The Mysteries of London, v. 3/4

by George W. M. Reynolds

Between the eastern extremity of the main-building and that part of the wall which looked directly upon the Borough, was the market-place,—an assemblage of miserable sheds, where a butcher, a fishmonger, a greengrocer, and a vender of coals carried on each his peculiar traffic—the said spirited traders being prisoners as well as the shopkeepers above alluded to.

At a stall in the centre of the market, and at which vegetables, fruit, and fish were sold, stood a tall, thin, weather-beaten old woman, resembling a gipsey in dress as well as in complexion, and having an ancient bonnet perched most airily upon the top of her head. This respectable female was denominated "Old Nanny," and was in such wise greeted by Captain O'Blunderbuss, who informed Frank in a whisper that she was not a prisoner, and, in spite of competition, had pretty well the monopoly of the market.

"The fact is, me boy," he said, "she has the advantage of money. Those fellows in the sheds there, set up in business with a floating capital of eighteen-pence each, and can't afford to give credit: and a tradesman in the Binch who can't give credit, stands no more chance, be Jasus! of getting custom than if he began with an empty shop."

The captain now proceeded to show his friend the public kitchen, which was in the immediate vicinity of the market; and thence they passed up the back of the main building, O'Blunderbuss especially directing Frank's attention to that quarter which was denominated "the Poor-Side."

The Poor-Side!—Yes in every public establishment in England, is the line of demarcation drawn between the rich and the poor,—in the debtors' prison as well as in the church of God! Oh! what a disgraceful thing is poverty made in this country! Why—the contamination of Newgate, if borne by a man possessing a well-filled purse, will be overlooked in society; while the rags that an unsullied character wears, are a ban—a stigma—a reproach! "He has been in the workhouse," or "She has been on the parish," are taunts as bitter in meaning and as keen in spirit, as the phrase "He has been in Newgate," or "She has just come from the treadmill." Aye—and even amongst the lowest classes themselves, it is a deeper stain to associate a name with the workhouse, than to connect it with the felons' gaol! Such is the dreadful—demoralizing consequence of that example set by the upper classes, whose ideas of men's excellence and worth are guided chiefly by the standard of the purse.

The Poor-Side!—And for whom is the Poor-Side of debtors' prisons instituted? For those who go penniless to gaol,—the best proof that they have profited nothing by the losses of their creditors,—the best evidence that their liabilities were legitimately contracted! But the fashionable swindler—your man-about-town—your roué—your rake, who gets into debt wherever he can, and without the slightest intention of ever paying a single farthing,—he drives down in his cab to the prison—treats the bailiff to wine upon the way—and takes with him into confinement all that remains to him of the plunder of duped tradesmen, there to spend it in riotous living and in the best room which the best quarter of the gaol can afford! If a debtors' prison have a Poor-Side, it ought also to have a Swnidlers'-Side.

No word in the English language is used so frequently and so contemptuously as the monosyllable Poor. "Oh! he is a poor devil!" is a far worse character to give of any one, than to say at once, "He is dishonest." From the latter sentence there is a hopeful appeal in the question—"But can he pay?" "Yes—he can, if he chooses." "Oh! then, if he can, we will trust him and risk it." But from the former sentence there is no appeal; it is a judgment without qualification—a decision too positive and weighty to admit of a doubt. The objection—"Well, he may be poor; but he may also be honest," is never heard. The idea of poverty being honest! Why—in the estimation of an Englishman, poverty is a word expressing all that is bad. To say that a man is poor, is at once to sum up his character as every thing unprincipled and roguish. Such magic is there in the word, that rich men, and men well-to-do in the world, instantly button up their breeches' pockets when they hear it applied to a person. They seem to consider that a poor wretch can have no other possible object in view than to get the better of them. Poverty, in their eyes, is something that goes about preying upon the rich—something to be loathed and shunned—something that ought not to intrude itself into respectable places. A man may just as well be leprous, as be poor!

So undeniable are these truths—so universally recognised are these facts, that designing individuals always endeavour to seem well off, even if they be insolvent. They dress well, because they know the sovereign influence of a good coat. They talk largely—because they see how necessary it is "to keep up appearances." They toss about their last few guineas, as the only means of baiting a hook to catch fresh dupes. It is impossible that a man, with fine clothes, well-polished boots, elegant guard-chain, and lemon coloured gloves,—it is impossible that such a man can be poor! Oh! no—trust him with anything! Why—what poor man would be perfumed as he is?—the aristocratic odour of wealth surrounds him as with an atmosphere peculiar to the rich. Trust him by all means!—But that poor-looking devil, who sneaks along the shady side of the way—who has a wife and half-a-dozen children at home—and who is struggling from morning to night to earn an honourable crust,—don't trust him—have nothing to do with him—don't assist him with the loan of a single sixpence—on the contrary, give him a thrust farther down into the mud, if you can;—because he is undisguisedly poor!

Such appear to be the rules of conduct in this enlightened and glorious country. God help the poor!—for poverty is a terrible crime in "merry England!"

The Poor-Side of the King's Bench struck Frank Curtis as being particularly miserable:—it quite gave him the horrors! And no wonder;—for the architect—a knowing fellow was he!—had so arranged the building, that the windows of the Poor-Side should look upon the dust-bins and the conveniences. Yes—a knowing fellow was that architect! He understood what the poor are worth in this free and civilised land,—he saw in a moment where they ought to be put;—and therefore he arranged for their use a number of dens where the atmosphere was certain to be one incessant pestilential odour; and where he would have been sorry,—very sorry to have placed the kennel of his favourite hound!