Johnny Upright.
The people live in squalid dens, where there can be no health and no hope, but dogged discontent at their own lot, and futile discontent at the wealth which they see possessed by others.
-THOROLD ROGERS.
I SHALL NOT GIVE YOU the address of Johnny Upright.Let it suffice that he lives on the most respectable street in the East End- a street that would be considered very mean in America, but a veritable oasis in the desert of East London.It is surrounded on every side by close-packed squalor and streets jammed by a young and vile and dirty generation; but its own pavements are comparatively bare of the children who have no other place to play, while it has an air of desertion, so few are the people that come and go.
Each house on this street, as on all the streets, is shoulder to shoulder with its neighbors.To each house there is but one entrance, the front door, and each house is about eighteen feet wide, with a bit of a brick-walled yard behind, where, when it is not raining, one may look at a slate-colored sky.But it must be understood that this is East End opulence we are now considering.Some of the people on this street are even so well-to-do as to keep a 'slavey.' Johnny Upright keeps one, as I well know, she being my first acquaintance in this particular portion of the world.
To Johnny Upright's house I came, and to the door came the 'slavey.'
Now, mark you, her position in life was pitiable and contemptible, but it was with pity and contempt that she looked at me.She evinced a plain desire that our conversation should be short.It was Sunday, and Johnny Upright was not at home, and that was all there was to it.
But I lingered, discussing whether or not it was all there was to it, till Mrs.Johnny Upright was attracted to the door, where she scolded the girl for not having closed it before turning her attention to me.