Known to the Police

by Thomas Holmes

I give these examples of manly pluck to show that, in spite of all the demoralizing influence of slum life, and in spite of all the decay of manhood that must ensue from the terrible conditions that prevail, physical courage still exists among those born and bred in the slums, under the worst conditions of London life.

More Slum Heroes.

But higher kinds of courage are also manifested. Who can excel the people of our slums in true heroism? None! If I want to find someone that satisfies my ideal of what a hero should be, down into the Inferno of the slums I go to seek him or her. It is no difficult search; they are to hand, and I know where to light on them. The faces of my heroes may be old and wrinkled, their arms may be skinny, and their bodies enfeebled; they may be racked with perpetual pain, and live in dire but reticent poverty; they may be working endless hours for three halfpence per hour, or lie waiting and hoping for death; they may be male or they may be female, for heroes are of no sex; but for examples of high moral courage—a courage that bids them suffer and be strong—come with me to the slums of London and see.

And how splendidly some of our poor widows' boys rise to their duties! What pluck, endurance, and enterprise they exhibit! Hundreds of such boys, winter and summer alike, rise about half-past four, are at the local dairy at five; they help to push milk-barrows till eight; and with a piece of bread and margarine off they go to school. After school-hours they are at the dairy again, washing the churns and milk-cans. Sharp-witted lads, too. They know how to watch their milk on a dark morning, and how to give evidence, too, when a thief is brought up. For supreme confidence in himself and an utter lack of self-consciousness or nervousness, commend me to these boys. They fear neither police nor magistrate. They are as fearless as they are natural; for adversity and hard work give them some compensation. But their dangers and temptations are many. So I love to think of the lads who have stood the test and have not yielded. I love to think of the gladness of the widow's heart and her pride in the growing manliness of her boy—"So like his father."

I was visiting in the heart of Alsatia, and sat beside the bed of a dying youth whose twenty-first birthday had not arrived—which never did arrive. It was but a poor room, not over-clean. From the next room came the sound of a sewing-machine driven furiously, for a widow by its aid was seeking the salvation of herself and children. She was the landlady, and "let off" the upper part of the house. The dying youth was not her son; he belonged to the people upstairs. But the people upstairs were not of much account, for they spent their time largely away from home, and had scant care for their dying son; so the widow had brought his pallet-bed into the little room on the ground-floor wherein I sat, "that I might have an eye on him." There must have been some sterling qualities in the woman, though she was not much to look upon, was poorly clad, and wore a coarse apron over the front of her dress. Her hands were marked with toil and discoloured by leather, for she machined the uppers of women's and children's boots, and the smell of the leather was upon her; but she had a big heart, and though every time "she had an eye on him" meant ceasing her work and prolonging her labour, she could not keep away from him for long periods. But, my! how she did make that machine fly when she got back to it! Blessings on her motherly heart! There was no furniture in the room saving the little box and the chair I occupied. The ceiling was frightfully discoloured, and the walls had not been cleaned for many a day. But a number of oil-paintings without frames were tacked on the walls, and these attracted my attention. Some were very crude, and others seemed to me to be good, so I examined them. They bore no name, but evidently they had been done by the same hand. Each picture bore a date, and by comparing them I could mark the progress of the artist. As I stood looking at them, forgetful of the dying youth below me, I said, half to myself: "I wonder who painted these." An unexpected and weak reply came from the bed: "The landlady's son." My interest was increased. "How old is he?" "About twenty." "What does he do?" "He works at a boot factory"; adding painfully: "He went back to work after having his dinner just before you came in." "Why," I said, after again examining the dates on the pictures, "he has been painting pictures for six years." "Yes. He goes to a school of art now after he has done his work." The youth began to cough, so I raised him up a little; but the landlady had heard him, and almost forestalled me. This gave me the opportunity I wanted, for when the youth was easier, I said to her: "You have an artist son, I see," pointing to the pictures. "Yes," she said; "his father did a bit." "How long has he been dead?" "Over seven years. I was left with four of them. My eldest is the painter." "What was your husband?" "A shoemaker." "How long have you lived here?" "Ever since I was married; I have kept the house on since his death." "Any other of your children paint?" "The youngest boy does a bit, but he is only thirteen." "Have you any framed pictures?" "No; we cannot afford frames, but we shall, after a time, when he gets more money and the other boy goes out to work." "You are very good to this poor youth." "Well, I'm a mother. I must be good to him. I wish that I could do more for him." I never saw the consumptive lad again, for he died from hæmorrhage the next day.

Some years afterwards I thought of the widow and her artist son, and being in the neighbourhood, I called at the house. She was still there, still making the machine fly. I inquired after her painter son. "Oh, he is married, and has two children; he lives just opposite." "What is he doing now?" "He has some machines, and works at home; his wife is a machinist too. They have three girls working for them." "I will step across and see him." "But you won't find him in: he goes out painting every day when it is fine." "Where has he gone to-day?" "Somewhere up the river." "How can he do machining if he goes out painting every day?" "He begins to work at five o'clock and goes on till nine o'clock, then cleans himself and goes off; he works again at night for four or five hours. His wife and the girls work in the daytime. His wife is a rare help to him; they are doing all right." "I suppose he has some framed pictures now?" "Yes, lots of them; but you come in and look at the room the poor lad died in." I went in, and truly there had been a transformation. The ceiling was spotless, the walls were nicely coloured, the room was simply but nicely furnished, and there were some unframed pictures on the wall, but not those I had previously seen. "My youngest son has this room now; those pictures are his."

"What does he work at?" "Boots." "Does he go to a school of art?" "Every night it is open." I bade the worthy woman good-day, telling her how I admired the pluck, perseverance, and talent of her boys, also adding that I felt sure that she had a great deal to do with it and their success. "Well," she said, "I have done my best for them, but they have been good lads." Done her best for them, and a splendid best it was! Who else could have done so much for them? Not all the rich patrons the world could furnish combined could have done one-half for them that the brave, kindly, simple boot-machining mother had done for them. She was better than a hero; she was a true mother. She did her best!

But her sons were heroes indeed; they were made of the right material. Birth had done something for them, although their parents were poor, and one departed early, leaving them to the mother, themselves, the slums, and the world. When I can see growing youths, surrounded by sordid misery and rampant vice, working on in poverty, withstanding every temptation to self-indulgence, framing no pictures till they can pay for them, whose artistic souls do not lead them to despise honest labour, whose poetic temperaments do not lead them to idleness and debt, when they are not ashamed of their boot-machining mother, I recognize them as heroes, and I don't care a rap whether they become great artists or not. They are men, and brave men, too. I can imagine someone saying: "He ought not to have married; he should have studied in Paris. Probably the world has lost a great artist." Perhaps it has, but it kept the man, and we have not too many of that stamp. Perhaps, after all, he did the right thing, for he got a good helpmate, and one who helped him to paint.

Genius is not so rare in the slums as superior people suppose, for one of our great artists, but lately dead, whose work all civilized countries delight to honour, played in a gutter of the near neighbourhood where the widow machinist lived, and climbed a lamp-post that he might get a furtive look into a school of art; and he, too, married a poor woman.

A "Foster-Mother."