My first real introduction to a common lodging-house occurred shortly after I took my magisterial seat at Greenwich. The establishment in question was in Mill Lane, Deptford.
I was, at the time, already tolerably well acquainted with the predatory habits of the poor and criminal (though do not let me be understood as bracketing the two together, for to do so would be grossly unjust), but I was completely ignorant of the sort of life that was led in “kips “ or “ doss—houses.” I had, it is true, visited such places before, but my observation had never proceeded further than a superficial glance, accompanied, it may be, with a shrug of the shoulders.
The courts and alleys of Deptford abound with rotten houses and tumble-down tenements that are the abodes of thieves and unfortunates. It is hardly necessary to enter these places in order to understand their true character; what you see from the outside tells its own tale of poverty, vice, misery, and crime.
Here and there, written in legible characters on the outside of a building, are the words, “Registered lodging-house.” As I have elsewhere remarked of these establishments, there is no adequate supervision over them, nor, let me frankly admit, do I see how matters can be mended without fresh legislation in the direction of further restraint. At present the authorities have absolutely no power over the owner of a common lodging [-39-] house. The business is sufficiently profitable to enable him to laugh at the law. For conducting his house improperly, he should, in my opinion, be liable to a fine of say, one hundred pounds. I do not doubt that the enforcement of such a penalty would have a very salutary effect.
You get a tolerably good clue to the character of these dens even from an external scrutiny. At the windows you see some hideous human heads, male and female, with blotched, bloated, and bestial faces, matted and tangled hair, and hungry, desperate eyes.
Some lodging-houses are for one sex only, and others for both men and women.
On entering one of these establishments for the first time, even if you have never been astonished before, I can guarantee that you will experience the sensation.
The visit I am about to describe was paid one foggy morning in February, on a day when I was off duty. The place was warmed by coke stoves, which are to be met with in every lodging-house. From the bent and broken gas brackets a sickly light was shed on a number of wan, pinched faces and emaciated forms that were but scantily clothed in rags.
The gathering included many disciples of Bong, as was proved by red and pimply noses, beery breath, and sour skins. Obviously the East End brewers and publicans are thoroughly appreciated by the “dossers.”
A sergeant of police accompanied me, and what struck me as extremely ludicrous was the way in which the poor wretches watched him. There was an unmistakeable look on their faces—a look that assumed a speaking form, and was interrogative—” What do you want me for?” And then, as the officer passed, it was equally amusing to note the look of delight—the gleam of sunshine. “I’m still free! It isn’t me after all ;“ these were the words you could read in their grateful eyes.
I don’t believe any of them knew me at all; but I was regarded with the closest suspicion. They were civil, almost servile, to the sergeant; but there was a curious, puzzled look at me, accompanied by an enquiring glance from one to the other—a glance to which, so far as I could see, there was no response.
I was at the time unused to these places, and I confess that, though it was in the daytime, I should not have felt very comfortable had I been by myself.
[-40-] “Now, what are these fellows?” said I to the sergeant, when we had returned into the street.
He replied:
“Tramps of both sexes—mat-sellers, griddlers, hawkers of lace, makers of fire-screens and fly-papers, brush-makers, street flower sellers, and so on.”
“What on earth are griddlers?” said I.
“Well, Sir,” he replied, “if you’ve had enough of this place, I’ll tell you all you want to know while we are walking on to another.”
But I had not had enough of that place. I don’t know what possessed me, but I was seized with a strange desire to go back to the lodging-house. We did so, and proceeded to inspect several rooms that we had omitted to enter previously. These rooms were in total darkness, save for a ray or two of light shed from the coke stove.
“Now then, light up here,” shouted the sergeant, and the “deputy” lost no time in obeying the injunction.
Among the poor wretches huddled together in these rooms were several shabby-genteel men in dreadfully old black clothes.
There were also a few little children.
The conversation carried on between the sergeant and the deputy was very amusing.
“Where’s Billy Goff?” asked the officer.
“Left here on Saturday, sergeant.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“Well, I think if you were to look for him at Notting Hill you wouldn’t be far wrong.”
“Where’s Mog Sullivan?”
“Not up yet. She’s in that room,” pointing to a door along the passage.
Rout her out, then I Time she was up I It’s eleven o’clock!” and Mog’s slumbers were disturbed without more ado.
I watched the dinner being cooked with considerable interest. The favourite article appeared to be what they termed “‘addicks.” The sergeant informed me that the principal meal in the common lodging-house is supper, of which all the inmates partake. He added that chops and steaks often figure at this meal, and that many a toothsome morsel is yielded by the “scran bag” of the professional beggar. That individual, it appears, distributes his dainties for a consideration among his comrades of the night.
Round London : Down East and Up West, by Montagu Williams Q.C., 1894
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