The expansion of London during the Nineteenth Century is in itself a fact unparalleled in the history of cities. Those who call attention to this miracle always point to the filling up of the huge area between Highgate and Hampstead and Clerkenwell in the North, or the extension of the town to Hammersmith on the West. Perhaps a little consideration of the South may show a still more remarkable2 growth. I have before me a map of the year 1834, only sixty-four years ago, showing South London as it was. I see a small town or collection of small towns, occupying the{302} district called the Borough3 Proper, Lambeth, Newington, Walworth, and Bermondsey. In some parts this area is densely4 populated, filled with narrow courts and lanes; in other parts there are broad fields, open spaces, unoccupied pieces of ground. At the back of Vauxhall Gardens, for instance there are open fields; in Walworth there is a certain place, then notorious for the people who lived there, called Snow's Fields; in Bermondsey there are also open spaces, some of them gardens, or recreation grounds, without any buildings. Battersea is a mere5 stretch of open country. I myself remember{303} the old Battersea Fields perfectly6 well; one shivers at the recollection; they were low, flat, damp, and, I believe, treeless; they were crossed, like Hackney Marsh7, by paths raised above the level; at no time of year could the Battersea Fields look anything but dreary8. In winter they were inexpressibly dismal9. As a boy I have walked across the fields in order to get to the embankment or river wall from which one commanded a view of the Thames with its barges10 and lighters11 going up and down—pleasant when the sun shone on the river, but a mere shadow of the ancient glory when the pleasure barges and the State barges swept majestically12 up the river with the hautboys and the trumpets13 in the bows; when the swans by thousands sailed upon the broad bosom14 of the waters, and in the middle of the river{304} the fisherman cast his net, as Edric had done fifteen hundred years before at St. Peter's orders, when he brought out his famous salmon15. One walked along the embankment; the fields on one side were lower than the waters on the other. Beyond the river were the trees of Chelsea Hospital. Close to the river bank was an enclosure which was called the Subscription16 Ground; here the subscribers came to shoot pigeons—noble sport. If I remember aright, while the subscribing17 sportsmen shot at the pigeons in the enclosure, others of low condition who were not subscribers lurked18 about on the outside to shoot down those birds which escaped from the murderers within. Close by the Subscription Ground was a certain famous tavern19 called the Red House. I do not know why it was famous, but everybody always said it was. I believe it was much frequented on summer evenings, and that the subscribing sportsmen close by, whether they hit their pigeon or not, proved excellent customers for the drinks of the Red House. At that time there were 'famous' taverns20 all up and down the river on either bank. There are still Riverside taverns, but the invasion of the new streets and houses has driven them, considered as 'famous' taverns, either higher up, or lower down. As mere commonplace public houses they probably remain still. Duels21 were conducted on the Battersea Fields, and there were certain historical associations in connection with these dreary flats. Here, for instance, the Duke of Wellington fought his duel22 with Lord Winchilsea. Other important people were also connected either with the Fields or the Village of Battersea, but at the time I knew not anything about them. The Battersea of my boyhood is gone absolutely: no trace of it remains24, except the Church. The Grosvenor Railway Bridge passes over the site of the famous Red House; the most beautiful of all our Parks covers the Subscription Shooting Grounds, together with most of the flat and dreary fields; and houses by the thousand, with streets mean and monotonous25, stand where formerly26 the{305} pigeons flew wildly, hoping to escape those who waited outside the grounds as they had escaped those who potted at them from within.
