Extracts from contemporary guides, etc on clerking as an occupation.

1. Charles Edward Parsons, from Clerks; Their Position and Advancement. Addressed to Parents, Employers, and Employed. London: Provost 1876.

[In this small guide the author expresses the same attitude—a mixture of scorn and indignation—which is repeated over and over in the selections which follow. Notice the phrase “no youth of spirit would condescend to entertain” the intrusive questioning that appeared on employment forms: Parsons implies that few clerks fell into the category of spirited youths.]

Having referred once or twice to Railway Companies, I may here allude to the miserable salaries they, as employers of clerks in particular, are accustomed to pay to competent men. For instance, the applicant for a clerkship one of the railways in the South of England is required to answer upon the Company’s “form of application,” a multitude of questions so insulting and impertinent that no youth of spirit would condescend to entertain them; and to fulfil a host of conditions quite out of keeping with his salary or position. The following are but a few taken from a long list of these questions and regulations:—

“Are you in debt? if so, to what amount?”

“Are you married, or single? If any children, how many?”

“Are you engaged in any business or partnership?” etc etc.

After these come the “conditions of accepting service,” which, under Section I., comprise forty-five separate rules. Some of these are so unique that I give a few par example:—

Applicants must send doctor’s certificate that he is free from illness, lameness, etc, etc, and a declaration that he is of steady and sober habits.

If appointed to the service he must strictly observe every regulation issued by the Company, and may be required to carry a book or copy of such regulations about his person when not on duty.

Must devote himself exclusively to the Company’s service and interest, not only during regular hours, but at all other times when required. Must reside very near to his customary place of duty.

Must agree to forego a fortnight’s pay, to be kept in hand “as a security for good conduct.”

Must provide security to the extent of ₤200 or over, for his faithful service. Is required, “when not on duty, to avoid the risk of impairing his strength or efficiency by fatigue, exertion, or exposure of any kind” (the “fatigue, exertion, or exposure” apparently being condoned if incurred while on duty). …

Is expected, “whether off or on duty, to be at all times neat and cleanly in his person and dress; to avoid all foppishness and affectation of singularity (!) in dress, in person, or in manner.” …

Must behave “decorously” when off duty, “on pain of instant dismissal from the service;” and must have led a blameless life before entering the service, otherwise, “although the offender has not been convicted of the misdemeanour laid to his charge, he is subject to instant dismissal, with forfeiture of all back pay and other emoluments!”

For a model youth in full possession of all these qualifications, for such an embodiment of simplicity, amiability, virtue, and business capacity, “the Directors are accustomed to allow a salary at the rate of—” how much think you? What would such a clerk be fairly worth to any firm or company? Bear in mind the various attainments and observances which are demanded, and you will scarcely be prepared to be told that the remuneration offered is—₤60 per annum for the first six months, “when it will be raised or lowered in proportion to the then ascertained value of the services and general aptitude of the clerk.” …

I speak with moderation when I say that now-a-days parents are far too prone to think a youth’s good fortune certain from the moment his legs dangle from the stool in a mercantile office. “A good clerk is always sure of being employed” is their consoling and frequent reflection. It is a mistake. The belief alleviates anxiety and generally brings comfort to those whose young friends are apparently doing well in their respective offices; but it is thoroughly erroneous to lay to heart the flattering unction[1] that a clerk, even of proved efficiency and integrity, can secure constant employment. A large proportion of those who are at this present time seeking situations are thoroughly qualified by commercial training and by uprightness of character to accept employment involving the greatest care and responsibility, and are willing to do so for salaries somewhere about ₤1 per week! I have seen sober, well-educated, well-recommended clerks, possessed of first-rate business qualifications, and conversant with one or two foreign languages, walking the streets of London almost barefoot, reduced to the lowest depths of genteel poverty, and have known such men calling at upwards of sixty offices a day in the hope of obtaining employment, but without success. (22-32)

