In Darkest England, and the Way Out

by William Booth

SECTION 1.—A SLUM CRUSADE.—OUR SLUM SISTERS.

When Professor Huxley lived as a medical officer in the East of London he acquired a knowledge of the actual condition of the life of many of its populace which led him long afterwards to declare that the surroundings of the savages of New Guinea were much more conducive to the leading of a decent human existence than those in which many of the East-Enders live. Alas, it is not only in London that such lairs exist in which the savages of civilisation lurk and breed. All the great towns in both the Old World and the New have their slums, in which huddle together, in festering and verminous filth, men, women, and children. They correspond to the lepers who thronged the lazar houses of the Middle Ages.

As in those days St. Francis of Assissi and the heroic band of saints who gathered under his orders were wont to go and lodge with the lepers at the city gates, so the devoted souls who have enlisted in the Salvation Army take up their quarters in the heart of the worst slums. But whereas the Friars were men, our Slum Brigade is composed of women. I have a hundred of them under my orders, young women for the most part, quartered all of them in outposts in the heart of the Devil's country. Most of them are the children of the poor who have known hardship from their youth up. Some are ladies born and bred, who have not been afraid to exchange the comfort of a West End drawing-room for service among the vilest of the vile, and a residence in small and fetid rooms whose walls were infested with vermin. They live the life of the Crucified for the sake of the men and women for whom He lived and died. They form one of the branches of the activity of the Army upon which I dwell with deepest sympathy. They are at the front; they are at close quarters with the enemy. To the dwellers in decent homes who occupy cushioned pews in fashionable churches there is something strange and quaint in the language they hear read from the Bible, language which habitually refers to the Devil as an actual personality, and to the struggle against sin and uncleanness as if it were a hand to hand death wrestle with the legions of Hell. To our little sisters who dwell in an atmosphere heavy with curses, among people sodden with drink, in quarters where sin and uncleanness are universal, all these Biblical sayings are as real as the quotations of yesterday's price of Consols are to a City man. They dwell in the midst of Hell, and in their daily warfare with a hundred devils it seems incredible to them that anyone can doubt the existence of either one or the other.

The Slum Sister is what her name implies, the Sister of the Slum. They go forth in Apostolic fashion, two-and-two living in a couple of the same kind of dens or rooms as are occupied by the people themselves, differing only in the cleanliness and order, and the few articles of furniture which they contain. Here they live all the year round, visiting the sick, looking after the children, showing the women how to keep themselves and their homes decent, often discharging the sick mother's duties themselves; cultivating peace, advocating temperance, counselling in temporalities, and ceaselessly preaching the religion of Jesus Christ to the Outcasts of Society.

I do not like to speak of their work. Words fail me, and what I say is so unworthy the theme. I prefer to quote two descriptions by Journalists who have seen these girls at work in the field. The first is taken from a long article which Julia Hayes Percy contributed to the New York World, describing a visit paid by her to the slum quarters of the Salvation Army in Cherry Hill Alleys, in the Whitechapel of New York.

Twenty-four hours in the slums—just a night and a day— yet into them were crowded such revelations of misery, depravity, and degradation as having once been gazed upon life can never be the same afterwards. Around and above his blighted neighbourhood flows the tide of active, prosperous life. Men and women travel past in street cars by the Elevated Railroad and across the bridge, and take no thought of its wretchedness, of the criminals bred there, and of the disease engendered by its foulness. It is a fearful menace to the public health, both moral and physical, yet the multitude is as heedless of danger as the peasant who makes his house and plants green vineyards and olives above Vesuvian fires. We are almost as careless and quite as unknowing as we pass the bridge in the late afternoon. Our immediate destination is the Salvation Army Barracks in Washington Street, and we are going finally to the Salvation Officers—two young women—who have been dwelling and doing a noble mission work for months in one of the worst corners of New York's most wretched quarter. These Officers are not living under the aegis of the Army, however. The blue bordered flag is furled out of sight, the uniforms and poke bonnets are laid away, and there are no drums or tambourines. "The banner over them is love" of their fellow-creatures among whom they dwell upon an equal plane of poverty, wearing no better clothes than the rest, eating coarse and scanty food, and sleeping upon hard cots or upon the floor. Their lives are consecrated to God's service among the poor of the earth. One is a woman in the early prime of vigorous life, the other a girl of eighteen. The elder of these devoted women is awaiting us at the barracks to be our guide to Slumdom. She is tall, slender, and clad in a coarse brown gown, mended with patches. A big gingham apron, artistically rent in several places, is tied about her waist. She wears on old plaid woollen shawl and an ancient brown straw hat. Her dress indicates extreme poverty, her face denotes perfect peace. "This is Em," says Mrs. Ballington Booth, and after this introduction we sally forth.

