and not spare the inmates.

“On Sunday I was here locked up in solitary confinement as on the Saturday. No book, not even a Bible, was supplied. I received my modicum of bread and water on that day, and was allowed to lie down at seven o'clock. I might have been a dog, for all the authorities of the place cared. I must confess that I whiled away quite five hours of the Sabbath by completing that portion of my task which I found it impossible to finish on the Saturday. But nobody took the slightest notice of the matter. So much for the casual ward of highly civilized Marylebone.

“I spent a second Sunday in the workhouse - St. Saviour's, I think they call it - situated in Southwark Bridge Road. Here, for some inexplicable reason, all casuals receive breakfast in bed. It consists of bread and warm gruel, and I was exceedingly grateful for the latter. It was the first warm food I had tasted for days. Sunday, however, left the casuals as little cared for here as in Marylebone. They were congregated together in a heap, and left to amuse themselves as best they might, the favourite occupation being to tease two or three who showed themselves peculiarly irritable. The graceless crew - for a graceless crew it was - however, had generous spirits in it. I was utterly unable to get through my four pounds of oakum on the Monday. Seeing this, and pitying me, half-a-dozen of my temporary companions took it between them and performed the task for me.

“In this place I met two persons whom I shall not soon forget. One was a professional jockey, who had been in the service of several foreign magnates, the Duc d'Aumale among the rest. He was a master of his craft - that was evident - and moreover could speak French and German fluently. But his love of the bottle had ruined him irreparably. He was living among and upon coachmen and grooms. In the casual ward he contrived to improve his fare, by lending his practised hand to the paupers appointed to tend a few horses belonging to the place, as I have cause to remember, for he shared the meat he received in return with myself. The other fellow was one who had figured conspicuously in a noted trial, with evil consequences for himself. He was a clever and daring rascal - a man whose abilities, natural and acquired, might have won him fortune had they been properly used. But here he was, with sight almost gone, and destined to total blindness at no distant date, groping his way about, and as helpless for any purpose as a child.

“My third Sunday was spent in Paddington Workhouse. The day was very different from what I found it elsewhere. The guardians recognised the fact that even casuals, however degraded, are possessed of souls; therefore, such of them as belong to the Established Church are invited to attend divine service, if it so please them. In addition, abundant reading, and that of a kind to suit their taste, is provided for all.

“Strange tales have been told of the recklessness and ruffianism of the wretches who haunt casual wards. So far as I could see, there is little foundation for them. My fellows in these retreats were, as a rule, utterly broken down and spiritless, retaining hardly anything of the man save the shape, with no craving but for food and shelter, and no ambition except to hang on to life a little longer. With what deference they hung on every word of the ward-master; and how respectful they were to his indoor-pauper assistants! Above all, how insolent were the same pauper assistants to the miserable casuals! How they bullied, reviled, swore at, and otherwise showed their intense contempt for the miserable casuals! The latter were evidently in their eyes not human beings like themselves, but something infinitely meaner. These pauper assistants, indeed, were far and away the most blackguardly and ruffianly persons that I met in the casual ward. Among the casuals themselves, there was none of that intense eagerness for ribald anecdote and narrative with which they have been credited ever since the publication, years ago, of a certain clever and highly coloured sketch of a night in such a place. Their life, and the hardships to which it is incident, have knocked the ribald spirit, and indeed spirit of any kind, completely out of them. It is only in the over-fed and under-worked that riotousness is rampant. It can hardly find a congenial seat under the seedy garments and in the empty stomach of the genuine casual. (I had read the story myself perhaps five years ago, and now recalled how repulsed I had been at the time.)

“In the vagrant ward I found the staple of conversation still the same, viz., how to raise a few coppers or obtain a little food during the day; and how to escape recognition, and consequent imprisonment for three days in the ward, by any of the visitors of the Local Government Board who may happen to call.

“Here, I may remark, that the acquaintance of the general run of casual with the routine of duty and the whereabouts of these officers at any particular moment is simply astonishing. How they obtain it is a mystery. But that they do obtain this information is unquestionable. There are four such officers, and they have thirty-two workhouses under their supervision. Each of these establishments must be visited thrice a week - twice in the morning and once at night. I was told all this, on the Friday evening that I entered Marylebone Vagrant Asylum, by a fellow-casual, who further stated that one particular officer - giving his name - was to visit the ward in which I sat on that particular evening. And as he told, so it happened.

“As to the confinement for three days by an officer of any casual whom he meets more than once in a month - that is certainly carried too far. In my limited experience, I met a poor fellow who was undergoing this punishment for the third time in succession within a single fortnight. It is no light punishment either - more severe, I have been informed, than that of any metropolitan prison; for, while the food is more scanty, the labour is heavier. The gaol-bird has only three pounds of oakum to pick in the day, while the casual must do four pounds. It is as much as saying to the latter, Your efforts to remain at large and make your way into employment are the very worst offences you can perpetrate against society. Go into the workhouse, or commit some offence that will place you for a time in prison, and we will be much more lenient with you. But we do not want you prowling about our streets, and especially disfiguring our public pleasure-grounds by your wretched and hated appearance. And this is precisely how the casual interprets the severity of the system to which he is subjected. Everybody, indeed, is equally pitiless to him, seeming to think that he has no business at all in the world, and that the sooner he takes himself out of it the better. And here I cannot help offering a suggestion, that frequently occurred to my mind in those days, to this eminently humanitarian England of ours, in this most humanitarian of all centuries, the nineteenth. It is this: why not collect all the casuals of the metropolis in a heap, on a given day, and shoot them down like wild beasts? Such an act would be real mercy to most of them. And then, you see, it would be such a saving to the rates, while - consideration as grave - it would prevent the elegant idlers of the parks from having various senses offended, as now, by the presence in the said parks of the vagrant.
“Towards the close of the fourth week I found that I was subjecting myself to hardship and suffering to no purpose. Every hour that passed rendered the prospect of retrieving my affairs more hopeless. My garments were getting repulsive in appearance, and myself weak and wan to the last degree.”

And so he took refuge in the workhouse, and that story I have already told. Next week I must describe our clothing and our living area in more detail.