2. From The Clerk: A Sketch in Outline of his Duties and Discipline. London: Houlston 1878.

[From Chapter 5 “Affectation in Dress and Manner”]

Few annoyances are more irritating than to be the object of ridicule: to be the constant butt of it is a trial that the best tempers can scarcely withstand. Ridicule, however, will not attach to a man permanently unless the provocation of it is habitual: but the provocation is easily and often unconsciously given: any personal peculiarity, indicative of conceit, is certain to draw out the laugh of ill-nature; an affected singularity of dress, of gait, or even of tone, will suffice. The dress of every man, the young especially, ought to conform to the fashion of the day: he cannot afford to be an exquisite, and it is not desirable that he should; a fop rarely proves a good man of business, nor can the clerk indulge in a new coat as often as his vanity and his tailor may desire; but he can avoid any thing remarkable either in the colour or the cut of it. To be quiet and unassuming in dress argues a becoming modesty of mind; the contrary extreme implies vulgarity. (45)

[From Chapter 12 “Prospects and Position of the Clerk—Conclusion”]

If the young man succeeds in his first or second adventure, it is indeed by “chance”; if he would succeed in a series of adventures, he must learn to exclude the term from his commercial vocabulary. The clerk sees but little of this during his clerkship; he is but a wheel in the machine; he knows little of the power that sets every wheel in motion; we say nothing of the delusive nature of borrowed capital, or of the unstable character of fortuitous connection. Even when sustained by abundant knowledge, it is heavy work to build upon such a treacherous foundation; but without that knowledge, it is more arduous labour than rolling the stone of Sisyphus.[2]

Yet though the path is difficult and tedious, the door is not closed, even to the moneyless and friendless clerk: his natural course to promotion is, as we have before hinted, by making himself indispensable to his employer; the head must, sooner or later, take the right hand into its confidence; and perhaps for one who has prospered by his own independent effort, twenty clerks might be quoted by any man versed in business, whether commercial or professional, who have risen to wealth and eminence as partners in the house where their years of clerkship were expended.

And is this the end of a long career of assiduous preparation and patient labour? of a youth spent in the severity of study, and a manhood devoted to the service and caprice of others? In too many cases, alas, we must acknowledge that it is. It is the penalty which man pays for the much coveted advantage of earning his bread by the toil of his brains instead of the sweat of his brow—an advantage far more nominal than real, apart from the abstract pleasure of intellectual cultivation.

The station of the clerk is not one of self-aggrandisement, and except accidentally, it rarely secures more than a bare independence. But neither is it attended by anxiety or drudgery of labour—it admits of all the necessary comforts, and many of the elegancies of superior life. (127-8)

3. Francis Davenant, from Starting in Life: Hints for Parents on the Choice of a Profession or Trade for Their Sons. London: Chatto & Windus 1881.

No one will propose to make his son a clerk if he can possibly get anything better for him to do—not that there is anything in the slightest degree dishonourable or menial in the occupation of a clerk, but because of the poor prospect it presents of better things to come. Forty pounds a year to begin with, and the prospect ultimately, should the house prosper and the clerk be industrious, capable, etc, of perhaps ₤300, is not a very bright look out. Of course, there are clerks and clerks, and it is always possible, nay, likely, that a really valuable clerk, who has by his energy and ability struck out new paths of business for his employers, has been assiduous in their behalf, and has made himself a power in the trade, will get taken into partnership, though he may not have a sixpence of capital. This is the hope that animates many a young man—this, or that other hope of being some day able to start on his own account in one of those agency or brokering businesses in which capital is not so much needed as brains. In banks, insurance offices, railway companies’ offices, and the like, there is little or no prospect of general improvement of position beyond that which is held out by increase of pay. The prizes of such offices are few, though out of the office should come managers, secretaries, and actuaries; but it is obvious that these appointments can be inducements to a few only, and that there must always remain in what solicitors call “the outer office” a large number of persons without hope of anything but a slender maintenance. Still, it happens over and over again, that no other means of getting a livelihood present themselves, and people are obliged to take what they can get, and be thankful. The number of persons thus dependent on clerkships is gauged immediately it is known by advertisement or other means that there is a clerkship vacant. The rush of candidates on such occasions is like the scramble of minnows for a piece of bread … (164-6)

