The Hero with the Lavender Suit.
Often in the fog the splash has been heard, but no sooner heard than cries of "Let me die!" "Help! help!" have also risen on the midnight[Pg 183] air. One rough fellow of my acquaintance has saved six would-be suicides from the basin of one canal, and on each occasion he has appeared to give evidence in a police-court. Five times he had given his evidence and quietly and quickly disappeared, but on the sixth occasion he waited about the court for an opportunity of speaking to the magistrate7. This was at length given him, when he stated that he thought it about time someone paid him for the loss he sustained in saving these people from the canal. This was the sixth time he had attended a police-court to give evidence, and each time he had lost a day's pay. He did not mind that so very much, as it was but the loss of four shillings at intervals8; but this time he had on a new suit, which cost him thirty shillings. He had thrown off his coat and vest before jumping into the water, and someone had stolen them; the dirty water had spoiled his trousers, which he had dried and put on for his Worship to see. The magistrate inspected the garments. They had been originally of that cheap material that costers affect, and of a bright lavender colour. He had jumped into an unusually nasty piece of water. Some tar5 and other chemicals had been moving on its surface, and his lavender clothes had received full benefit therefrom. The garments had been tight-fitting at the first, but now, after immersion9 and drying, they were ridiculously small. Even the magistrate had to smile, but he ordered the brave fellow to receive five shillings for expenses and loss of day's work, and ten shillings compensation for damage to his clothing. He looked ruefully at his ruined[Pg 184] clothes and at the fifteen shillings in his hand, and went out of the court. I went to speak to him. "Look here, Mr. Holmes," he said, "fifteen shillings won't buy me a new lavender suit. The next blooming woman that jumps in the canal 'll have to stop there; I've had enough of this." I made up the cost of a suit by adding to his fifteen shillings, and he went away to get one. But I know perfectly10 well that, whether he had on a new lavender suit or an old corduroy, it would be all the same to him—into the canal, river, or any other water, he would go instinctively11 when he heard the heavy splash in the darkness or fog.
An Amusing Rescue.
An amusing episode occurred with regard to a would-be suicide in the early part of one winter. A strong, athletic12 fellow, who had been a teacher of swimming at one of the London public baths, but who had lost position, had become homeless, and was quite on the down-grade. Half drunk, he found himself on the banks of the Lea, where the water was deep and the tide strong. Suddenly he called out, "I'll drown myself!" and into the water he went. The vagabond could not have drowned had he wished, for he was as much at home in the water as a rat. It was a moonlight night, and a party of men from Hoxton had come for a walk and a drink. One was a little fellow, well known in the boxing-ring. He also could swim a little, but not much. He heard the cry and the splash, and saw the body of the man lying still on the water. In he went, swam to the[Pg 185] body, and took hold of it. Suddenly there was a great commotion13, for the little man had received a violent blow in the face from the supposed suicide. A fight ensued, but the swimmer held a great advantage over the boxer14.
A boat arrived on the scene, and both were brought ashore15 exhausted16. The swimmer recovered first, and was for making off, but was detained by the friends of the boxer, who, being recovered, walked promptly17 up to the big man and proposed a fight to the finish. This was accepted, but the little man was now in his element, and the big man soon had reason to know it. After a severe handling, he was given into custody18 for attempted suicide and assault, and appeared next day in the police-court, with cuts and bruises20 all over his face. The charge of attempted suicide was dismissed, but the magistrate fined him twenty shillings for assault. "Look at my face." "Yes," said the magistrate; "you deserve all that, and a month beside."
