ALL NIGHT IN THE STREETS OF LONDON.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 56, 28 June 1884, Page 4

ALL NIGHT IN THE STREETS OF LONDON.

For nearly fifteen months I had been out of employmeut. Acting upon advice, I procured introductions to two or three gentlemen in London, and accordingly came here a month ago ; but to no better purpose. Tho^e who know what it is to depend on a weekly income— and that at the best very moderate— v ill readily imagine what fifteen inactive months must result in, especially to one who has neither home nor relatives in this country. My pecuniary resources gradually became smaller and smaller, till one cold, damp night I " stood with amazement, houseless by night.*' I could hardly realise the truth at first, but by-and-by I awoke to the painful reality. I have not the slightest doubt that the people I had lodged with would have trusted me to the extent of a week's lodging, but I have such a horror of debt, and could see no possibility of my being able to pay thorn. The many futile efforts I had made to obtain employment only served to make me utterly hopeless oi ever succeeding again. During the daytime one can hardly get tired in London, or, I might more correctly say, time can scarcely hang heavily on one's hands, for there is so much amidst its bustle and din to attract attention that time flies unheeded. But a night, homeless, is a very different thing. From early morning to midnight there is plenty to divert one ; but from midnight to early morning — ah, me ! I had been out since about nine o'clock in the morning, walking about the city the whole day, making inquiries where I thought there might be the slightest chance of success. Weary, footsore, and utterly dishearted, I stood outside the " Standard " office in Shoe Lane as the clocks chimed the " witching hour of night." I walked to the end of the lane, and there saw a man selling baked potatoes. I had three halfpence left I had had nothing to eat for about sixteen hours, so I invested a penny in two of those vegetable edibles. I walked leisurely along enjoying my slender repast as much as any nobleman ever did the most sumptuous banquet. I turned down Essex-street, and wended my way by the Thames Embankment to Westminster, I saw one or two poor wretches cringing about the steps of Waterloo Bridge, the very person ificatien of misery and want. Arrived at Westminster, I turned down Parliament-street, and proceeded by way of Charing Cross to the Strand, along the north side of which I walked till I came to Bedford-stoeet, up which I turned, and soon found myself at Covent Garden markst. Eight or nine men in rags were wandering about under the porticoed way extending along by the Tavistock Hotel, vainly trying to gather warmth from their tattered garments. One of them asked me for a pipe of tobacco. I said I had none. Another accosted me with, " Hey yer a light, guv'ner ?" I had, and gave him one, when he suddenly discovered he had nothing to smoke, and asked me for tobacco. I told him I was sorry I could not oblige him and passed on, I heard him remark to the man who was with him, "It's a frost; he's hard up." Further along I found some lads, equally ragged, ageing apparently from fifteen to seventeen. There may have been six or seven of them. One of their number, as he saw me pass, whispered something to a companion, and approached me, showing me a very handsome-looking scarf pin, and asking me to buy it at my own price. I replied that I never wore jewellery. "Never mind, sir," said he, "you might like to make a present to someone as does." "No, thanks," I answered. "Look 'ere, sir," he said, "it's a real beauty, a di'mond worth 70s at the least ; but I'm awful 'ard up, and will part with it for a solitary dollar." I looked at the poor fellow, not more than sixteen, if indeed so much, and wondeied what he thought of the gullibility of the English people — whether he took me for a country simpleton or not. He, the possessor of a suit of clothes that might have fetched threepence for old rags, and the owner of a 70s pin ! I said to him, kindly though firmly, "No, thank you; don't you trouble me further." I turned my steps, and heard him remark to his companions, " No go ; he's a broken-down swell." The pin may have been worth eighteenpence. It was now past 2 a.m., and market gardeners began to arrive with their well-stocked carts. I saw some of these poor lads creep slyly towards the carts, and help themselves to a turnip, a carrot, or whatever they could catch, and ravenously devour them. I could not help thinking of their past bringing up, and speculating as to their future. I got back into the Strand by way of Wellington-street, and, passing the "Morning Post " office, a gentlemanly young man, well-dressed, and smoking a most fragrant cigar, asked me the time. I said I thought it was about three o'clock. He asked me to have a drink. I said I did not drink intoxicants, and he then asked me if I would like a cup of coffee. I said I should very much, but that it could not be got at that early hour — no places were open. "Aren't there?" said he, "I will soon show you !" and I went with him along the Strand and Fleet-street to Shoe Lane, where he took me into a coffee-house and gave me a good meal, to which I did ample justice. We stayed there till about half- [ past four, talking on politics, &c, when we parted, and I went by Ludgate Circus, down Bridge-street, to the Embankment. Here again I saw several of the " houseless' snatching a sit-down on the seats when a policeman was not looking, and getting up like a cat off hot bricks when they heard his tread. I did not spend much time on the Embankment. It was a new phase of life to me, and I did not at all relish the experience. I had no definite place to reach, no starting point to which to return, and my future prospects were as black as night. My feet were blistered, and very painful, the result of the excessive walking, and my innate self-respect rebelled against the solicitation of charity. Truly, it was a dismal look-out ; I felt morbid and dreary, utterly unfit to call anywhere when business should be resumed a few hours later. I cannot do justice to my feelings and thoughts on the occasion, but one idea took forcible possession of my mind, and that was that while provision is made for tramps and casuals to get a night's lodging, surely something might be done for what one may call the middle class poor. A sturdy, lazy tramp can obtain shelter at any of our unions by pleading destitution, but what about the respectable portion of the poor, who blush at the very thought of a ward ? People who h ave been brought up in the first walks of life, but from sheer misfortune havo been reduced to want : is it fair that they should have to herd in a common casual ward with those whose occupation is vagrancy from the very commencement of their career to its close ? Morning dawned, and I stood in the streets of London, penniless, and not knowing what to do.