More and more wretched grows the district as we penetrate further Em pauses before a dirty, broken, smoke-dimmed window, through which in a dingy room are seen a party of roughs, dark-looking men, drinking and squabbling at a table. "They are our neighbours in the front." We enter the hall-way and proceed to the rear room. It is tiny, but clean and warm. A fire burns on the little cracked stove, which stands up bravely on three legs, with a brick eking out its support at the fourth corner. A tin lamp stands on the table, half-a-dozen chairs, one of which has arms, but must have renounced its rockers long ago, and a packing box, upon which we deposit our shawls, constitute the furniture. Opening from this is a small dark bedroom, with one cot made up and another folded against the wall. Against a door, which must communicate with the front room, in which we saw the disagreeable-looking men sitting, is a wooden table for the hand-basin. A small trunk and a barrel of clothing complete the inventory.

Em's sister in the slum work gives us a sweet shy welcome. She is a Swedish girl, with the fair complexion and crisp, bright hair peculiar to the Scandinavian blonde-type. Her head reminds me of a Grenze that hangs in the Louvre, with its low knot of rippling hair, which fluffs out from her brow and frames a dear little face with soft childish outlines, a nez retrousse, a tiny mouth, like a crushed pink rose, and wistful blue eyes. This girl has been a Salvationist for two years. During that time she has learned to speak, read, and write English, while she has constantly laboured among the poor and wretched. The house where we find ourselves was formerly notorious as one of the worst in the Cherry Hill district. It has been the scene of some memorable crimes, and among them that of the Chinaman who slew his Irish wife, after the manner of "Jack the Ripper," on the staircase leading to the second floor. A notable change has taken place in the tenement since Mattie and Em have lived there, and their gentle influence is making itself felt in the neighbouring houses as well. It is nearly eight o'clock when we sally forth. Each of us carries a handful of printed slips bearing a text of Scripture and a few words of warning to lead the better life.

"These furnish an excuse for entering places where otherwise we could not go," explains Em.

After arranging a rendezvous, we separate. Mattie and Liz go off in one direction, and Em and I in another. From this our progress seems like a descent into Tartarus. Em pauses before a miserable-looking saloon, pushes open the low, swinging door, and we go in. It is a low-ceiled room, dingy with dirt, dim with the smoke, nauseating with the fumes of sour beer and vile liquor. A sloppy bar extends along one side, and opposite is a long table, with indescribable viands littered over it, interspersed with empty glasses, battered hats, and cigar stumps. A motley crowd of men and women jostle in the narrow space. Em speaks to the soberest looking of the lot. He listens to her words, others crowd about. Many accept the slips we offer, and gradually as the throng separates to make way, we gain the further end of the apartment. Em's serious, sweet, saint-like face I follow like a star. All sense of fear slips from me, and a great pity fills my soul as I look upon the various types of wretchedness.

As the night wears on, the whole apartment seems to wake up. Every house is alight; the narrow sidewalks and filthy streets are full of people. Miserable little children, with sin-stamped faces, dart about like rats; little ones who ought to be in their cribs shift for themselves, and sleep on cellar doors and areas, and under carts; a few vendors are abroad with their wares, but the most of the traffic going on is of a different description. Along Water Street are women conspicuously dressed in gaudy colours. Their heavily-painted faces are bloated or pinched; they shiver in the raw night air. Liz speaks to one, who replies that she would like to talk, but dare not, and as she says this an old hag comes to the door and cries: "Get along; don't hinder her work! During the evening a man to whom Em has been talking has told her: —"You ought to join the Salvation Army; they are the only good women who, bother us down here. I don't want to lead that sort of life; but I must go where it is light and warm and clean after working all day, and there isn't any place but this to come to" exclaimed the man. "You will appreciate the plea to-morrow when you see how the people live," Em says, as we turn our steps toward the tenement room, which seems like an oasis of peace and purity after the howling desert we have been wandering in. Em and Mattie brew some oatmeal gruel, and being chilled and faint we enjoyed a cup of it. Liz and I share a cot in the outer room. We are just going to sleep when agonised cries ring out through the night; then the tones of a woman's voice pleading pitifully reach our ears. We are unable to distinguish her words, but the sound is heart-rending. It comes from one of those dreadful Water Street houses, and we all feel that a tragedy is taking place. There is a sound of crashing blows and then silence.

