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| LONDON ON STRIKE.
DURING the last few years the public have had a
practical experience of the inconvenience attendant
upon a body of working men going on strike. As
a rule Londoners do not come face to face with
artisans who have abandoned toil. Generally they
read of a cessation of labour in the daily papers, and
discover the result of the cause in the increased
charges for coal, gas, and other necessaries. However,
not long since, the Cockney mind was concerned
by the vagaries of cabby. The streets were deserted
by hansoms, and even the four-wheeler was difficult
to find. In spite of this, none of the body politic
were much the worse. Sufficient for the day were
the growlers thereof, and no one was at a loss to
secure (when really necessary) that particular kind of
conveyance which years ago used to be known as a
patent safety. So the nuisance of the suspension
of operations caused a minimum of inconvenience.
| BOUCICAULT AND THE LONG STRIKE.
Strikes are more or less a modern invention. In
the days of yore, when workmen were dissatisfied
they resorted to violence, instead of depending upon
masterly inactivity. Ages ago machinery used to
be the foe, and the most popular mode of meeting
the enemy was to utterly demolish the offending
apparatus. Things are changed since then, although
even now the tradition lingers upon the stages of
theatres devoted to melodrama. And here, as I have
mentioned things histrionic, I may refer to The Long
Strike, which was produced at the Lyceum by the
late Mr. Dion Boucicault some while after the success
of The Colleen Bawn. No doubt Mrs. Dion Boucicault (who was in the cast) will remember it. There
was one scene in it which was immensely effective,
but which would have been more effective still had
the telephone been then invented. I have the
vaguest recollection of the play's plot, but I call to
mind that it was necessary for some one or other to
be stopped from sailing from Liverpool. I fancy the
some one or other was a missing witness required to
save the hero's life or the heroine's reputation. The
scene was a telegraph office. Enter the friend of
the hero or heroine (as the case may have been),
who asks the telegraph clerk if he can be put into
communication with the operator at the other end.
There is some delay, as the operator has to be found
-he was on the point of leaving the office for the
night. But soon he is at his post. Then comes the
great effect. Has the Star of the North (or whatever the ship was called) started? Yes. Is
So-and-so on board? Yes. Can he be
brought back? Only by signal. Signal
for him, then. We have. Does the ship see
the signal ? Yes; and So-and-so is coming back.
This was the climax, and on a grateful cry of Saved,
saved! the curtain fell amidst thunders of applause.
Had Boucicault had the assistance of the telephone
in those days how much sharper would the
dialogue have been. There was an air of unreality
in the working of the needles, but with a telephone
it would have been perfect. I wonder what has
become of The Long Strike. Is it ever played
now-a-days? As Mr. Tree says in The Red Lamp, I
wonder. And here I may recount a little anecdote
that is interesting, when we remember that Mrs.
Boucicault is still amongst us. I was editor of The
Glowworm in those days, and I called upon Dion
Boucicault at the Lyceum, and saw him in his dressing-room.
I was arranging for a feuilleton, and
thought he might write us a story. He suggested
novelizing The Flying Scud, and novelized it was
with the collaboration of the late Mr. Clarke, author
of Charlie Thornhill. I was standing behind a
screen, when, unsuspicious of my presence, Mrs.
Boucicault entered and said she wanted to intercede
for one of the company who had been fined (Dion
was a strict disciplinarian) for some breach of the
rules. I shall never forget the sweet kindness of
Mrs. Boucicault's pleading accents. Possibly with a
wish to terminate the interview as quickly as possible
the husband yielded, and Mrs. Boucicault departed,
overjoyed at the success that had attended her
mission. When she had left the room I emerged
from my accidental ambush, and continued the
negotiation about The Glowworm feuilleton.
That is a woman in a thousand, sir, said the
author of The Long Strike. She has a heart of
gold.
And I agreed with him.
| ON STRIKE WEST AND EAST.