IN SNOW'S FIELDS, BERMONDSEY IN SNOW'S FIELDS, BERMONDSEY
The Temple from the Surrey Bank The Temple from the Surrey Bank
HOLY TRINITY, ROTHERHITHE HOLY TRINITY, ROTHERHITHE
Let us turn to another part of the map and inquire into Rotherhithe. It is curious that at one end we get Rotherhithe, the Place of Cattle; and at the other Lambeth or Lambhythe, if it be the 'Place of Lambs' and not the 'Place of Mud.' In 1834 the Commercial Docks are already there, but without prejudice to the ancient and venerable docks of the preceding century, Acorn27 Dock and Lavender Dock. A single street runs along the Embankment, which it hides and{306} covers: at the back of this street there is a succession of small lanes and courts running back with tiny houses—two or four rooms to each—on either side, and ending generally in gardens of greenery—leaves and palings. You may still see, in 1898, if you are lucky, the bows and bowsprit of a ship in one of the old docks, sticking across the street, causing a momentary28 confusion in the mind between land and water; there are riverside taverns which look as if at a touch they would yield and slide into the mud below. In 1834 this street with these little lanes was the whole of Rotherhithe. Inland—or in-marsh—ponds and ditches and creeping streams lay about; one of the ponds survives to this day; you will find it in the middle of the pretty garden they call Southwark Park, of which it forms the ornamental29 water. And the rest of Rotherhithe, between the Park and Bermondsey, is one unbroken mass of streets with no green thing and no open space. All is filled up and built upon.
A little beyond Rotherhithe lies Deptford. On my map of 1834 I see a little town, lying partly on the bank of the Thames, partly on the bank of the Ravensbourne, which here widens out and forms Deptford Creek30. The greater part of the area of Deptford is taken up by the Dockyard, not yet closed. As for the town, which now contains nearly 100,000 people, about five-and-twenty little streets sufficed for all its people; it boasted of two churches and two almshouses. One of these Havens31 of Rest was so picturesque32 and so beautiful that it could not be suffered to remain. Almshouses which are perfectly beautiful are only vouchsafed33 to man for a limited period, lest other buildings become intolerable. Their time expired, they are then carried off Heavenward.
Or turn your eyes further south. London in this direction now covers—for the most part completely, in some parts leaving spaces and fields here and there—Greenwich, Blackheath, Brockley, Peckham, Forest Hill, Dulwich,{307} Brixton, Stockwell, Camberwell, Clapham, Balham, Wandsworth, Vauxhall, and Penge, and many others.
CZAR PETER'S HOUSE, DEPTFORD. CZAR PETER'S HOUSE, DEPTFORD.
It is difficult, now that the whole country south of London has been covered with villas34, roads, streets, and shops, to understand how wonderful for loveliness it was until the builder seized upon it. When the ground rose out of the great Lambeth and Bermondsey Marsh—the cliff or incline is marked still by the names of Battersea Rise, Clapham Rise, and Brixton Rise—it opened out into one wild heath after another—Clapham, Wandsworth, Putney, Wimbledon, Barnes, Tooting, Streatham, Richmond, Thornton, and so south as far as Banstead Downs. The country was not flat: it rose at Wimbledon to a high plateau; it rose at Norwood to a chain of hills; between the Heaths stretched gardens and orchards35; between the orchards were pasture lands; on the hill sides were hanging woods; villages were scattered36 about, each with its venerable church and its peaceful churchyard; along the high roads to Dover, Southampton, and Portsmouth bumped and rolled, all day{308} and all night, the stage coaches and the waggons37; the wayside inns were crowded with those who halted to drink, those who halted to dine, and those who halted to sleep: if the village lay off the main road it was as quiet and as secure as the town of Laish. All this beauty is gone; we have destroyed it: all this beauty has gone for ever; it cannot be replaced. And on the south there was so much more beauty than on the north. On the latter side of London there are the heights with Hampstead, Highgate, and Hornsey—one row of villages; but there is little more. The country between Hatfield or St. Albans and Hampstead is singularly dull and uninteresting: it is not until one reaches Hertford or Rickmansworth that the explorer comes once more into lovely country. But the loveliness of South London lay almost at the very doors of London: one could walk into it; the heaths were within an easy walk, and the loveliness of Surrey lay upon all.
