The Scribe in a Lodging-house

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A man who is seen writing in a common lodging-house will soon have his services sought so often that he must be offended, however kind-hearted he may be. He will be pestered by illiterate seekers of work, and even begging-letter impostors. In the latter case the men are cunning enough to invent pitiful tales, but they lack the education to write them. Many a man who has only lived a short time in a lodging-house, and is innocent of the world, has written letters for these rogues, and not known what he was doing. Strange to say, very few of these men are able to write their own letters; and, seeing that they usually pose for men that have lost good positions, it is not to be wondered at when they have no courage to face a personal interview. With regard to honest seekers of work, a man will soon be sorry that he has obliged them, because of the awkward position in which it places him. For instance, if they do not receive any answer to your letter, or one that is not favourable, they are very apt to blame the letter-writer. One day a man came to me, who had often seen me writing, and asked if I would write him a few lines in answer to an advertisement. Seeing that he brought a stamped envelope and a sheet of writing-paper, and I already had pen and ink before me, I did so at once, to my sorrow. The poor fellow received no answer at all, and he was under the impression that I could so word a letter that it was certain to be successful. It never occurred to him that the advertisement being in a leading paper would be answered by hundreds of men. When several days passed, and no answer came, no doubt he came to the conclusion that he would have been more successful himself, and that I had spoilt him of that job by my manner of writing. So he was very cold after, leaving me with one consolation—that I had not only received no benefits from him, but wanted none, whether he was successful or not.

One man, who could hardly read or write, brought me his aunt's letter to be deciphered, from whom he was getting assistance every week. I had so much difficulty in reading her letter that I told him after that his aunt's writing was very bad. Hearing this he began to throw out hints that the fault must be with me, for his aunt had married a rich brewer, and was now a widow with seven servants. Seeing what a simple man I had to deal with, I tried to explain that the handwriting of some of the greatest people was bad, and that it was not their handwriting made them great, but the thoughts and language they used. But I saw that he could not understand my meaning, and he brought me no more of his aunt's letters.

In fact, the letters I have written to oblige others have made me more enemies than friends. The most grateful thanks I have received for doing this kindness was not from a man living in a lodging-house, but from one on the outside. I was in the lodging-house kitchen one night when "Brummy" Sam brought a married friend of his to see me. The former lost no time in explaining to me that his friend Alf had a daughter in service in the country. Now this daughter had been written to several times, by her mother, sister, and brother, but none of them could get an answer; so Alf, "Brummy" Sam explained, "wanted to know the ins and outs of her reasons." The latter, who had been drinking, confided to me with deep emotion that his friend Alf was a faithful old dog, and, "as for Alf's old woman, there wasn't a better-natured bleeding old cat in all London." Although he whispered this information, it was quite loud enough for Alf to hear, and the big fellow looked at Sam with gratitude. After saying these words Sam straightened himself and said: "I have been telling Alf about you, as how you can write, and we think you can put the letter in such a way that she will answer at once." Hearing this I was not very well pleased, for I could hardly hope to be more successful than the girl's own mother. It was most likely that there was nothing the matter at all, and that she was only waiting a convenient time to write. However, I wrote a letter to Alf's daughter, which he received with so much delight, and such a pressing invitation to drink, that it quite upset me, thinking that the letter would be no more successful than others. But I am pleased to say that she not only answered it at once, but asked her mother who had written it. Perhaps she thought it was a lawyer, and was afraid that further neglect in not reporting herself at home would lead to the police court. Alf was so grateful that his friendship became a nuisance, especially when he was drunk; and I was very glad that he only came to the house as a visitor, and did not live there altogether.

But in a very common lodging-house it is not often that a man is asked to write a letter. I used to write for one man to his mother, about once a month, and he was very thankful to me, for I would never take anything from these poor fellows. It was a dreadful task for me to write a letter of that kind, for he had nothing to say except—"Give my love and say I am all right, and remember me to Aunt Sarah." And the simple man not only expected me to fill two or three papers on this meagre information, but wanted to know if I had enough paper. This man was a consumptive, and when I wrote one letter for him he was about to go into a hospital. He asked me then if I would write a few lines to his mother if anything serious happened to him. I promised to do so, but am glad to say he was back in a few weeks, although not much better.

I shall never forget writing one letter for a man who was leading a double life. He had only just come to our lodging-house, but he was so well known to all the old lodgers that I could see that he had been there before. When this man first came under my notice, he was in the act of sewing a patch on the knee of his trousers, the latter being still on his body. I may as well say here that he made a very bad job of it, for he sewed his trousers to a pair of drawers that were underneath; which made him swear so much that night, when he undressed, that irritated lodgers, disturbed from sleep, threatened to throw him out of the window. One day I asked a lodger what this man did for a living, thinking that he was either a toy-seller, paper-man, or market porter. The lodger began to chuckle, and said: "If you are down Brixton way to-morrow, you are likely to see him." As I asked the question for the sake of being sociable, and not from curiosity, I thought no more of the matter. However, some time after this I happened to be in Brixton, and saw the man I mention, standing in the gutter—blind. He saw me too, for he made an awful expression, which I translated into these words—Don't stop and speak to me, pass on. A few days after this unexpected meeting, he no sooner saw me entering the lodging-house kitchen than he came forward with an envelope and a sheet of writing paper. "Will you write me a letter?" he asked. "I will pay you." Now, I had been out all day and was hungry, and was just about to prepare my tea. So I told him sharply that if I wrote the letter I wanted nothing for doing it, and, whether I wrote it or not, he must give me a chance to have my tea first. Nearly all men that live in common lodging-houses talk to each other in this strain, for they are all more or less short-tempered, or, as they say—"scatty." So I knew that he would not take offence, and was not surprised to see him come forward, after he had given me ample time for tea. "I am not much of a scholar," he began. "What do you want me to write about?" I asked. "Well," said he, "a gentleman saw me in the street and took my address, and has just sent me a parcel of clothes, and I want to thank him. Here is his letter, with address, which was in the parcel." "All right," I answered, and did so at once. After I had done, I read aloud what I had written, and asked if it would do. He considered for a moment, and then said: "Perhaps you will write a little more and say as how Heaven will reward him for pitying a blind man." I could not help laughing at this, for he spoke so exactly that I believe the rogue had forgotten that he was not really blind.

It is very pathetic on a Christmas morning to see seventy or eighty men in a lodging-house, and not six of them receive any greetings from the outside world. In one house, where the manager's charming little daughter received scores of letters and presents from school-friends and friends of her parents, there were not ten out of ninety lodgers who received a single letter—on a Christmas morning! It was when I saw this that it came on me in full force to know what an isolated plague spot a common lodging-house is. Men who have spent years in such places must feel deeply the loneliness of their lives at that season, when every person outside a lodging-house finds time to either visit friends and relatives, or write to them.

XXVII

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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