The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1898-01-27

TO Edgar Fawcett's Mind They Are
the ..Sandwich, Advertising Men.
Golfers WpakIv-

COllerS weekly.
Our walking advertisements are in
London called sandwichmen Here they are
far more frequent than in New York-for
the simple reason, 1 suppose, that grim old
Colonel Poverty commands q bigger regi-
ment of paupers. 1t is dreadful to watch
the haggard sadness on many a poor sand
Wichmans face. Constantly they work for
a shilling and twopence a day-hardly one
Of our quarters" If they consent TO carry
an extra board over the head. terribly
heavy and firing, their pay is increased by
one penny. Still, these forlorn wretches do
not make, by any means, seven shillings
and sixpence week. To do that they must
get a job every day, and such condition
Of affairs must always be termed Utopian.
For often several hundreds of other men
are already waiting in the yard of theater,
linen-draper, whatever the establishment
may be. The rent of these sandwichmen
(who rarely have any family connections
and are the sorriest fiotsam and jetsam of
night. At the County Council lodging house
they can obtain rates less economic. The
shelter" at Westminster is their usual re-
sort-either that or one on the City road;
the other day: 1.-THE common lodging
houses charge from fourpencef to ssixpence.
But that's too dear for us. The, County
Council place is very nice, but It S also too
dear for u.s. We don't go in for Injuries.
Yard penny dinners" OF course all this is
piercingly horrible. In London one sees pow
erty much clearer, much more aggressively,
than in New. York. Perhaps there is a good
deal more of it, in proportion to the popu-
lace, here than with us. This, / think, how
ever, is doubtful all in all. But of one thing
we may be sure; poverty in New York is
more dignihed than in London. Our beggars
wrap themselves in, certain dignity-a
shabby and threadbare purple, if one
pieases, but none the less affirmative in its
meaning and mode. Their fate may gloomily
merit these melancholy verses written by
Mr.. Alfred Thompson, but I can't believe it
is quite so deserving of such desoate
lament. Still, the slums of London are rela-
lively unknown to me, Those of New York
latter, in younger days land not seldom
with tears of intensest sympathy springing
to my, eyes,, I could not have written The
infinite sympathy and persistent research.
But Mr. Thompsons little lyric is we'll
worth reprinting here, since it must have
the dolorous problematic doom of those
whom fate shackles, manacles, gives He
calls it the Lament of the Treadmill, and
! reproduce it, in all its woful soemnity of
despair:
'Lookl They come-a dismal row.
Footsore weary, on they go.
Breathing sign-boards things of scorn,
God! Are these of women born?
Had they father sister, brother,
Breathed they Ger the name of mother?
oh! that scene the heart-sight greets
On the treadmill of the streets.
Steamed and torn, gashed and battered,
images of God all shattered!
Burning shame with anguish owning,
On the cross of suffering groaning.
Watch them as they onward trudge!
Let us not their follies Judge,
All! that scene the heart-sight greets
On the treadmill of the streets:
Star of hope nor softened light
Cheers the darkness of their night.
He who notes the sparrow fall,
Hath He .hearkened to their call?
Can we feel the fallenS woe?
Mercy, mercy, mercy show
All! that scene. the heart-sight greets
On the treadmill of the streets"