4. From The Story of a London Clerk: A Faithful Narrative Faithfully Told. London: Leadenhall Press 1896.

[Osmond Ormesby comes from the provinces on the promise of a job as a clerk. He is cheated by everyone from landladies to hairdressers; the firm he works for soon fails and he is forced to fall back on his savings while he searches for work. The anonymous author uses a drab, documentary style, and his story has the ring of truth. We may assume it is based on personal experience.]

[From Chapter 4 “Out of Work in London”]

Could he not get another situation in London? At any rate, he could try. The great dread was whether his meagre means would hold out long enough. If he were not successful in the first few weeks his scanty sum would dwindle away, and he would find himself in London without a farthing or a friend. …

Five pounds without work did not afford a cheering outlook, but it was sufficient to bestir a less sanguine soul than Osmond Ormesby. It was sufficient to tide him over six weeks, at least. In that period he felt he could search the whole of London. He was prepared to undergo any hardship in attempting to secure work, and to sell his labour at almost any price, in almost any market. To ward off the coming of that dreaded sixth week, when his pockets would be penniless, he would search high and low from morn to eve.

Westminster is intoxicated with pride in the possession of the Parliamentary pile, and it needs must go and distinguish many of its streets—insignificant, unsightly little byways, many of them—by the appellation of “Great.” Out of Great College Street Osmond dropped into Great Smith Street, where he would have least expected to discover a public library. Yet there, by mere chance, he stumbled across one, and his heart flowed out with gratitude to the parochial fathers who, by thus blessing the locality, came to benefit him in a singularly happy fashion. It was a quaint place for newspapers and books—the first free library in London—looking like a transformed chapel. The big modern building which has since grown up on the other side of the road, and superseded as completely as it has overawed its little unassuming predecessor, does not possess half the charm.

In the old place Osmond began his search for work by scanning the advertisements of the morning papers. ...

Three of them demanded written applications only, and two invited personal interviews. Having copied carefully the particulars of each he hastened round to Great College Street, to dispatch letters to the three, and prepare himself to apply in person for the others.

The first call was at Gresham Street. He entered some trading company’s office in hope, and retreated in disappointment. Some one had been before him, and, as the firm was hard pressed, had snatched up the situation on the spot, and was already body-bent over a desk when Osmond called. This occasioned him surprise. Others besides himself were apparently industrious in the search for work. He had thought it almost impossible for any one to be more prompt than he had been; now he thought it almost mean for any one to have dared to be as prompt. There was a scrap of satisfaction in knowing that the firm had taken his name and address, and had promised to communicate with him should another vacancy arise. Had he been older he would have hung up no further hope on such a promise. (31-4)

[From Chapter 7 “How to Live on Next-to-nothing a Year.”]

To understand clearly how Osmond Ormesby lived on next-to-nothing a year, it is necessary to enter details distinctly personal.[3] First of all, he started well; for he wore good health and good clothes, and consequently was free to reserve his money strictly to the necessaries of life. Out of his twelve shillings, five had to be deducted for rent; so he had to face each week with seven shillings, and come out at the end of the seventh day, with a balance in hand.

To live on next-to-nothing a year is impossible under modern conventions; so Osmond began by upsetting convention. He told the Nilsons’ housekeeper, to that good lady’s horror, that he would not require breakfast or tea any longer. Breakfast and tea, in the conventional style, are expensive luxuries, not to be approved by those who wish to live on next-to-nothing a-year. Osmond provided his own breakfast and tea.