I have mentioned already some of the heaths, those which remain at the present moment. It will be a matter of surprise to the reader to hear of the many waste and wild places which have been appropriated and built over in the last two hundred years. In the parish of Lambeth alone, an extensive tract38, it is true, there was nearly 500 acres of commons: namely, Kennington, Norwood, Norwood Common (in another part of Norwood), Hall Lane, Knight's Hill Green, Half Moon Green, Rush Common, South Stockwell Common, South Lambeth and North Stockwell Common. With the exception of the first all these are now gone.
ALLEYN'S ALMSHOUSES, 1840 ALLEYN'S ALMSHOUSES, 1840
Look at Dulwich—the peaceful and picturesque village of Dulwich on this map of 1834. It lies among its trees, its gardens, and its fields: the venerable college of Alleyn is the glory of the village—nothing more beautiful than this almshouse with its hall and its picture gallery. Yet the people flocked out to Dulwich less for the picture gallery than the{309} shady walks, the fields, and a certain tavern—the Greyhound—which was beloved by everybody, and believed to contain a particular brew39 of beer, a particular kind of old Jamaica for punch, and a particular vintage of port not to be found anywhere else, even in a City company's cellars. There was, in fact, no more favourite place of resort for the better sort of citizens of London than Dulwich in the summer. For the poorer sort it was too far off, and cost too much in conveyance40. The Dulwich stage ran two or three times a day: it was not too long a drive from the city; the young men rode—in those days the young men could all ride—even John Gilpin thought he could ride; they hired a horse as we now get into a cab. For those who lived in any suburb on the south, Dulwich was an easy walk. Not far from the college and the village—Mr. Pickwick lived there in 1834—were the Dulwich Fields, as beautiful and interesting as those of Battersea were the{310} contrary: there were, I think, five of them in succession: the little stream called the Effra rose somewhere in the neighbourhood, and ran about, winding41 through the fields in a deep channel with rustic42 bridges across. In older days—at the end of the eighteenth century, for example, the Effra, a bright and sparkling stream, ran out of the fields above what is now called the Effra Road, and so along the south side—or was it the north?—of Brixton Road. Rustic cottages stood on the other side of the stream, with flowering shrubs—lilac, laburnum, and hawthorn—on the bank, and beds of the simpler flowers in the summer: the gardens and the cottages were approached by little wooden bridges, each provided with a single rail painted green. That, however, was before my time. In the 'fifties the boys used to play in these fields, jumping over the stream: when they left the fields and got into the village they looked about for Mr. Pickwick and for Sam Weller, if haply they might see either. But I do not learn that either sage43 or servant ever gratified those eyes of faith by an incarnation.
Here are three hills close together: Herne Hill, Denmark Hill, and Champion Hill. On Denmark Hill Ruskin once lived; but in the 'fifties I was not conscious of that fact or of his greatness. It must be saddening to a great man to reflect that the schoolboys have no respect for him. The road up the hill was somewhat gloomy on account of the trees: the houses, with their gardens and lawns, and carriage drives, and smoothness and snugness44, betokened45 in those years the institution of evening prayers. I fear I may be misunderstood. At that time great was the power and the authority of seriousness. To be serious was fashionable, if one may say so, in City circles. Respectability was nearly always serious: it was divided into two classes: that which had morning prayers only, and that which had evening prayers as well. With the young, the latter institution was unpopular—no one of the present younger generation can understand how unpopular{311} it was: a house which had evening prayers made a deliberate profession of a seriousness which was something out of the common, which the young people disliked, as a rule; and it insisted on the sons getting home in time for prayers. This profession of seriousness generally belonged to a large house, beautiful gardens, rich conservatories46, a large income, and a carriage and pair. Denmark Hill used to appear to outward view as more especially a suburb belonging to the serious rich, who could afford a profession of more than common earnestness.