I give these examples of manly21 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 heroism22? None! If I want to find someone that[Pg 186] satisfies my ideal of what a hero should be, down into the Inferno23 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 dire24 but reticent25 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 supreme26 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[Pg 187] to think of the gladness of the widow's heart and her pride in the growing manliness27 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 salvation28 of herself and children. She was the landlady29, 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 scant30 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 sterling31 qualities in the woman, though she was not much to look upon, was poorly clad, and wore a coarse apron32 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! Blessings33 on her motherly heart! There was no furniture in the room saving the little box and the chair I occupied. The ceiling was frightfully[Pg 188] discoloured, and the walls had not been cleaned for many a day. But a number of oil-paintings without frames were tacked34 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 forestalled35 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 eldest36 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?"[Pg 189] "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 h?morrhage 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 transformation37. The ceiling was spotless, the walls were nicely coloured, the room was simply[Pg 190] but nicely furnished, and there were some unframed pictures on the wall, but not those I had previously38 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 worthy39 woman good-day, telling her how I admired the pluck, perseverance40, 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, kindly41, 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 sordid42 misery43 and rampant44 vice45, working on in poverty, withstanding every temptation to self-indulgence, framing no pictures till they can pay for them, whose artistic46 souls do not lead them to despise honest labour, whose poetic47 temperaments48 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[Pg 191] 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 civilized49 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 furtive50 look into a school of art; and he, too, married a poor woman.
A "Foster-Mother."
And what wonderful women many of our London girls are! I often think of them as I have seen them in our slums, sometimes a little bit untidy and not over-clean; but what splendid qualities they have!
They know their way about, nor are they afraid of work. Time and again I have seen them struggling under the weight of babies almost as big as themselves. I have watched them hand those babies to other girls whilst they had their game of hop-scotch; and when those babies have showed any sign of discontent, I have seen the deputy-mother take the child again into her arms, and press it to her breast, and soothe51 it with all the naturalness of a real mother.
[Pg 192]
And when the mothers of those girls die, and a family of young children is left behind, what then? Why, then they become real deputy-mothers, and splendidly rise to their position.
Brave little women! How my heart has gone out to them as I have seen them trying to discharge their onerous52 duties! I have seen a few years roll slowly by, and watched the deputy-mother arrive at budding womanhood, and then I have seen disaster again overtake her in the death of her father, leaving her in sole charge.
Such was the case with a poor girl that I knew well, though there was nothing of the slum-girl about Hettie Vizer. Born in the slums, she was a natural lady, refined and delicate, with bright dark eyes. She was a lily, but, alas53! a lily reared under the shade of the deadly upas-tree. When Hettie was fifteen her mother, after a lingering illness, died of consumption, and Hettie was left to "mother" five younger than herself. Bravely she did it, for she became a real mother to the children, and a companion to her father.
In Hoxton the houses are but small and the rooms but tiny; the air cannot be considered invigorating; so Hettie stood no chance from the first, and at a very early age she knew that the fell destroyer, Consumption, had marked her for his prey54.
Weak, and suffering undauntedly, she went on with her task until her father's dead body lay in their little home, and then she became both father and mother to the family. Who can tell the story of her brave life? The six children kept together; several of them went out to work, and[Pg 193] brought week by week their slender earnings55 to swell56 the meagre exchequer57. Who can tell the anxiety that came upon Hettie in the expenditure58 of that money, while consumption increased its hold upon her?
Thank God the Home Workers' Aid Association was able, in some degree, to cheer and sustain her. Several times she went to the home by the sea, where the breath of God gave her some little renewal59 of life.
But the sorrowful day was only deferred60; it could not be prevented. At length she took to her bed, and household duties claimed her no more. A few days before her death I sat by her bedside, and I found that the King of Terrors had no terror for her. She was calm and fearless. To her brothers and sisters she talked about her approaching end, and made some suggestions for her funeral, and then, almost within sound of the Christmas bells, only twenty-one years of age, she passed "that bourne whence no traveller returns," and her heroic soul entered into its well-earned rest. And the five are left alone. Nay61, not alone, for surely she will be with them still, and that to bless them. If not, her memory will be sanctified to them, and the sorrows and struggles they have endured together will not be without their compensations. "From every tear that sorrowing mortals shed o'er such young graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes, and the destroyer's path becomes a way of life to heaven."
It was my privilege to know her, and in my gallery of heroes she has a foremost place. Strong[Pg 194] men may do and dare and die. Firemen, colliers, lifeboatmen, may risk their lives to save others; martyrs62 may face the flames, and prophets may undergo persecutions. Their deeds live, and their stories thrill us. But Hettie Vizer stands on a higher plane still: a slum-girl, but a lady; a foster-mother, with a mother's love; a child enduring poverty, hard work, bereavements, and burning consumption. But, rising triumphantly63 over them all, she listened to the bells of God as they rang her into that place where sorrows and sighing are no more.