But here, again, it was necessary to depart from convention. Convention says you can’t have a breakfast without a fire; but next-to-nothing a-year says you can’t afford a fire in the morning. What Osmond did was to content himself with water. A glass of water and plain bread and butter can make a most nourishing breakfast. It is wonderful how well one can thrive on that fare, if it be tried. Besides, look at the saving in time. Osmond could munch his bread and butter while dressing, toss off the glass of water just before putting on his hat, and be out in the street or buried in a book within a few minutes of rising from bed. …

With a little care, a marvellous amount of variety can be introduced into living on next-to-nothing a-year. Osmond found this to be the case in an especial manner with regard to his midday meal in the City. He had cut down the expense as low as twopence, and fixed a maximum of fourpence.

Osmond could dine better than a prince on these sums. He had a thousand advantages over the prince. The prince is compelled to dine in a manner eminently calculated to create indigestion and weariness; but for twopence Osmond could get a satisfying dinner, with health and vitality assured. It was simple enough. All he did was to enter a restaurant and order a bowl of oatmeal, which used to be served with milk and sugar. Twopence down, and the thing was done. For an expenditure of fourpence, in the same restaurant, he had the choice of two courses from a menu containing twenty or more varied dishes. He secured variety in another way. An adjoining establishment, not quite so respectable, supplied him with a different kind of dinner for threepence ha’penny. Twopence ha’penny commanded sausage and mash. The balance would admit to almost any kind of pudding, from a slice of the real genuine plum to a plate of transparent tapioca! …

Washing is also an expensive item in London, especially with regard to collars; and Osmond, who recognized the benefit of a good personal appearance, found himself wearing two or three every week, and thus running up a bill. He discovered that gutta-percha collars[4] could be bought, looking quite as well as those of linen, only possessing much greater advantages. They seldom got dirty, and could be cleaned in a moment with cold water and flannel. Again, in about a fortnight he saved on his washing account as much as covered the original investment, and afterwards there was clear gain. (64-71)

5. Charles Booth, ed., from Life and Labour of the People in London. Vol. VII. Population Classified by Trades (Continued). London: Macmillan 1896.

[Charles Booth (1840-1916) was a rich ship owner and social reformer. He devoted sixteen years to his master work, published between 1891 and 1903, which revolutionised the emerging science of sociological statistics.]

[From Part III.—Dealers and Clerks. Chapter III. “Merchants and Clerks. Commercial Clerks”]

A good appearance, unobtrusive dress, and neat handwriting, are the most essential qualifications for a clerk. Further, if he is to stand the constant strain of office life, a sound constitution is required. It is usually chance that determines the exact branch of clerical life he will pursue, and answering advertisements is the most generally adopted method of invoking the fickle goddess.[5] Well-known commercial houses have waiting lists on which they enter the names of those recommended to them, and commonly give preference to sons of clerks already in their employ. The ranks of bankers’ and insurance clerks are recruited in the same way, and sometimes candidates are made to pass an examination to test their acquirements. It is in commercial houses that the English clerk most severely feels the competition of foreigners, and especially of Germans.

A junior clerk in a commercial house, starting at fifteen, sixteen or seventeen years of age, earns less for his age than (for instance) a van-boy, influenced perhaps by the social feeling which places clerks’ work above manual employment. He may hope to become manager or master in his turn, seeing how many have done so before him, and is thus content not only to work for a nominal wage for two or three years, but for many years to earn no more than, if as much as, an artisan. As in the legal profession, the eminence of a small minority dazzles the eyes of a large number whose talents might perhaps have been more profitably directed elsewhere. …

The relations between a clerk and his employer, or between him and the work he undertakes, are usually close and personal. No one man is to be replaced exactly by another. No two office boys are quite alike in the mistakes they make. This variety in value is true to some extent even if the work is of the dullest routine character; far more so I believe than is the case with even highly skilled artisans; and is beyond calculation when the work entrusted to the clerk becomes confidential and responsible. The value of a clerk’s services thus depends closely and somewhat curiously on relations with the employer, that is to say, upon possibilities of combination in action between men who have learnt to know each other’s ways and who suit each other. Such relations are usually formed gradually and are the essence of all high value in clerks’ work. It follows that with clerks a secure tenure of employment is of the greatest importance; he is more likely to reap the fullest return for his work by waiting than by pushing for an early advantage. His apples ripen best on the tree. This fact is often recognized in the terms of payment. In banks and insurance offices the scale of remuneration is nearly always regulated so as to encourage those who have once entered to remain as long as they are fit for work.

