I now give the following account from one of the street-orderlies, a tall, soldierly-looking man:—
“I’m 42 now,” he said, “and when I was a boy and a young man I was employed in the Times machine office, but got into a bit of a row—a bit of a street quarrel and frolic, and was called on to pay 3l., something about a street-lamp: that was out of the question; and as I was taking a walk in the park, not just knowing what I’d best do, I met a recruiting sergeant, and enlisted on a sudden—all on a sudden—in the 16th Lancers. When I came to the standard, though, I was found a little bit too short. Well, I was rather frolicsome in those days, I confess, and perhaps had rather a turn for a roving life, so when the sergeant said he’d take me to the East India Company’s recruiting sergeant, I consented, and was accepted at once. I was taken to Calcutta, and served under General Nott all through the Affghan war. I was in the East India Company’s artillery, 4th company and 2nd battalion. Why, yes, sir, I saw a little of what you may call ‘service.’ I was at the fighting at Candahar, Bowlinglen, Bowling-pass, Clatigillsy, Ghuznee, and Caboul. The first real warm work I was in was at Candahar. I’ve heard young soldiers say that they’ve gone into action the first time as merry as they would go to a play. Don’t believe them, sir. Old soldiers will tell you quite different. You must feel queer and serious the first time you’re in action: it’s not fear—it’s nervousness. The crack of the muskets at the first fire you hear in real hard earnest is uncommon startling; you see the flash of the fire from the enemy’s line, but very little else. Indeed, oft enough you see nothing but smoke, and hear nothing but balls whistling every side of you. And then you get excited, just as if you were at a hunt; but after a little service—I can speak for myself, at any rate—you go into action as you go to your dinner.
THE ABLE-BODIED PAUPER STREET-SWEEPER.
[From a Daguerreotype by Beard.]
“I served during the time when there was the Affghanistan retreat; when the 44th was completely cut up, before any help could get up to them. We suffered a good deal from want of sufficient food; but it was nothing like so bad, at the very worst, as if you’re suffering in London. In India, in that war time, if you suffered, you were along with a number in just the same boat as yourself; and there’s always something to hope for when you’re an army. It’s different if you’re walking the streets of London by yourself—I felt it, sir, for a little bit after my return—and if you haven’t a penny, you feel as if there wasn’t a hope. If you have friends it may be different, but I had none. It’s no comfort if you know hundreds are suffering as you are, for you can’t help and cheer one another as soldiers can.
“Well, sir, as I’ve told you, I saw a good deal of service all through that war. Indeed I served thirteen years and four months, and was then discharged on account of ill health. If I’d served eight months longer that would have been fourteen years, and I should have been entitled to a pension. I believe my illness was caused by the hardships I went through in the campaigns, fighting and killing men that I never saw before, and until I was in India had never heard of, and that I had no ill-will to; certainly not, why should I? they never did me any wrong. But when it comes to war, if you can’t kill them they’ll kill you. When I got back to London I applied at the East India House for a pension, but was refused. I hadn’t served my time, though that wasn’t my fault.
“I then applied for work in the Times machine office, and they were kind enough to put me on. But I wasn’t master of the work, for there was new machinery, wonderful machinery, and a many changes. So I couldn’t be kept on, and was some time out of work, and very badly off, as I’ve said before, and then I got work as a scavenger. O, I knew nothing about sweeping before that. I’d never swept anything except the snow in the north of India, which is quite a different sort of thing to London dirt. But I very soon got into the way of it. I found no difficulty about it, though some may pretend there is an art in it. I had 15s. a week, and when I was no longer wanted I got employment as a street-orderly. I never was married, and have only myself to provide for. I’m satisfied that the street-orderly is far the best plan for street-cleaning. Nothing else can touch it, in my opinion, and I thought so before I was one of them, and I believe most working scavengers think so now, though they mayn’t like to say so, for fear it might go again their interest.
“Oh, yes, I’m sometimes questioned by gentlemen that may be passing in the streets while I’m at work, all about our system. They generally say, ‘and a very good system, too.’ One said once, ‘It shows that scavengers can be decent men; they weren’t when I was first in London, above 40 years ago.’ Well, I sometimes get the price of a pint of beer given to me by gentlemen making inquiries, but very seldom.”