DULWICH COLLEGE, 1780 DULWICH COLLEGE, 1780
Herne Hill was remarkable for consisting of three houses only, each with its parklike grounds and gardens and its noble trees. Champion Hill I remember as a green and grassy47 slope: there were no houses at all upon it: but there was a road, and at the bottom of the road a green called Goose Green—you may still find this tract of grass, but I believe it is now pinched and attenuated48. On Goose Green{312} they kept ponies49 for hire: the boys used to ride them up the hill and gallop50 them down the hill. Beyond this green there was a much larger expanse called Peckham Rye: so far as I can remember it was a most uninviting place formerly; not a wild heath like Putney or Hampstead, not a waste place covered with fern and gorse and bramble and wild trees; but a barren, dreary expanse of uncertain grass. Boys would perhaps have played cricket upon it in summer, but there were then no boys at Peckham Rye. Now, all this country is covered with houses, and Peckham is like Bloomsbury itself for streets and terraces and squares.
We have not only destroyed the former beauty of South London: we have forgotten it. Ask a resident of Penge—one of the many thousands of Penge—what this suburban51 town was like seventy years ago. Do you think he can tell you anything of Penge Common? Has he ever heard of any Penge Common? Well, it is exactly seventy-one years ago—viz. in May 1827—that Mr. William Hone—the compiler of the 'Every-Day Book,' climbed up outside the Dulwich stage, proposing to visit the picture gallery of Dulwich College. Hone was one of the first of those curious and inquisitive52 persons who began to employ their summers in exploring the unknown villages and strange places round London. The picture gallery he could not see because it was closed; he therefore walked across the country from Dulwich to a place called Penge. At the top of a hill he found a choice of three roads. He chose that which led through Penge Common. The place was thickly wooded: it was, he says, 'a cathedral of singing birds.' At the mere recollection of that choir53 he bursts into verse—other people's verse. Alas54! the Common had already, even then, been ravished from its owners, the people: it was enclosed; it was doomed55; it was about to be built upon. Mr. Hone consoled himself, however, at the 'Old Crooked56 Billet,' with eggs and bacon and home-brewed ale. Again, is there anyone in Penge who now remembers{313} the hanging woods? They hung over a hillside, and were as beautiful as the hanging woods of Cliveden. But, like the Common, they are gone.
From the Tower of St. Saviour's From the Tower of St. Saviour's
Or let us ask the resident of Norwood what he remembers of its ancient glories; whether there were any ancient glories. Has he heard of the famous Norwood oak? Of the Norwood Spa? Of the gypsies of Norwood? Why, the Queen of all the gypsies, unless there was a more powerful sovereign at Jedburgh, held her court and camp at Norwood. Has this resident heard of the views from the top of the hill, four hundred feet above the level of the sea, whither the people flocked by hundreds to see the view and to wander in the woods?
All this beauty is destroyed. Of course, the destruction was inevitable57. One accepts the inevitable with a sigh; we cannot have town and country together. The woods are gone, the rural life is gone, encroachments have been made upon{314} the commons, the wayside tavern—the place was full of wayside taverns—is gone. What remains of all this beauty is a fragment here and there. Clapham Common, once a heath, now a park; Wimbledon Common, Tooting Common; these expanses are mercifully left us for breathing-places. Some of them, like Clapham, are transformed into imitations of a park, instead of being left as a heath. All of them are bereft58, of course, of their old accompaniments; they have lost the wood beside the heath, the farm, the ploughed lands, the tinkle59 of the sheep bell, the song of the skylark.