Financially the great mass of clerks are on a level with the great mass of artisans, £75 to £150 a year comparing with 30s, 40s, and 60s a week. But socially, and economically too, they are on an entirely different footing. From top to bottom clerks associate with clerks and artisans with artisans—but comparatively seldom with each other. A clerk lives an entirely different life from an artisan—marries a different kind of wife—has different aims and different ideas, different possibilities and different limitations. A clerk differs from an artisan in the claims each make on society no less than the claims society makes on them. It is not by any means only a question of clothes, of the wearing or not wearing of a white shirt every day, but of differences which invade every department in life, and at every turn affect the family budget. More undoubtedly is expected from the clerk than the artisan, but the clerk’s money goes further—is on the whole much better spent.

There is good reason for the flocking of young men into the ranks of clerical labour. There has been and there still is a growing demand for such services, and no services are more useful to the community. Beyond this the profession of clerk does seem to lead to a genuine rise in the social standard of living which is a worthy object of ambition. (274-8)

6. Robert White, from “Wanted: A Rowton House for Clerks,” Nineteenth Century, 42 (Oct 1897), 594-601.

[Nothing is known of this author: he appears to be writing from personal experience. Rowton Houses were founded in 1892 to provide decent lodgings in separate rooms, not dormitories, for poor working men. They were named after their philanthropic founder.]

The clerk class has a first claim on the social reformer and the philanthropist. Its members are notoriously over-worked and under-paid. They are, admittedly, the worst paid section of the community. All the drudgery and but little of the rewards of commercial enterprise fall to their lot. Too peaceful to form unions and commit assaults; too orderly to assemble on Tower Hill and threaten riots; too sensitive and self-respecting to mouth out their grievances in Trafalgar Square or Hyde Park, the clerks of the metropolis have been driven by force of competition and the greed of many callous employers to the extremes of poverty. Though their pay is lower than that of the lowest class of artisans they are nevertheless expected to live well, to dress trimly, and generally to bear themselves as gentlemen.

Go into the cheap coffee-houses in the City and its environs and note the appearance of the young men who patronise them. The sort of life they are forced to live is proclaimed in the shiny black coat, the frayed collar, the shabby cuffs, and, above all, in the pale, haggard, “washed-out” look on their faces. From the misery of lodgings they sometimes seek relief in matrimony, only to find very frequently that their last state is worse than their first. The perpetual struggle to make ends meet and to reconcile gentility with poverty is heart-breaking. And it is the more bitter because it is concealed. In short, their privations are past finding out. The day labourer on fifteen shillings a week has more pleasure in existence than the clerk who gets thirty. Yet the clerks are, so to say, the machinery by which the industrial, commercial, and financial activity and progress of London are maintained. They have done, and they are doing, their full share of the work which has made it and keeps it the first city of the world. (596)

7. Shan Bullock, from Robert Thorne: The Story of a London Clerk. London: T. Werner Laurie 1907.

[Shan Bullock (1865-1935) was raised on a large estate where his father was bailiff. Robert Thorne is highly autobiographical, for Bullock spent the whole of his working life as a civil servant in London. In the novel, his hero is the son of a Devon schoolmaster who, to the horror of his father, seeks a “man clerkship” after hearing about the pleasures of London from Jack, a visiting friend. Note that his starting salary is a high £80, but places in government service were highly competitive, and he has passed a tough entrance examination.]