And now her younger sister has succeeded her, for the home is still kept together, and every week their little budget is considered, as it was "when Hettie was alive."
I have elsewhere spoken of the patient courage shown by weak and elderly women, but I must again refer to it, for in my judgment64 there is no sphere of life wherein greater courage is exhibited. For it must be borne in mind that they are not sustained by hope. It may be said that there is a good deal of fatalism connected with their courage and endurance, and doubtless this is true; but no one can deny their courage, endurance, and magnificent self-reliance. I have in my mind as I write some hundreds of women engaged in London home industries whose lives and struggles are known to me and who compel my veneration65, so when courage is spoken of I like to think of them; for though the circumstances under which they live and the wrong they suffer bring a terrible [Pg 195]indictment against us, no one can, no one shall, deny their possession of great courage, poor, weak, and elderly though they be.
Ay, it takes some courage to face day after day their life. I do not think that I am short of pluck, but I am quite certain that I should want to lie down and die were I submitted to lives such as theirs. Men with animal courage could not endure it, and I freely grant that even patient women ought not to endure it: perhaps, for the sake of future generations, it might be best for them to die rather than endure it.
But when I see them and know their circumstances, see their persistent66 endurance and their indomitable perseverance, I marvel67! And in spite of the oppression they suffer I know that these women are exhibiting qualities that the world sadly needs, and are showing a type of heroism for which the world is bound to be ultimately the better. Poor brave old women! how I respect you! I venerate68 you! for the only hope that touches your heart is the hope that you may keep out of the workhouse, and be buried without parochial aid. Poor brave old women! I never enter one of your rooms without at once realizing your brave struggle for existence. I never see you sitting at your everlasting69 machines without realizing your endless toil, and I never see your Industrial Life Assurance premium-book lying ready for the collector without realizing that the two pennies that are ready also are sorely needed for your food. Poor brave old souls! how many times when your tea-canister has been quite empty, and 4.30 in the afternoon has come,[Pg 196] and the collector has not yet called, have you been tempted19 to spend those pennies and provide yourself with a cup of tea? How many times have you picked up the pennies? how many times have you put them down again? for your horror of a parish funeral was too strong even for your love for a cup of tea! Brave old women! is there a stronger, more tragical70, temptation than yours? I know of none. Esau sold his birthright for a tasty morsel71, well fed as he was; but you will not surrender your "death right"—nay, not for a cup of tea, for you are made of better stuff than Esau. So you go without your tea; but your burial money is not imperilled. Yes, it takes some moral courage to resist such a temptation; but there is no glamour72 about it: the world knows not of it; nevertheless, it is an act of stern self-repression, an act of true heroism. Shame upon us that it should be required! glory to us that it is forthcoming! What a life of heroism a poor woman has lived for that ten, twenty, or forty years, who, in spite of semi-starvation, has resisted the temptation to spend her burial money! Those few pounds so hardly saved are as fragrant73 as the box of costly74 ointment75 poured upon the Master's feet, and convey the same sentiment, too, for their brave old souls respect their poor old bodies, and against their day of burial they do it! It may be a mean ambition, but of that I am by no means sure; still, it is better than none, for poor, desolate76, and Godforsaken must the old woman be who does not cherish it. Poorer still will the old women be, and more desolate their hearts, when this one ambition disappears, and they are heedless, apathetic77, and[Pg 197] unconcerned as to how and where their poor old bodies are buried.
So the heroism of the slums is of the passive more than the active kind, of the "to be and to suffer" sort rather than of the "to do and dare." And it must needs be so, for opportunities of developing and exhibiting the courage that needs promptitude, dash, and daring have very largely been denied the people who live in our narrow streets. But their whole lives, circumstances, and environments have been such that patience under suffering, fortitude78 in poverty, and perseverance to the end could not fail to be developed. In these qualities, despite all their vices79 and coarseness, poor people, and especially poor women, set a splendid example to the more favoured portions of the community.
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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immersion
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perfectly
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instinctively
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athletic
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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exhausted
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promptly
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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bruises
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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heroism
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inferno
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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reticent
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supreme
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manliness
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salvation
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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scant
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sterling
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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blessings
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eldest
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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previously
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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