And as I am talking of things theatrical I may
mention that some twenty years ago I wrote myself
a domestic drama (I called it on the playbill a social
problem ), with the title of On Strike. If I may be
permitted to criticise my own work, I may say it is
not a bad little play, and was a great success when
produced at the old Court Theatre. The cast included Messrs. Edgar Bruce, J. G. Hill, Walter
Fisher (Husband of Miss Lottie Venne),Mrs.
Stephens, and Mr. Alfred Bishop. It was distinctly
written for the classes. The agitator was held up to
scorn, and the working man, who played rather than
laboured, to reprobation. However, it is a fact that
when Miss Lytton's company went on tour, the
aristocratic sentiments were more heartily cheered
at the Standard, Shoreditch, than at the old Court
Theatre in Sloane Square. The East-enders were
just as much opposed to the loafing-do-nothing as
their brothers of the West.
| CABBY ON STRIKE IN '94
To come to the strike that occurred five years ago.
It commenced hurriedly. As a rule the Union of the
trade or calling proposing to cease work takes some
weeks to prepare for the operation. To be successful
the strike must be general and hearty, and there
must be sufficient funds in hand to support the
strikers for at least a month or two. On the occasion
to which I refer, the Union was scarcely in existence
before it was called upon to conduct a very delicate
negotiation. Then the cabmen, as a class, were never
heartily in favour of the association. To say the
least, opinions were divided. Then there seemed to
be a very slenderly furnished fund available for
paying the strikers, and lastly, there was no effort
made to collect funds sufficient in amount to make
good deficiencies. Under these circumstances,
considering that the cab proprietors or masters were
represented by a very strong and compact organisation,
the prosects of the drivers seemed anything
rather than rose-coloured.
| CABBY ON THE SITUATION
One evening during the strike, as I was ordered
to be in attendance upon the ladies of my family
during a visit to one of the theatres, I seated myself
next to the cabdriver in his box. This arrangement
allowed me to smoke and to collect information.
How about the strike? I asked.
A bad thing all around, sir, replied the driver;
it don't affect me as I drive my own cab, but it hits
a lot of men who would work if they were allowed to.
Who's in the wrong?
Well, I take it both, sir. It's very hard to make
a living sometimes. I have known pals of mine for
three days running not make a single penny for
themselves. Yes, have to borrow money to make up
the sum charged for the cab. Then, at other times,
they have a lot of money by five o'clock and
gone home, after taking back their cab to the yard,
cozily to tea.
This seemed in the mind of my friend to be the
height of luxury.
But what I most object to, continued Jehu, is
those swells going into business. I hear two young
gentlemen in the Guards have started a couple of
cabs. Or rather they would have done, but just as
they were ready with stables in Pimlico, up comes
the strike and spoils their little game!
But are there not too many drivers? I asked.
Yes, sir, was the response. That's where it
comes in. Anyone can be a driver nowadays.
How would you go from Charing Cross to Ludgate
Circus? they ask at the Yard. By the Embankment.
Right you are-give him a licence. That's
how it's done, sir, and that's why there are so many
of us.
Do you think the masters make excessive
profits?
Well, sir, it looks like it. I know a man with
only a couple of cabs two years ago, and now he's
got thirteen. And they were all bought out of the
profits on the letting of the first couple. Now some
of them pay 20 per cent., and surely that's too much,
isn't it, sir?
I did not answer. The driver was a sensible
fellow and spoke with great moderation. Speaking
personally, I repeat that I have always found the
driving brotherhood a most civil and obliging class.
For some years, when I was editing a weekly
newspaper, a driver always turned up early on a
Sunday morning at Bouverie Street and waited for
me until I was ready to be driven by him to the
Belgrave Road. Sometimes he waited more than an
hour, and for this accommodation I only paid him,
by his own request, a shilling more than his bare
fare. And if I had listened to him, sixpence would
have been sufficient, but I preferred, in the cause of
justice, to pay the shilling. And when he was away
he always sent a substitute, who cheerfully adopted
the arrangement. I dare say many journalists could
tell a similar story.
From this I take it that cabmen are not overpaid,
and whether they are or not, I wish them a satisfactory outcome from any difficulties that may be
looming for them in the future.
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