We have seen in the course of these chapters some of the associations of South London. I confess that, for my own part, I am not happy in considering associations connected with rows of terraces and villas. Here, you say, was once the house, with the park, of such and such a great man. Really! I dare say. But it is now covered with gentility. If I am taken to a slum—such a slum as that on the west of St. Mary Overies, and am told that in this place was Winchester House, I am at once interested. Why should the memory of the past appeal to our imagination more in a slum than in a brand new, spick and span collection of pleasant country villas? Is it from a feeling that all things tend to decay, and that the new suburb speaks not of decay? Who, for instance, stepping from the south-east corner of Tooting Common into the place which was once Streatham Park, can think of Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson among these roads and villas? At Tooting itself, one might remember, were it not for the houses, Daniel De Foe60, who founded the first Independent chapel61 there. At Wandsworth, if it were not so much built upon, I might see Voltaire walking about. At Putney, but for the villas, I should look for Pitt. Oh! there are a thousand people once living, and walking, and playing their parts in their villages, whose wraiths62 and spectres would willingly haunt them still, but cannot for the{315} bricks and the walls, the chimneys and the smoke, the roads and the trams.
We have destroyed the beauty of South London: we have also made its historical associations impossible.
RED CROSS GARDENS Southwark RED CROSS GARDENS, Southwark
The first settlers or colonisers of this region, apart from its rural folk, came from London about the time when roads began to be tolerable; that is to say, late in the seventeenth century; they were the great folk, the leisured folk, the Quality, who had suburban houses in addition to their town houses and their country houses. They sought shelter in the quiet retreats of Clapham, Streatham, or Norwood. These people did not come, however, to settle, but only remained, as a rule, for a year or two, for a few months, for a season.{316} When the roads became so far improved as to make driving easy and pleasant, the city merchants came and built or bought big houses, and drove in and out every day in their carriage and pair. They did not buy estates, as a rule: they bought a substantial house and grounds, and sat down therein. They had large gardens behind, with greenhouses where they grew early strawberries; they had in front a broad lawn with a carriage drive; they liked to have on the lawn two stately cedars63, whose branches swept the grass. They brought their friends down from Saturday to Monday. In course of time other people came; but the first comers—these merchants—were the aristocracy, the first families of the suburbs. In the newer places there are still to be found the first families; in the older suburbs they have all disappeared from the place. Thus Clapham, I believe, knows no longer a Macaulay, a Wilberforce, a Venn. These were people of national distinction. Of course there were not in other suburbs first families who rose to the giddy heights attained64 by these fortunate aristocrats65 of the suburbs; but there were many which had among them ex-Lord Mayors and Aldermen; there were many persons among them of dignity and authority. Alas! the first families are gone: there is now no aristocracy of the suburb left. It is a pity. There should be in every community some whose position entitles them to respect and authority; there should be some to take the lead naturally; there should be some who should maintain the standards of conduct, ideas, and principles. Especially is this the case when by far the greater part of the people in a community are engaged in trade.
ST. SAVIOUR'S DOCK ST. SAVIOUR'S DOCK
I cannot quite avoid the use of figures, because a comparison between the population of these villages in 1801 with that of these great towns in 1898 is so startling that it must be recorded. Battersea has risen from 3,365 to 165,115; Camberwell from 7,059 to 253,076; Lambeth from 27,985 to 295,033; Lewisham from 4,007 to 104,521; Wandsworth from 14,283{317} to 187,264. Or, taking the whole area of South London, that part which is covered by the electoral districts, there is now a population of very nearly two millions; in other words the population, in less than a hundred years, has been multiplied by ten. That of London itself, in the same time, the London including the City, Clerkenwell, Whitechapel, Bloomsbury, and Westminster, has been multiplied during the same time by five. What has caused this enormous increase in South London? Well, people must live somewhere; the old limits proved insufficient66. First, places which had been dotted over with fields and gardens and vacant places, such as Southwark{318} on the west side, and Bermondsey, were completely built over and inhabited. Then, when it became a problem how to stow away the people within reach of their work, the 'short stage' was supplemented by the omnibus. Next South London stretched itself out farther; it began to include Camberwell, Brixton, Stockwell, Clapham, and Wandsworth. These were separate suburbs lying each among its own gardens; the inhabitants were not clerks, but principals and employers, substantial merchants and flourishing shopkeepers. The clerks lived nearer London, mostly on the north of the river. Lastly came the railway, when London made another step outward, so as to take in the places lying south of Clapham and Brixton. Then the builder began; he saw that a new class of residents would be attracted by small houses and low rents. The houses sprang up as if in a single night; streets in a month, churches and chapels67 in a quarter. The population of South London no longer consists of rich merchants, principals, and partners. Clerks, assistants, and employés of all kinds now crowd the morning and evening trains.
