do no work, but they live on a diet that is bound to
undermine their health; the system, therefore, loses lives
as well as money. A
1 In fairness it must be added that a few of the casual wards have been
improved recently, at least from the point of view of sleeping
accommodation. But most of them are the same as ever, and there has
been no real improvement in the food.
scheme which fed them decently, and made them produce
at least a part of their own food, would be worth trying.
It may be objected that a farm or even a garden could
not be run with casual labour. But there is no real reason
why tramps should only stay a day at each casual ward;
they might stay a month or even a year, if there were work
for them to do. The constant circulation of tramps is
something quite artificial. At present a tramp is an
expense to the rates, and the object of each workhouse is
therefore to push him on to the next; hence the rule that he
can stay only one night. If he returns within a month he is
penalised by being confined for a week, and, as this is
much the same as being in prison, naturally he keeps
moving. But if he represented labour to the workhouse,
and the workhouse represented sound food to him, it
would be another matter. The workhouses would develop
into partially self-supporting institutions, and the tramps,
settling down here or there according as they were needed,
would cease to be tramps. They would be doing something
comparatively useful, getting decent food, and living a
settled life. By degrees, if the scheme worked well, they
might even cease to be regarded as paupers, and be able to
marry and take a respectable place in society.
This is only a rough idea, and there are some obvious
objections to it. Nevertheless, it does suggest a way of
improving the status of tramps without piling new burdens
on the rates. And the solution must, in any case, be
something of this kind. For the question is, what to do
with men who are underfed and idle; and the answer-to
make them grow their own food - imposes itself
automatically.
XXXVII
A WORD about the sleeping accommodation open to
a homeless person in London. At present it is impossible
to get a
bed in any non-charitable institution in London for
less than sevenpence a night. If you cannot afford
sevenpence for a bed, you must put up
with one of the following substitutes:
I. The Embankment. Here is the account that Paddy
gave me of sleeping on the Embankment:
"De whole t'ing wid de Embankment is gettin' to sleep
early. You got to be on your bench by eight o'clock,
because dere ain't too many benches and sometimes
dey're all taken. And you got
to try to get to
sleep at once. 'Tis too cold to sleep much after twelve
o'clock, an' de police turns you off at four in de mornin'.
It ain't easy to sleep, dough, wid dem bloody trams flyin'
past your head all de time, an' dem sky-signs across de
river flickin' on an' off in your eyes. De cold's cruel. Dem
as sleeps dere generally wraps demselves
up in newspaper, but it don't do much good. You'd
be bloody lucky if you got t'ree hours' sleep."
I have slept on the Embankment and found that it
corresponded to Paddy's description. It is, however,
much better than not sleeping at all, which is the alter-
native if you spend the night in the streets, elsewhere
than on the Embankment. According to the law in
London, you may sit down for the night, but the police
must move you on if they see you asleep; the Embank
ment and one or two odd corners (there is one behind
the Lyceum Theatre) are special exceptions. This law
is evidently a piece of wilful offensiveness. Its object, so it
is said, is to prevent people from dying of exposure;
but clearly if a man has no home and is going to die of
exposure, die he will, asleep or awake. In Paris there is no
such law. There, people sleep by the score under the Seine
bridges, and in doorways, and on benches in the squares,
and round the ventilating shafts of the Metro, and even
inside the Metro stations. It does no apparent harm. No
one will spend a night in the street if he can possibly help
it, and if he is going to stay out of doors he might as well
be allowed to sleep, if he can.
2. The Twopenny Hangover. This comes a little
higher than the Embankment. At the Twopenny Hang
over, the lodgers sit in a row on a bench; there is a rope
in front of them, and they lean on this as though
leaning over a fence. A man, humorously called the valet,
cuts the rope at five in the morning. I have never
been there myself, but Bozo had been there often. I asked
him whether anyone could possibly sleep in such
an attitude, and he said that it was more comfortable
than it sounded-at any rate, better than the bare
floor. There are similar shelters in Paris, but the charge
there is only twenty-five centimes (a halfpenny) instead
of twopence.
3. The Coffin, at fourpence a night. At the Coffin
you sleep in a wooden box, with a tarpaulin for cover
ing. It is cold, and the worst thing about it are the bugs,
which, being enclosed in a box, you cannot escape.
Above this come the common lodging-houses, with
charges varying between sevenpence and one and a
penny a night. The best are the Rowton Houses, where
the charge is a shilling, for which you get a cubicle to
yourself, and the use of excellent bathrooms. You can
also pay half a crown for a "special," which is practi
cally hotel accommodation. The Rowton Houses are
splendid buildings, and the only objection to them
is the strict discipline, with rules against cooking, card
playing, etc. Perhaps the best advertisement for the
Rowton Houses is the fact that they are always full to
overflowing. The Bruce Houses, at one and a penny, are
also excellent.
Next best, in point of cleanliness, are the Salvation
Army hostels, at sevenpence or eightpence. They vary (I