第14章 THE OUT-OF-WORKS(1)

There is hardly any more pathetic figure than that of the strong able worker crying plaintively in the midst of our palaces and churches not for charity,but for work,asking only to be allowed the privilege of perpetual hard labour,that thereby he may earn wherewith to fill his empty belly and silence the cry of his children for food.Crying for it and not getting it,seeking for labour as lost treasure and finding it not,until at last,all spirit and vigour worn out in the weary quest,the once willing worker becomes a broken-down drudge,sodden with wretchedness and despairing of all help in this world or in that which is to come.Our organisation of industry certainly leaves much to be desired.A problem which even slave owners have solved ought not to be abandoned as insoluble by the Christian civilisation of the Nineteenth Century.

I have already given a few life stories taken down from the lip:of those who were found homeless on the Embankment which suggest somewhat of the hardships and the misery of the fruitless search for work.

But what a volume of dull,squalid horror--a horror of great darkness gradually obscuring all the light of day from the life of the sufferer might be written from the simple prosaic experiences of the ragged fellows whom you meet every day in the street.These men,whose labour is their only capital,are allowed,nay compelled to waste day after day by the want of any means of employment,and then when they have seen days and weeks roll by during which their capital has been wasted by pounds and pounds,they are lectured for not saving the pence.

When a rich man cannot employ his capital he puts it out at interest,but the bank for the labour capital of the poor man has yet to be invented.Yet it might be worth while inventing one.A man's labour is not only his capital but his life.When it passes it returns never more.To utilise it,to prevent its wasteful squandering,to enable the poor man to bank it up for use hereafter,this surely is one of the most urgent tasks before civilisation.

Of all heart-breaking toil the hunt for work is surely the worst.

Yet at any moment let a workman lose his present situation,and he is compelled to begin anew the dreary round of fruitless calls.Here is the story of one among thousands of the nomads,taken down from his own lips,of one who was driven by sheer hunger into crime.

A bright Spring morning found me landed from a western colony.

Fourteen years had passed since I embarked from the same spot.

They were fourteen years,as far as results were concerned,of non-success,and here I was again in my own land,a stranger,with anew career to carve for myself and the battle of life to fight over again.

My first thought was work.Never before had I felt more eager for a down right good chance to win my way by honest toil;but where was I to find work.With firm determination I started in search.One day passed without success and another,and another,but the thought cheered me,"Better luck to-morrow."It has been said,"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."In my case it was to be severely tested.

Days soon ran into weeks,and still I was on the trail patiently and hopefully.Courtesy and politeness so often met me in my enquiries for employment that I often wished they would kick me out,and so vary the monotony of the sickly veneer of consideration that so thinly overlaid the indifference and the absolute unconcern they had to my need.A few cut up rough and said,No;we don't want you."Please don't trouble us again (this after the second visit).We have no vacancy;and if we had,we have plenty of people on hand to fill it."Who can express the feeling that comes over one when the fact begins to dawn that the search for work is a failure?All my hopes and prospects seemed to have turned out false.Helplessness,I had often heard of it,had often talked about it,thought I knew all about it.Yes!in others,but now began to understand it for myself.Gradually my personal appearance faded.My once faultless linen became unkempt and unclean.Down further and further went the heels of my shoes,and Idrifted into that distressing condition "shabby gentility."If the odds were against me before,how much more so now,seeing that I was too shabby even to command attention,much less a reply to my enquiry for work.

Hunger now began to do its work,and I drifted to the dock gates,but what chance had I among the hungry giants there?And so down the stream drifted until "Grim Want"brought me to the last shilling,the last lodging,and the last meal.What shall I do?Where shall I go?

I tried to think.Must I starve?Surely there must be some door still open for honest willing endeavour,but where?What can I do?"Drink,"said the Tempter;but to drink to drunkenness needs cash,and oblivion by liquor demands an equivalent in the currency.

Starve or steal."You must do one or the other,"said the Tempter.

But recoiled from being a Thief."Why be so particular?"says the Tempter again "You are down now,who will trouble about you?

Why trouble about yourself?The choice is between starving and stealing."And I struggled until hunger stole my judgment,and then Ibecame a Thief.