If you want to form some idea of the South London folk, go stand inside Cannon68 Street Station and watch the trains come in, each with its freight of those who earn their daily bread within the City. See them pass out—by the hundred—by the thousand—by the fifty thousand. The brain reels at the mere contemplation of this mighty69 multitude which comes in every morning and goes out every afternoon. As they hurry past you observe on each the same expression, the same set eagerness, with which the day's work is approached. Employer or employé, principal or clerk, it matters nothing. The clerk, who will get none of the thousands he is helping70 to secure, comes in to town as eager for the fray71 as his master; the fighting instinct is in the man; his face means battle, daily battle, in which the weapons are superior knowledge, earlier knowledge, keen sight, readiness, ruthlessness, while there is as much need, for success, or courage tenacity,{319} and bluff72 as in any battle between contending armies. The many twinkling feet pass out of the station by the hundred thousand, every morning, to the field of battle. The English are a warlike people; they enjoy the field of battle; the City is like that state of beatitude which the pious73 Dane desired, in which there would be fighting every day, and all day, and for ever.
Below Cherry Garden Pier74 Below Cherry Garden Pier
In South London there are two millions of people. It is therefore one of the great cities of the world. It stands upon{320} an area about twelve miles long and five or six broad—but its limits cannot be laid down even approximately. It is a city without a municipality, without a centre, without a civic75 history; it has no newspapers, magazines, or journals; it has no university; it has no colleges, apart from medicine; it has no intellectual, artistic76, scientific, musical, literary centre—unless the Crystal Palace can be considered a centre; its residents have no local patriotism77 or enthusiasm—one cannot imagine a man proud of New Cross; it has no theatres, except of a very popular or humble78 kind; it has no clubs, it has no public buildings, it has no West End. It is argued that although it has none of these things, yet it has them all by right of being a part of London. That is, in a sense, true. The theatres, concerts, picture galleries of the West End are accessible to the South. Far be it from me to deny the culture of Sydenham and the artistic elevation79 of Tooting. Yet one feels there must surely be some disadvantage in being separated from the literary and artistic circles whose members, it must be confessed, reside for the most part in North London. It must surely, one thinks, be a disadvantage for a young man who would pursue a career in art not to live among people who habitually80 talk of art and think of art. It must surely be some disadvantage to live in a place where the people, when they are gathered together, mostly allow the conversation to turn upon things connected with the City.
How are these two millions distributed?
There are, in fact, four layers. First, there is the 'submerged' element, the people of the slums of which mention has been made. Their numbers and their proportion to the whole I know not. Next, there are the working people, those for whom the long lines, the endless lines, of barracks called model lodging-houses, have been built. Here they live by the hundred thousand—by the million: there are more than a million working men in South London. For their use are{321} the shops of the Borough, chiefly provision shops, and the public houses. The third layer is found on a slip of ground, of which Newington and Kennington may be taken as representative: it consists principally of lodging-houses for clerks. The fourth layer is that of the suburban villa23, from the little semi-detached cottage to the stately mansion81. The 'High Street,' filled with shops, is for the villas.