[From Chapter I]

I heard a great deal about Jack’s office, much of it I fear a little rose-coloured. His picture of official life pleased me: easy hours, easy work, pleasant company, long holidays, good pay and prospects. It was just the thing, said Jack, for decent fellows who wanted a safe billet. The examination was nothing. A while’s grinding with a good Coach, a clear head and a bit of luck, and the thing was done. Why did I not have a go? It was ridiculous, said Jack, wasting one’s life in the country. No fun, no chance, no anything. …

[Thorne’s father objects to his plans] “You want to be like him, perched on a stool all day with your nose to a ledger. You want his pale face, and his slouch, and his simper. I suppose he’s been telling you about his London experiences too and all the devilments he’s learnt. … “Sir,” cried father at last, “haven’t I told you better. Haven’t I taught you that what a man owes to himself is to strive after manhood. A clerk with a clerk’s narrow little soul—is that your idea of a man! I’d rather see you carrying letters like Job Hawkins. I’d sooner see you serving cheese behind Jago’s counter …

“No, you can’t help yourself. And why? Because yourself is not worth helping. You have the spirit of a slave, sir. A clerk! A creature with a pen behind its ear!” (4-7)

[From Chapter III: Thorne’s first day as a clerk]

At Mr Cherry’s bidding I hung my hat on a certain peg, signed my name in the attendance book, and in a round-backed wooden chair sat down. I was initiated. I was one of Her Majesty’s servants. On everything about me, the table, the chair, the hat-rack, the tumblers and water-bottle on the mantel, the pens and pencils and paper which Mr Higgs, otherwise Bill, brought me, on the blue and white duster with which Mr Cherry polished my table, was stamped the potent V.R.;[6] yes, and I myself was branded, and already, whatever might happen now, I had right to one three hundred and sixty-fifth part of eighty pounds a year.

[Thorne’s cynical friend Oliver instructs him on life in the Tax Office]

“You didn’t choose the Tax Office, I suppose? No. Of course not. What place had you on the list? Eighty-sixth. I thought so. If you’d been a bit higher up they might have given you a chance somewhere; as it is—” Oliver gave a vicious stab at the fire and flung the poker into the fender. “Well, you’re here,” he finished.

I hardly knew what he meant; but I gathered that, for some reason, he was not content. “Isn’t the Tax Office a good one, then?” I asked.

“It isn’t, then. It’s one of the worst. Wait till you’ve been here a while—five years, we’ll say, like myself—and you’ll know. A man gets no chance. What chance have we, anyway? They take us and call us Men clerks. Men clerks! Just as they talk of Buck niggers.[7] And they put us in gangs in offices, and there we are with prospect of two-fifty a year some time when we’re grey headed and the kick-out at sixty with what they call a pension.”

Such talk was not pleasant to hear, and it was mystifying. “But one needn’t stay a Man clerk,” I ventured.

“Oh, no. That’s true. I used to think like that myself. We all do. Of course you’ve got the usual notions. You’re going to study and get on. . . . Yes. Well, I won’t call you a fool,” said Oliver, with his harsh little laugh, “but I’ll bet you my month’s screw that before two years you’re thinking more of marrying than studying.”

“Oh,” said I, and thought instantly of Nell. “Do you really think that? And why?”

“Because I know,” answered Oliver. “There’s something in the air—there’s something in the breed of us. I suppose we’re fit for nothing else. D’you think if we were men we’d be content to sit here toasting our toes at an office fire? Not likely! We’d be out doing something—policemen, or driving a bus or something.” It was almost father’s talk; only less sincere, I thought. “Then why are you here?” I asked.

“Because I’m of the breed,” said Oliver. “I was born to be a fossil. I gave up studying some time ago. I’m—”

“What, married?”