It is customary in the slums to leave the house door open perpetually, which is convenient for tramps, who creep into the hall-ways to sleep at night, thereby saving the few pence it costs to occupy a "spot" in the cheap lodging houses. Em and Mat keep the corridor without their room beautifully clean, and so it has become an especial favourite stamping ground for these vagrants. We were told this when Mattie locked and bolted the door and then tied the keys and the door-handle together. So we understand why there are shuffling steps along the corridor, bumping against the panels of the door, and heavily breathing without during the long hours of the night.

All day Em and Mat have been toiling among their neighbours, and the night before last they sat up with a dying woman. They are worn out and sleep heavily. Liz and I lie awake and wait for the coming of the morning; we are too oppressed by what we have seen and heard to talk.

In the morning Liz and I peep over into the rear houses where we heard those dreadful shrieks in the night. There is no sign of life, but we discover enough filth to breed diphtheria and typhoid throughout a large section. In the area below our window there are several inches of stagnant water, in which is heaped a mass of old shoes, cabbage heads, garbage, rotten wood, bones, rags and refuse, and a few dead rats. We understand now why Em keeps her room full of disinfectants. She tells us that she dare not make any appeal to the sanitary authorities, either on behalf of their own or any other dwelling, for fear of antagonizing the people, who consider such officials as their natural enemies.

The first visit we pay is up a number of eccentric little flights of shaky steps interspersed with twists of passageway. The floor is full of holes. The stairs have been patched here and there, but look perilous and sway beneath the feet, A low door on the landing is opened by a bundle of rags and filth, out of which issues a woman's voice in husky tones, bidding us enter. She has La grippe. We have to stand very close together, for the room is small, and already contains three women, a man, a baby, a bedstead, a stove, and indescribable dirt. The atmosphere is rank with impurity. The man is evidently dying. Seven weeks ago he was "gripped." He is now in the last stages of pneumonia. Em has tried to induce him to be removed to the hospital, and he gasps out his desire "to die in comfort in my own bed." Comfort! The "bed' is a rack heaped with rags. Sheets, pillow-cases, and night-clothes are not in vogue in the slums. A woman lies asleep on the dirty floor with her head under the table. Another woman, who has been sharing the night watch with the invalid's wife, is finishing her morning meal, in which roast oysters on the half shell are conspicuous. A child that appears never to have been washed toddles about the floor and tumbles over the sleeping woman's form. Em gives it some gruel, and ascertains that its name is "Christine."

The dirt, crowding, and smells in the first place are characteristic of half a dozen others we visited. We penetrate to garrets and descend into cellars. The "rear houses" are particularly dreadful. Everywhere there is decaying garbage lying about, and the dead cats and rats are evidence that there are mighty hunters among the gamins of the Fourth Ward. We find a number ill from the grip and consequent maladies. None of the sufferers will entertain the thought of seeking a hospital. One probably voices the opinion of the majority when he declares that "they'll wash you to death there." For these people a bath possesses more terror than the gallows or the grave.

In one room, with a wee window, lies a women dying of consumption; wasted wan, and wretched, lying on rags and swarming with vermin. Her little son, a boy of eight years, nestles beside her. His cheeks are scarlet, his eyes feverishly bright, and he has a hard cough. "It's the chills, mum," says the little chap. Six beds stand close together in another room; one is empty. Three days ago a woman died there and the body has just been taken away. It hasn't disturbed the rest of the inmates to have death present there. A woman is lying on the wrecks of a bedstead, slats and posts sticking out in every direction from the rags on which she reposes.