The George Inn Little Dorrit's Window in the Marshalsea The George Inn
Little Dorrit's Window in the Marshalsea
Now, the whole of this immense population lives upon the City. The bread-winners go in and out every day; the local shops provide for the houses, and are paid out of the money made in the City; the local doctor, the local house agent, the local schoolmaster, the local clergyman, all receive their share of the money made in the City; even if there be, here and there, a literary man, his wares83 are bought by the money made in the City; the artist looks for his patron to the{322} City; the working man, whatever his work, is paid out of the City, so that the first function of the City is to feed and supply all these millions. If at any time the trade of the City were to decay, these suburbs would decay as well; if the decay were gradual, they would slowly cease to spread, begin to show empty houses and deserted84 streets; if the decay were to mean ruin, the suburbs would themselves be speedily deserted. Then would be seen a deserted city on a scale never before equalled. Tadmor in the Wilderness85 would be a mere little wheelbarrow full of stones compared with suburban London given over to decay and wreck86.
Two millions of people, most of whom belong to the working class! The brain reels at thinking of this teeming87 multitudinous life; these armies of men, women, and children living in the slums and in the huge, unlovely barracks. The very number makes it impossible to grasp the enormity of the mass; the vastness of the population makes one feel as if individual effort would be absolutely useless. In a sense it is useless, because it can only touch one or two, and what are they among so many? But in another sense, as I will presently show, individual effort may produce consequences both deep and widespread.
It seems, again, when one contemplates88 this mass of humanity—this compact round ball of men and women, to make which two millions have been brought together—as if any one life was nothing, as if the life of any one out of the heap—any girl, any lad—was wholly unimportant and trivial, however that life were spent. That is not so: every heap is made up of atoms; the influence of the individual is as great in a densely populated place as in a village. One example is precious—beyond all price—in a model dwelling-house of Bermondsey as in the most retired89 community of rustics90. It is very easy to generalise from the mass: the dweller91 of the slums stands before the mind's eye, beery, unwashed, in rags, inarticulate, his brain filled with thoughts which may better{323} be described as suspicions, desirous of nothing but of food, drink, and warmth. That is what we think of him. It is because we do not know him. Ask those who go down among these people habitually, they will tell you of differences and distinctions among them as among ourselves, of memories of better things, of resignation rather than despair, and, at the very worst, of traits of generosity92 and unselfishness worthy93 of a clean cottage and the air of a village green. We must be very careful how we form general conclusions about men and women.
Alcove94 from Old London Bridge now at Guy's Alcove from Old London Bridge, now at Guy's
But—two millions of people! And every one of them{324} wanting all the time what he thinks will make his life more happy. For the riverside folk the wants are few, but they are daily wants. With them, literally95, it is a question of daily bread. Happy are the people whose wants are more numerous and their happiness more complex!
Let me terminate this chapter by a brief account of certain work of a philanthropic kind which is characteristic of the place and of the time. Many and various are the attempts and the associations and the machinery96 for raising some of these people and for keeping others from sliding down. There are the parish clergy82, of late years better organised than at any previous time, more active, and more largely assisted; they have planted evening schools and clubs, for boys and girls. One must put the Church of England first, not only because her clergy began the work of rescue, but also because hers is still the larger part. There is, next, the indirect work of the medical students of Guy's and St. Thomas's, who go in and out among the worst courts, tolerated because they come to doctor the sick, and do not ask disagreeable questions about the children's school. There are, next, places which aim at civilising by the presentation of things civilised. For instance, there is a very pleasing institute in Whitecross Street, where a garden, an open air band, a lecture or concert hall, and a row of cottages beautiful to look upon are provided as a standard to which the people may rise by degrees. There are one or two Polytechnics97 for the lads, and, lastly, there are the 'Settlements,' college settlements and others. Let me briefly98 describe the work and aims of one of these settlements. I have before me the last Report of the Browning Settlement in Walworth. It is called the Browning Settlement because its headquarters is the chapel in York Street in which Robert Browning was christened.