Oliver nodded and bent towards the fire. I noticed then how worn he was, how shabby too and not very cleanly; and I understood also why he did not have even nine pennyworth of food in the basement. “Yes, I’m married,” he said. “Of course I am. Clerks are made to get married and keep up the population. . . .” He sat back and put his feet upon the mantelshelf. “No matter,” he said. “Another year of London diggings would have killed me. Where are you staying?”

I told him; then, by way of satisfying my curiosity, asked if there were not chances for Men clerks even in the Tax Office.

He shrugged his shoulders, and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “There’s what you might call outside chances,” he answered, “—about a hundred to one. Oh, that’s another delusion of the greenhorn. Wait a minute.”

He rose, went to a drawer, and came back with an office Establishment list. “This will show you the chances. See all these men,” he said and drew a finger down a long list of names. “Well, they’re the top-hats of this establishment—Commissioners, Chiefs, Principals, Heads of Sections, and all the rest. Look at their salaries, anything from two thousand to four hundred. How they got there is no matter. Some of them deserve their luck. Hughes does. Philpot does. Winter does—maybe you’ve seen him—he’s a real good un. . . . The rest, well, some of them are better than old Cherry-blossom,[8] and the others aren’t. What’s wanted here is another Cromwell that knows how to purge. The Tax Office will never be worth tuppence till most of that gang is cleared out and the big thick line wiped with it. What’s the Line? There it is. It’s what’s below them and above us, and it’s what we can’t pass. We’re not good enough. We aren’t class enough. Look at us, a hundred and twenty Men clerks all in a bunch like sheep in a pen. Do you see how we’re labelled, each man with his little Mister, and his little salary? That’s official etiquette. Above the Line you’re an Esquire, below it you’re plain Mister and be damned to you! . . . Here’s my name down here. Yours will be there at the bottom one of these days. And there we’ll stay, never any higher—not a derned inch except someone above us cuts his throat. Garn!” said Oliver and flung the office list upon his table. “I wonder we don’t put dynamite in the cellars, like the Fenians.”[9] (37-42)

[From Chapter VIII: An unsympathetic study of a middle-aged clerk very like Pooter]

Mr Hope was the head of our room. His official position was just over the thick black Line. Age forty-six. Salary about three hundred pounds a year. In person he was middle-sized, somewhat portly and florid; his face a little weak, a little stupid; his mouth hidden beneath a thick grey moustache; his crown bald and shining; his eyes good-natured, heavy, tired. In his worn frock-coat, striped trousers, spotted double-breasted waistcoat, full black scarf, thick square-toed shoes and drab gaiters, he had a decorous and respectable air. He was always clean and neat as a new pin; always wore a frock-coat and silk hat; always carried an umbrella; always in official hours had protectors of cartridge paper over his cuffs. As a man he was kindly, just, narrow in mind and rigid, a thorough Tory, a staunch Churchman, without pretensions to education or culture; but what Mr Hope was, as man and citizen, does not matter I think. Before everything, in everything, he was an official. He lived for the office. It had his heart, filled his thoughts. Through the most of thirty years he had slaved devotedly; had shaped himself and been shaped into an almost perfect part of the machine. He never made a mistake. He knew every strand of the ropes. He seemed tireless. He was order itself. Like a planet he moved in eternal routine. You might set your watch by his doings. At ten o’clock precisely he came in; at eleven drank a glass of water; at one-fifteen cleansed and brushed himself, drew his chair near a window, spread a red silk handkerchief over his knees, and spent half-an-hour in munching sandwiches, sipping water, and slowly assimilating the political leader of the morning’s Times. Luncheon done he carefully folded his sandwich-tin in brown paper and laid it beside his gloves on the mantel; then wiped his fingers on a duster; then lighted a cigarette, returned to the window, and for ten minutes stood looking upon the world without. So, for nearly every day of nearly thirty years, at the same minutes of every hour, Mr Hope had stood smoking his cigarette and gazing out upon London. He never wearied of the sight. He loved all that—the Embankment, the traffic, the trees, the river and all upon it, the buildings, the bridges, the murky sky, the colour, the very smell of London. It was part of his existence, of his career, of his tape-swathed self. London and the office: there was Mr Hope. … (141-2)

At last we came to Mr Hope’s residence in Uffra Road, Brixton. It was a semi-detached villa of red brick; a grass patch between iron railing and bow window in front, a longer patch bordered with flower beds behind; cork-faced plant boxes on the sills; flat brass bands adorning the bedroom windows; right and left a hundred other residences exactly like it.