"It broke under me in the night," she explains. A woman is sick and wants Liz to say a prayer. We kneel on the filthy floor. Soon all my faculties are absorbed in speculating which will arrive first, the "Amen" or the "B flat" which is wending its way to wards me. This time the bug does not get there, and I enjoy grinding him under the sole of my Slum shoe when the prayer is ended.

In another room we find what looks like a corpse. It is a woman in an opium stupor. Drunken men are brawling around her.

Returning to our tenement, Em and Liz meet us, and we return to our experience. The minor details vary slightly, but the story is the same piteous tale of woe everywhere, and crime abounding, conditions which only change to a prison, a plunge in the river, or the Potter's field.

The Dark Continent can show no lower depth of degradation than that sounded by the dwellers of the dark alleys in Cherry Hill. There isn't a vice missing in that quarter. Every sin in the Decalogue flourishes in that feeder of penitentiaries and prisons. And even as its moral foulness permeates and poisons the veins of our social life so the malarial filth with which the locality reeks must sooner or later spread disease and death.

An awful picture, truly, but one which is to me irradiated with the love-light which shone in the eyes of "Em's serious, sweet, saintlike face."

Here is my second. It was written by a Journalist who had just witnessed the scene in Whitechapel. He writes: —

I had just passed Mr. Barnett's church when I was stopped by a small crowd at a street corner. There were about thirty or forty men, women, and children standing loosely together, some others were lounging on the opposite side of the street round the door of a public-house. In the centre of the crowd was a plain-looking little woman in Salvation Army uniform, with her eyes closed, praying the "dear Lord that he would bless these dear people, and save them, save them now!" Moved by curiosity, I pressed through the outer fringe of the crowd, and in doing so, I noticed a woman of another kind, also invoking Heaven, but in an altogether different fashion. Two dirty tramp-like men were listening to the prayer, standing the while smoking their short cutty pipes. For some reason or other they had offended the woman, and she was giving them a piece of her mind. They stood stolidly silent while she went at them like a fiend. She had been good-looking once, but was now horribly bloated with drink, and excited by passion. I heard both voices at the same time. What a contrast! The prayer was over now, and a pleading earnest address was being delivered.

"You are wrong," said the voice in the centre "you know you are; all this misery and poverty is a proof of it. You are prodigals. You have got away from your Father's house, and you are rebelling against Him every day Can you wonder that there is so much hunger, and oppression, and wretchedness allowed to come upon you? In the midst of it all your Father loves you He wants you to return to Him; to turn your backs upon your sins; abandon your evil doings; give up the drink and the service of the devil. He has given His Son Jesus Christ to die for you. He wants to save you. Come to His feet. He is waiting. His arms are open. I know the devil has got fast hold of you; but Jesus will give you grace to conquer him. He will help you to master your wicked habits and your love of drink. But come to Him now. God is love. He loves me. He loves you. He loves us all. He wants to save us all."

Clear and strong the voice, eloquent with the fervour of intense feeling, rang through the little crowd, past which streamed the ever-flowing tide of East End life. And at the same time that I heard this pure and passionate invocation to love God and be true to man I heard a voice on the outskirts, and it said this: "You —— swine! I'll knock the vitals out of yer. None of your —— impudence to me. —— your —— eyes, what do you mean by telling me that? You know what you ha' done, and now you are going to the Salvation Army. I'll let them know you, you dirty rascal." The man shifted his pipe. "What's the matter?" "Matter!" screamed the virago hoarsely." —— yer life, don't you know what's the matter? I'll matter ye, you —— hound. By God! I will, as sure as I'm alive. Matter! you know what's the matter." And so she went on, the men standing silently smoking until at last she took herself off her mouth full of oaths and cursing, to the public-house. It seemed as though the presence, and spirit, and words of the Officer, who still went on with the message of mercy, had some strange effect upon them, which made these poor wretches impervious to the taunting, bitter sarcasms of this brazen, blatant virago.

"God is love." Was it not, then, the accents of God's voice that sounded there above the din of the street and the swearing of the slums? Yea, verily, and that voice ceases not and will not cease, so long as the Slum Sisters fight under the banner of the Salvation Army.

