’e’s got in ’is pockits, a good long drunk, an’ the wimmen skin ’im out of his money so quick ’e ain’t ’ad ’ardly a glass.  I know.  I’ve ’ad my fling, an’ I know wot’s wot.  An’ I tell you, where’s wimmen is trouble—screechin’ an’ carryin’ on, fightin’, cuttin’, bobbies, magistrates, an’ a month’s ’ard labour back of it all, an’ no pay-day when you come out.”

“But a wife and children,” I insisted.  “A home of your own, and all that.  Think of it, back from a voyage, little children climbing on your knee, and the wife happy and smiling, and a kiss for you when she lays the table, and a kiss all round from the babies when they go to bed, and the kettle singing and the long talk afterwards of where you’ve been and what you’ve seen, and of her and all the little happenings at home while you’ve been away, and—”

“Garn!” he cried, with a playful shove of his fist on my shoulder.  “Wot’s yer game, eh?  A missus kissin’ an’ kids clim’in’, an’ kettle singin’, all on four poun’ ten a month w’en you ’ave a ship, an’ four nothin’ w’en you ’aven’t.  I’ll tell you wot I’d get on four poun’ ten—a missus rowin’, kids squallin’, no coal t’ make the kettle sing, an’ the kettle up the spout, that’s wot I’d get.  Enough t’ make a bloke bloomin’ well glad to be back t’ sea.  A missus!  Wot for?  T’ make you mis’rable?  Kids?  Jest take my counsel, matey, an’ don’t ’ave ’em.  Look at me!  I can ’ave my beer w’en I like, an’ no blessed missus an’ kids a-crying for bread.  I’m ’appy, I am, with my beer an’ mates like you, an’ a good ship comin’, an’ another trip to sea.  So I say, let’s ’ave another pint.  Arf an’ arf’s good enough for me.”

Without going further with the speech of this young fellow of two-and-twenty, I think I have sufficiently indicated his philosophy of life and the underlying economic reason for it.  Home life he had never known.  The word “home” aroused nothing but unpleasant associations.  In the low wages of his father, and of other men in the same walk in life, he found sufficient reason for branding wife and children as encumbrances and causes of masculine misery.  An unconscious hedonist, utterly unmoral and materialistic, he sought the greatest possible happiness for himself, and found it in drink.

A young sot; a premature wreck; physical inability to do a stoker’s work; the gutter or the workhouse; and the end—he saw it all as clearly as I, but it held no terrors for him.  From the moment of his birth, all the forces of his environment had tended to harden him, and he viewed his wretched, inevitable future with a callousness and unconcern I could not shake.

And yet he was not a bad man.  He was not inherently vicious and brutal.  He had normal mentality, and a more than average physique.  His eyes were blue and round, shaded by long lashes, and wide apart.  And there was a laugh in them, and a fund of humour behind.  The brow and general features were good, the mouth and lips sweet, though already developing a harsh twist.  The chin was weak, but not too weak; I have seen men sitting in the high places with weaker.

His head was shapely, and so gracefully was it poised upon a perfect neck that I was not surprised by his body that night when he stripped for bed.  I have seen many men strip, in gymnasium and training quarters, men of good blood and upbringing, but I have never seen one who stripped to better advantage than this young sot of two-and-twenty, this young god doomed to rack and ruin in four or five short years, and to pass hence without posterity to receive the splendid heritage it was his to bequeath.

It seemed sacrilege to waste such life, and yet I was forced to confess that he was right in not marrying on four pounds ten in London Town.  Just as the scene-shifter was happier in making both ends meet in a room shared with two other men, than he would have been had he packed a feeble family along with a couple of men into a cheaper room, and failed in making both ends meet.

And day by day I became convinced that not only is it unwise, but it is criminal for the people of the Abyss to marry.  They are the stones by the builder rejected.  There is no place for them, in the social fabric, while all the forces of society drive them downward till they perish.  At the bottom of the Abyss they are feeble, besotted, and imbecile.  If they reproduce, the life is so cheap that perforce it perishes of itself.  The work of the world goes on above them, and they do not care to take part in it, nor are they able.  Moreover, the work of the world does not need them.  There are plenty, far fitter than they, clinging to the steep slope above, and struggling frantically to slide no more.

In short, the London Abyss is a vast shambles.  Year by year, and decade after decade, rural England pours in a flood of vigorous strong life, that not only does not renew itself, but perishes by the third generation.  Competent authorities aver that the London workman whose parents and grand-parents were born in London is so remarkable a specimen that he is rarely found.

Mr. A. C. Pigou has said that the aged poor, and the residuum which compose the “submerged tenth,” constitute 71 per cent, of the population of London.  Which is to say that last year, and yesterday, and to-day, at this very moment, 450,000 of these creatures are dying miserably at the bottom of the social pit called “London.”  As to how they die, I shall take an instance from this morning’s paper.

SELF-NEGLECT

Yesterday Dr. Wynn Westcott held an inquest at Shoreditch, respecting the death of Elizabeth Crews, aged 77 years, of 32 East Street, Holborn, who died on Wednesday last.  Alice Mathieson stated that she was landlady of the house where deceased lived.  Witness last saw her alive on the previous Monday.  She lived quite alone.  Mr. Francis Birch, relieving officer for the Holborn district, stated that deceased had occupied the room in question for thirty-five years.  When witness was called, on the 1st, he found the old woman in a terrible state, and the ambulance and coachman had to be disinfected after the removal.  Dr. Chase Fennell said death was due to blood-poisoning from bed-sores, due to self-neglect and filthy surroundings, and the jury returned a verdict to that effect.

The most startling thing about this little incident of a woman’s death is the smug complacency with which the officials looked upon it and rendered judgment.  That an old woman of seventy-seven years of age should die of SELF-NEGLECT is the most optimistic way possible of looking at it.  It was the old dead woman’s fault that she died, and having located the responsibility, society goes contentedly on about its own affairs.

Of the “submerged tenth” Mr. Pigou has said: “Either through lack of bodily strength, or of intelligence, or of fibre, or of all three, they are inefficient or unwilling workers, and consequently unable to support themselves . . . They are often so degraded in intellect as to be incapable of distinguishing their right from their left hand, or of recognising the numbers of their own houses; their bodies are feeble and without stamina, their affections are warped, and they scarcely know what family life means.”

Four hundred and fifty thousand is a whole lot of people.  The young fireman was only one, and it took him some time to say his little say.  I should not like to hear them all talk at once.  I wonder if God hears them?

CHAPTER V—THOSE ON THE EDGE

My first impression of East London was naturally a general one.  Later the details began to appear, and here and there in the chaos of misery I found little spots where a fair measure of happiness reigned—sometimes whole rows of houses in little out-of-the-way streets, where artisans dwell and where a rude