Hard Times in London

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Nov 5, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 42.

Hard Times in London.

IN sunshine or shower, fog or fair weather, the approaches to the docks and wharves of the metropolis are every morning thronged by crowds of eager, anxious men, struggling—nay, in many cases fighting like wild beasts—to obtain work within the gates. As the hour draws near for the ringing of the great bell announcing the commencement of work, a crowd of often a couple of thousands of men press around the principal entrance of the London docks; and as the big gates swing slowly open, the mighty mass of humanity rushes forward like an overwhelming flood to the chain-barrier, where the superintendent gives out the metal tokens entitling the holder to employment within. Of course he shows preference to those previously employed, but there is always the chance of obtaining a ticket, and the men strive to clutch one of the precious talismans with intense and passionate eagerness. They push and jostle and struggle, leaping on each other's shoulders, and fighting and wrestling in the mad rush like famishing animals rather than human beings. The most desperate demonstration is written on every face, and there is small thought in the mind of any man of that surging crowd for any one but himself. For work means food—poor and scanty, no doubt, but still something to keep the terrible wolf from the door. Failure means semi-starvation, or worse.

But of the crowds who struggle and fight at the gates, frequently not more than one-third are selected, and the remainder, bearing their sad fate with as much philosophical fortitude as they can muster,—perhaps it is stony despair, rather,—turn disconsolately away, some to seek work at other places which open later, and others to wait for "calls" which may occur at any time during the day. Thus a visitor strolling through the fine docks, and admiring the shipping and immense quantities of merchandise piled on every hand, is suddenly arrested by a strange sight of a sea of white, anxious faces pressing wistfully against the bars of a side entrance. Yes, men are still waiting there for any call of laborers that may come during the day. And presently, as you wait, the superintendent appears, and cries,—

"One man wanted!"

Instantly all the watchers spring up like caged animals when food is brought them, yelling, shouting, and extending their hands. They leap on each other's backs, and clamber up to the topmost rails; and all this feverish excitement is to obtain one little metal ticket—perhaps for one hour's work, entitling the owner to fivepence or sixpence at most!

One out of the large number receives the ticket, apparently by chance rather than by any other manner of selection, and then the noise subsides, and the men wait on, patient, dogged, hungry-eyed, as before.

At another time a call will come for two men, and the same scene will occur again, and so on throughout the day. But of the great numbers who crowd the gates in their desperate struggle to obtain employment, only a very few comparatively can ever be engaged. One in every three or four appears to be the average number who obtain work.—The Quiver.