To form an idea of the immense amount of good, temporal and spiritual, which the Slum Sister is doing; you need to follow them into the kennels where they live, preaching the Gospel with the mop and the scrubbing brush, and driving out the devil with soap and water. In one of our Slum posts, where the Officer's rooms were on the ground floor, about fourteen other families lived in the same house. One little water-closet in the back yard had to do service for the whole place. As for the dirt, one Officer writes, "It is impossible to scrub the Homes; some of them are in such a filthy condition. When they have a fire the ashes are left to accumulate for days. The table is very seldom, if ever, properly cleaned, dirty cups and saucers lie about it, together with bits of bread, and if they have bloaters the bones and heads are left on the table, Sometimes there are pieces of onions mixed up with the rest. The floors are in a very much worse condition than the street pavements, and when they are supposed to clean them they do it with about a pint of dirty water. When they wash, which is rarely, for washing to them seems an unnecessary work, they do it in a quart or two of water, and sometimes boil the things in some old saucepan in which they cook their food. They do this simply because they have no larger vessel to wash in. The vermin fall off the walls and ceiling on you while you are standing in the rooms. Some of the walls are covered with marks where they have killed them. Many people in the summer sit on the door steps all night, the reason for this being, that their rooms are so close from the heat and so unendurable from the vermin that they prefer staying out in the cool night air. But as they cannot stay anywhere long without drinking, they send for beer from the neighbouring public—alas! never far away —and pass it from one doorway to another, the result being singing, shouting and fighting up till three and four o'clock in the morning."

I could fill volumes with stories of the war against vermin, which is part of this campaign in the slums, but the subject is too revolting to those who are often indifferent to the agonies their fellow creatures suffer, so long as their sensitive ears are not shocked by the mention of so painful a subject. Here, for instance, is a sample of the kind of region in which the Slum Sisters spend themselves:

"In an apparently respectable street near Oxford street, the Officers where visiting one day when they saw a very dark staircase leading into a cellar, and thinking it possible that someone might be there they attempted to go down, and yet the staircase was so dark they thought it impossible for anyone to be there. However, they tried again and groped their way along in the dark for some time until at last they found the door and entered the room. At first they could not discern anything because of the darkness. But after they got used to it they saw a filthy room. There was no fire in the grate, but the fire-place was heaped up with ashes, an accumulation of several weeks at least. At one end of the room there was an old sack of rags and bones partly emptied upon the floor, from which there came a most unpleasant odour. At the other end lay an old man very ill. The apology for a bed on which he lay was filthy and had neither sheets nor blankets. His covering consisted of old rags. His poor wife, who attended on him, appeared to be a stranger to soap and water. These Slum Sisters nursed the old people, and on one occasion undertook to do their washing, and they brought it home to their copper for this purpose, but it was so infested with vermin that they did not know how to wash it. Their landlady, who happened to see them, forbade them ever to bring such stuff there any more. The old man, when well enough, worked at his trade, which was tailoring. They had two shillings and sixpence per week from the parish."

Here is a report from the headquarters of our Slum Brigade as to the work which the Slum Sisters have done. It is almost four years since the Slum Work was started in London. The principal work done by our first Officers was that of visiting the sick, cleansing the homes of the Slummers, and of feeding the hungry. The following are a few of the cases of those who have gained temporally, as well as spiritually, through our work: —

Mrs. W.—Of Haggerston Slum. Heavy drinker, wrecked home, husband a drunkard, place dirty and filthy, terribly poor. Saved now over two years, home A1., plenty of employment at cane-chair bottoming; husband now saved also.

Mrs. R.—Drury Lane Slum. Husband and wife, drunkards; husband very lazy, only worked when starved in to it. We found them both out of work, home furnitureless, in debt. She got saved, and our lasses prayed for him to get work. He did so, and went to it. He fell out again a few weeks after, and beat his wife. She sought employment at charing and office cleaning, got it, and has been regularly at work since. He too got work. He is now a teetotaler. The home is very comfortable now, and they are putting money in the bank.

A.M. in the Dials. Was a great drunkard, thriftless, did not go to the trouble of seeking work. Was in a Slum meeting, heard the Captain speak on "Seek first the Kingdom of God!" called out and said, "Do you mean that if I ask God for work, He will give it me?" Of course she said, "Yes." He was converted that night, found work, and is now employed in the Gas Works, Old Kent Road.

