“How
many sons-of-bitches no one loves,
with
long coats on in June and beards like nests—guys no one touches without Latex gloves,
squirming with lice, themselves a bunch of pests,
their cheeks and noses pocked like grapefruit rind—
fellas with permanent shits and yellowish eyes
who, if they came to in the flowers to find
Raphael there, could not be otherwise—
have had to sit there listening to some twat
behind a plywood podium in the chapel
in a loose doorman suit the color of snot,
stock-still except his lips and Adam’s apple,
telling them how much Jesus loves the poor
before they got their bread and piece of floor?”
Spend
time among the homeless and lingering romanticism about them fades, if your
eyes and nose are open and your thinking is cant-free. It helps to see
people, not cases; men and women, not specimens. I had dealings with those like
the Bible-thumping “twat” described by Mehigan, and they’re little better than most
of the pathological do-gooders. This week I also read Alexandra Mullen’s “Mining the Ash Heap,” about Henry Mayhew’s great four-volume London Labour and the London Poor, a work I’ve periodically reread
since a friend introduced me to it in 1975. Mayhew (1812-1887) did most of his
reporting in the 1840s for the Morning
Chronicle, published the work in three volumes in 1851 and added a fourth
volume a decade later. Today, we’d call him an oral historian. His subtitle is “A
Cyclopedia of the Conditions and Earnings of Those That Will Work. Those That Cannot
Work, and Those Who Will Not Work.” Go here to see an engraving of the Asylum for
the Houseless Poor at Cripplegate, included by Mayhew in his book. And here’s
an excerpt from the first volume, from the section titled “Of an Orphan Boy, a
Street-Seller”:
“Most
likely I should then go to a lodging-house. I don't know that some on 'em's bad
places. I've heer'd they was jolly. I has no amusements. Last year I helped a
man one day, and he did so well on fruit, he did so, for he got such a early
start, and so cheap, that he gave me 3d. hextra to go to the play with. I
didn't go. I'd rather go to bed at seven every night than anywhere else. I'm
fond of sleep. I never wakes all night. I dreams now and then, but I never
remembers
a dream. I can't read or write; I wish I could, if it would help me on. I'm making
3s. 6d. a week now, I think. Some weeks in winter I didn't make 2s.”
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