The Entrance Gates to Guy's The Entrance Gates to Guy's
As for their plan of work, perhaps the aims and methods of a 'settlement' are not too well known for repetition. They are not all the same, but the differences are slight. The{325} directors of this settlement, for instance, desire to plant a settlement house in every poor street; a house which shall be inhabited by the workers, men or women, and shall serve as a model for the other people in the street; example, in fact, is relied upon as a potent99 influence. There is, or will be, a large club house and coffee tavern for men and women, boys and girls. Once a week there is a concert in the hall. The members of the settlement take as large a part as possible in{326} the local government; they have laid out a burial-ground at the back of their hall as a garden; they have a medical mission which gives consultations100 free; some of them are poor men's lawyers; they have introduced the University Extension Lectures; they have founded thrift101 agencies; they hold Sunday afternoons for the men; they have a maternity102 society; they have a clothes store; they have an adult school. Classes are held in hygiene103, mathematics, and classics; there have been Shakespeare readings, music, singing, country holidays, summer camps, children's holidays; there is a boys' brigade; there is musical drill; there are May Day and Harvest Festivals; and there are, in addition, works of religion and temperance which I have not enumerated104 above.
The keynote of all such work as this is, for the workers, personal service; for the people, the influence of example, the attraction of things which they understand at once to be a great deal more pleasant than the bar and the tap-room; such a variety of work and recreation as may drag all into the net except the substratum of all, whom nothing can lift out of the mire105.
One or two things have yet to be learned as regards these settlements. First, how large an area in a densely populated part can be covered by a single settlement? Next, how many young men can be found to carry on the work? For instance, if the Browning Settlement can reach—of course it cannot—all the people of Walworth, which is in the Parish of Newington, and includes 120,000 people, there ought to be nine other settlements in South London from Battersea to Greenwich, both included. If we give 20,000 people for each settlement, then there ought to be at least fifty settlements for the millions of the working class. The Report does not state how many residents there are, but gives a list of the officers and managers of departments, from which it would seem that about thirty are actively106 engaged from day to day. So that fifteen hundred voluntary workers in all would be required{327} in order to cover this land of slums with an effective string of settlements.
There never was a time when more determined107 efforts have been made for the elevation of the submerged, and there never was a time when so many young men and young women have been found ready to give the whole of their time, or all their spare time, to the work. Whether they will succeed in effecting a permanent improvement remains to be{328} seen; whether the attraction of personal devotion which is now passing over the minds of the young will continue and remain with us has also to be proved. The directors of the Browning Settlement meantime declare—I have no intention of questioning the truth of their assertion—that they find already among the people 'a quickening of spirit, shown in keener intellectual interest, intenser civic ardour, warmer friendship, and more avowed108 piety109.' If such are the fruits of a settlement, we cannot but desire for South London a chain of settlements reaching from Battersea to Greenwich, both inclusive.
Note.—Since this was written several new Theatres have been built in South London. I should therefore like to correct the passage on p. 320 which states that the Theatres are humble. Also I would acknowledge the existence of local newspapers, and instead of saying that it has no public buildings I would say only one or two old buildings.
The End
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1
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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lighters
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| n.打火机，点火器( lighter的名词复数 ) | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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18
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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havens
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| n.港口，安全地方( haven的名词复数 )v.港口，安全地方( haven的第三人称单数 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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39
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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40
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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41
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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42
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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43
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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44
snugness
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45
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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50
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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51
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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52
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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53
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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54
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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55
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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56
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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57
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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58
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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59
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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60
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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61
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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62
wraiths
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| n.幽灵( wraith的名词复数 )；（传说中人在将死或死后不久的）显形阴魂 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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64
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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65
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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66
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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67
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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68
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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69
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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70
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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71
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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72
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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73
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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75
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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76
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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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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81
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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82
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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83
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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84
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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85
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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86
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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87
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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92
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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93
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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polytechnics
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| 理工学院( polytechnic的名词复数 )； 工艺的，综合技术的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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101
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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102
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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103
hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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104
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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106
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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109
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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