Jimmy is a soldier in the Boro' Slum! Was starving when he got converted through being out of work. Through joining the Army, he was turned out of his home. He found work, and now owns a coffee-stall in Billingsgate Market, and is doing well.

Sergeant R.—Of Marylebone Slum. Used to drink, lived in a wretched place in the famous Charles Street, had work at two places, at one of which he got 5s. a week and the other 10s., when he got saved; this was starvation wages, on which to keep himself, his wife, and four children. At the 10s. a week work he had to deliver drink for a spirit merchant; feeling condemned over it, he gave it up, and was out of work for weeks. The brokers were put in, but the Lord rescued him just in time. The 5s. a week employer took him afterwards at 18s., and he is now earning 22s., and has left the ground-floor slum tenement for a better house.

H.—Nine Elms Slum. Was saved on Easter Monday, out of work several weeks before, is a labourer, seems very earnest, in terrible distress. We allow his wife 2s. 6d. a week for cleaning the hall (to help them). In addition to that, she gets another 2s. 6d. for nursing, and on that husband, wife, and a couple of children pay the rent of 2s. a week and drag out an existence. I have tried to get work for this man, but have failed.

T.—Of Rotherhithe Slum. Was a great drunkard, is a carpenter; saved about nine months ago, but, having to work in a public-house on a Sunday, he gave it up; he has not been able to get another job, and has nothing but what we have given him for making seats.

Emma Y.—Now a Soldier of the Marylebone Slum Post, was a wild young Slummer when we opened in the Boro'; could be generally seen in the streets, wretchedly clad, her sleeves turned up, idle, only worked occasionally, got saved two years ago, had terrible persecution in her home. We got her a situation, where she has been for nearly eighteen months, and is now a good servant.

Lodging-House Frank.—At twenty-one came into the possession of #750, but, through drink and gambling, lost it all in six or eight months, and for over seven years he has tramped about from Portsmouth, through the South of England, and South Wales, from one lodging-house to another, often starving, drinking when he could get any money; thriftless, idle, no heart for work. We found him in a lodging-house six months ago, living with a fallen girl; got them both saved and married; five weeks after he got work as a carpenter at 30s. a week. He has a home of his own now, and promises well to make an officer.

The Officer who furnishes the above reports goes on to say: —

I can't call the wretched dwelling home, to which drink had brought Brother and Sister X. From a life of luxury, they drifted down by degrees to one room in a Slum tenement, surrounded by drunkards and the vilest characters. Their lovely half-starved children were compelled to listen to the foulest language, and hear fighting and quarrelling, and alas, alas, not only to hear it in the adjoining rooms, but witness it within their own. For over two years they have been delivered from the power of the cursed drink. The old rookery is gone, and now they have a comfortably-furnished home. Their children give evidence of being truly converted, and have a lively gratitude for their father's salvation. One boy of eight said, last Christmas Day, "I remember when we had only dry bread for Christmas; but to-day we had a goose and two plum-puddings." Brother X. was dismissed in disgrace from his situation as commercial traveller before his conversion; to-day he is chief man, next to his employer, in a large business house.

He says: —

I and perfectly satisfied that very few of the lowest strata of Society are unwilling to work if they could get it. The wretched hand-to-mouth existence many of them have to live disheartens them, and makes life with them either a feast or a famine, and drives those who have brains enough to crime.

The results of our work in the Slums may be put down as: —

1st. A marked improvement in the cleanliness of the homes and children; disappearance of vermin, and a considerable lessening of drunkenness.

2nd. A greater respect for true religion, and especially that of the
Salvation Army.

3rd. A much larger amount of work is being done now than before our
going there.

4th. The rescue of many fallen girls.

5th. The Shelter work seems to us a development of the Slum work.

In connection with our Scheme, we propose to immediately increase the numbers of these Slum Sisters, and to add to their usefulness by directly connecting their operations with the Colony, enabling them thereby to help the poor people to conditions of life more favourable to health, morals, and religion. This would be accomplished by getting some of them employment in the City, which must necessarily result in better homes and surroundings, or in the opening up for others of a straight course from the Slums to the Farm Colony.