I have lived so full a life that I forgot, till lately, an incident that other men would, if it was their experience, talk about till the end of their days; for it was at that time that I first became acquainted with common lodging-houses and shelters. It was when I was young, twenty years of age, and had just finished my apprenticeship, that I paid my fare to London, and then had five weeks' experience of the worst side of life. When I arrived in London, I had a gold sovereign and a few shillings; and, being full of hope, like all young people, went to a small hotel, had a good meal, and paid two shillings and sixpence for my bed. At this rate I was soon bankrupt, and then commenced my experience of real life; for I was soon hungry and walking the streets at night. But on the first night I had the good fortune to be assisted by a gentleman who, seeing me standing under an arch, asked a few questions and then gave me sixpence. This was my first experience of acute hunger, and it so frightened me that when day came, and I had had a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter, I bought half a pennyworth of stationery and a stamp and sent home for money, having the reply addressed to a post office in the Strand. The following day I received a letter with a postal order for twenty shillings. A few days had taught me much, and I was now determined to spend no more half-crowns on beds, but to make this money last as long as possible. So I asked a ragged man what was the cheapest bed I could get, and he said fourpence, but that I could get a bunk at the Salvation Army shelter for twopence. Leaving him I went in quest of a fourpenny lodging-house in the East End, and soon found one. That was my first experience in a common lodging-house, but I cannot say that at that time the experience filled me with anything like horror. I was young and romantic, and felt proud in having such a strange experience, which I could talk about when I would be in a better position, to people's amazement. However, I only stayed there three nights, because I saw that I would soon be hungry again, if I did not seek cheaper lodgings. So I made enquiries about a Salvation Army shelter, and was soon inside one in Ratcliff Highway. I did not think this place quite so romantic as the common lodging-house, for here were so many men that not one could be seated with comfort, and these men were more ragged and dirtier.

Now, at this time I was a pure-minded youth, who had been a chapel-goer, by compulsion 'tis true; and I thought the world was divided into two classes—the wicked, who never went to a place of worship, and the good, who went every Sunday at least. I had never given it a thought what a hypocrite was, and that people would go to church or chapel from other motives than religion. For this reason what surprised and shocked me most at this shelter was to hear the Salvation Army soldiers using bad language. I could hardly believe my ears, when I heard them, even on Sunday, before and after a meeting in which they had prayed and sung.

The bunks in this shelter were on the floor, and contained a mattress covered with leather, and a leather quilt. This was quite sufficient for warmth, for every man lay in his clothes, and so many men together made the air warm and very foul. Each bunk was about six feet long, two feet and a half wide, and six inches in height. I need hardly say that I soon got homesick; and when I heard a couple of sailors say that they were going to South Wales to look for a ship, I at once offered to accompany them. Luckily for me these two sailors were good cadgers, having often tramped across country to different seaports, so that I was not likely to starve in their company. The next morning, when I told them I had a silver shilling left, and took their advice to spend it on ale and tobacco, they promised with many oaths that I should not want for food on the road. But I only accompanied them a little more than half-way, and then left them; for they, having no sure prospects, were not inclined to tax their walking strength to the utmost. My last stage was over sixty miles, with only one stop, and that was nine miles from home. It was then night, and I met a policeman who wanted to know where I was going. "Home," I answered, and added the name of the town. I began to feel a bit tired now, and sat on a bank for a few moments' rest, after which I rose and continued my way. But I had hardly gone twenty yards when I met a policeman again, who said: "Hallo! what are you doing here? I thought you were going home?" "So I am," I answered, quite bewildered. "You are going away from it," he said; "you have walked back two miles from where I met you before." When I had sat on the bank I must have fallen asleep, and, waking, did not know in the dark but what I was going right. However, at that time these experiences only made romance. The truth is that as long as the young do not feel actual hunger, they care little for other things. And I was very fortunate in these few weeks, for I was never forced to beg. The two sailors not only fed me, but, when I left them, gave me as much food as I was likely to want on my way home. It was years after, when I began to feel literary ambition and wanted privacy, that I experienced the horror of being mixed with thirty or forty men in a small lodging-house kitchen.

One day, when I had been in a common lodging-house for a considerable time, I met a man in Hyde Park, who had lately come from the country, and was now come to his last shilling, after selling whatever he had of value. Hearing this, I could do no other than take him to the lodging-house where I lived. I gathered from his conversation that he had no idea of such places. Now it happened that I was living in a very low-class house in Blackfriars, whose inmates were not only very poor and ragged, but rough and brutal; so, when I began to think of this, I almost repented of my offer to take charge of him. However, it was too late now, so on we went, and were soon at the house. When we entered the kitchen there were three of the worst lodgers quarrelling, and not only drunk, but with a can full of beer on the table. What must have been this man's thoughts, who had only just left a good home? for he had been telling me about his mother and sisters. I told him to sit down and wait until I returned from shopping, after which we would have tea. I was away less than ten minutes, for there were several shops near, but when I came back he had gone. Speaking to one of the lodgers about him, I was told that he had followed me out, close at my heels. I never saw him again. I believe that he was so disgusted with his strange surroundings that he started for home at once, although it was a hundred miles away. His feelings must have been very strong, seeing that he had already paid for his bed, and that sum was now lost to him. I have often wondered what must have been his final opinion of me, to whom he had entrusted his confidence. Perhaps he thought that I had decoyed him there to be robbed of his very clothes. The place must have seemed horrible to him, with its dark, underground kitchen, no woman there, and nothing, except a cat, to make it appear like a home.

Of course, I am speaking now of the very lowest lodging-houses—houses that are seldom written about; for journalists choose better-class lodging-houses for their visits. Some time ago, I read an account of a journalist going to spend one night in a lodging-house. He explained how he pocketed his briar pipe, and took a common clay one, and how he dirtied his face and hands. Now it happened that the house he went to was a superior lodging-house where he would see a number of men with silk hats and watches and chains. In fact, this innocent journalist made himself ill-looking enough for a fourpenny lodging-house, and I would not have been surprised if he had been refused a bed at the house to which he went. After reading his account I have come to the conclusion that he did not visit the place at all.

Speaking of journalistic work, I know a book that describes low life in London, with pictures taken from life. When I look at one picture I see a man and a woman with a handcart loaded with household furniture. These two are leaving a house at night, for they owe rent. But when I look closer still, I recognize both the man and the woman; and I know that the former has been in a lodging-house for twenty years, during which time he never had furniture. I also know that the woman has not for thirty years had cause to do what the picture represents. Of course, this does not matter, for such things are to be seen—but the picture was not taken from real life. The picture was taken by day, when people do not make "moonlight flits"; and at night—which the scene represents—the great journalist was sleeping in his luxurious home.

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