“Not a bad little place I have here, Thorne? Quiet, commodious, and all that. Bought it through a Building society. Best way. Nothing like having your own house. . . .

Shall we—ah—go in? Perhaps you’d like to see my little snuggery?”

The snuggery was a small back room on the first floor, simply furnished with a chair and table, a square of carpet, and a little bookcase holding dictionaries, some yellow-backed novels, and a complete set of Tax Office reports. On the walls were a few framed photographs of London. The table might have been the same at which Mr Hope laboured every day—trays, inkpots, pencils, scissors, all complete. Here of an evening he toiled often over papers that he had carried home in a despatch bag; here sat engaged on the documents and books of his private affairs. The documents were tied about with red tape. The books, as he pridefully explained, were kept on strict official principles, each item of receipt and expenditure with its own Vote and elaborate system of Sub-heads. Vote I.—Household Expenses, 102. Vote II.—Personal Expenses, 25. Vote V.—Coals, 7: and so on.

“Like to know where I am, Thorne,” said Mr Hope. “Order—economy—system, those are my principles. Quite impossible it is for there to be any extravagance without discovering it. Waste of coals, or gas, by the servant: there is last year’s expenditure. Butcher, baker, provision merchant: here they all are. Outlay on clothes: here it is. Boots—soap—kindling wood—furniture—tobacco—liquors—postage stamps: here is the amount allotted to each and the expenditure to a farthing.” (144-7)

[From Chapter 11: Thorne meets two “seniors,” both bachelors, while walking out with his baby son on Peckham Rye on a Sunday. Neither knows he is married and a father. Hull greets him:]

“By Jove! I congratulate you, old man. Would never have thought of it, dashed if I should. Taking him for a little ride in the pram-pram, eh?”

I felt like hitting the man. I knew now that he was contemning me, thinking at the back of his head, “By Jove—little Thorne married—and with a kid. Whew! And the fellow can’t have much more than a hundred a year. Little bounder in his silk hat, and wheeling a perambulator like any counter-jumper.[10] This is now the Service is let down by bringing in these Board School cads.”[11] I do not say that I gave Hull credit just then for all of that, but I did afterwards, and for more than that. “Yes,” I replied stoutly, “I’m taking him for a ride. I always do on Sunday mornings. Perhaps I’ll meet you both here again. Good-bye.” And I passed on with the pram-pram. (211)

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[1] A soothing ointment. The allusion is to Hamlet’s words to his guilty mother: “Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.”

[2] In Greek myth Sisyphus was condemned forever to push uphill a boulder which rolled down again just as he reached the summit.

[3] He has secured a miserable post as a lawyer’s clerk, and has to live on twelve shillings a week, or £31 a year.

[4] Detachable collars made out of a type of rubber. The tone of all this section is heavily ironical.

[5] Fortuna, the goddess of chance, often shown standing on a ball to indicate her fickleness.

[6] “Victoria Regina,” signifying that all these items were in theory the Queen’s property.

[7] The text contains a footnote here by the novelist addressing the reader, explaining and justifying the “derisive air” inherent in the phrase “Men clerks.”

[8] An irreverent pun on the name of their superior; Cherry Blossom was and still is the name of a shoe polish.

[9] A terrorist organization which was trying to secure the independence of Ireland by violence.

[10] A shop assistant, particularly one who apes the manners of his customers on the other side of the counter.

[11] A person (implicitly an upstart from the lower classes) who has been educated at a government school, at taxpayers’ expense.