A WORD ABOUT SANDWICH MEN.

Western Star, Issue 1154, 28 May 1887, Page 2 (Supplement)

A WORD ABOUT SANDWICH MEN.

" Ay, ma'am, it's a hard life," said one poor man, with a white face, and an eager manner, "'specially this bitter weather; you see, our clothes ain't much; and we have to go slow. Nine o'clock in the morning we goes on. We have our regular beats. Depends on the theatres, or what not, we belongs to. You see if you count up a shilling a day, it ain't much, and to feed yourself, aud pay your lodging, that don't leave you mnch for clothes, and then we gets ragged, and if a j jb does turn up, why, you see, we ain't got decent clothes to go and look for it; and so we've no chance." No chance, indeed, poor fellow! It is not, truly, easy to see how, when once a man is down to a shilling, or even eight penpence a day, as we believe some of

thera get, he can find his way up again. Here at another table is a very old man, almost blind. As soon as his supper is over he drops off sound asleep, and sleeps peacefully through most of the speeches and singing. Poor old fellow! he does not look as if he could totter on between his boards much longer. "He is hard of hearing, too," one of his neighbours tells us; and yet to-morrow will fiind him plodding along like the others in the chill east wind. But looking round on these 300 men, in spite of ragged coats, of weary, hopeless, even hungry faces, yet we are reminded of something we have often heard said; that among the London sandwich-men there are to found gentlemen, men of education, who through the demon diink must probably have sank to this. God knows if this is true. If it be, what pictures it calls up before one! Fancy a man reduced to this, almost forgetting he was ever anything else, until perhaps one day he sees an old friend, an old schoolfellow, perhaps even his old sweetheart, pass him by on the pavement, close enough for him, if he will, to put out his hand and stay them. But it may not be. To show himself now, even though he were once their dearest, would be only to bring shams and disgrace upon them. His place is where he has made it, creeping along the London gutters, an advertisements —no more. It may be true; we will hope it is not true; but, as we look from face to face through that crowded room, the very thought of it brings the tears-to our eyes, a very pain of pity to our hearts. —The Quiver.