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Here, under the chapter-heading of “Home, Sweet Home,” the author, still reminiscent of Dickens, but delightfully compact and laconic, describes the miserable dwelling of the Ginx’s with a bitterness of humor that mocks the sentiment of Howard Payne’s song. As a specimen of clean realism, this description is more effective than anything of Zola’s; for Zola’s realism is idealism gone mad. The squalor of the slum is heightened by the associations that cling to the name Rosemary. A bit of sermonizing upon the responsibilities of landlords for the souls in that slum, and the author reverts to Ginx and his family.

“Ginx had an animal affection for his wife, that preserved her from unkindness even in his cups.” You thank the author for not succumbing to realism and making Ginx a brute. Ginx worked hard and gave his wife his earnings, less sixpence, with which sum he retreated, on Sundays, from his twelve children, to the ale-house to listen sleepily while ale-house demagogues prescribed remedies for State abuses. He was ignorant of policies and issues; simply one of a million victims of the theories upon which statesmen experiment in legislation and taxation. He was one of the many dumb and almost unfeeling “chaotic fragments of humanity” to be hewn into shape in one of two ways; either by “coarse artists seeking only petty profit, unhandy, immeasurably impudent,” or by instruction to be made “civic corner-stone polished after the similitude of a palace.” He was appalled by the many mouths he had to feed. He was touched by his wife’s continuous heroism of sacrifice for the children, and he felt, in a dim fashion, something of an intuition of “her unsatisfied cravings and the dense motherly horrors that sometimes brooded over her” as she nursed her infants. She believed that God sends food to fill the mouths He sends. She had been able to get along. She would be able to get along.

Ginx, feeling another infant straw would break his back. determined to drown the straw. Mrs. Ginx, clinging to No. Twelve, listened aghast. The stream of her affections, though divided into twelve rills, would not have been exhausted in twenty-four, and her soul, forecasting its sorrows, yearned after that nonentity Number Thirteen. Ginx sought to comfort her by the suggestion that she could not have any more. But she knew better.

After eighteen months the baby was born. Ginx thought it all out before the event. “He wouldn’t go on the parish. He couldn’t keep another youngster to save his life. He would not take charity. There was nothing to do but drown the baby.” He must have talked his intentions at the ale-house, for the people in the neighborhood watched her “time” with interest. Going home one afternoon, he saws signs of excitement around his door. He entered. He took up the little stranger and bore it from the room. “His wife would have arisen but a strong power called weakness held her back.” Out on the street, with the crowd following him, Ginx stopped to consider. “It is all very well to talk about drowning your baby, but to do it you need two things–water and opportunity. He turned toward Vauxhall Bridge. The crowd cried “Murder!”

“Leave me alone nabors,” shouted Ginx; “this is my own baby and I’ll do wot I likes with it. I kent keep it an’ if I’ve got anythin’ I can’t keep, it’s best to get rid of it, ain’t it? This child’s goining over Vauxhall Bridge.”

The women clung to his arms and coat-tails. A man happened along. “A foundling? Confound the place, the very stones produce babies.”

“It weren’t found at all. It’s Ginx’s baby,” cried the crowd.

“Ginx’s baby. Who’s Ginx?’

“I am,” said Ginx.

“Well?”

“Well!”

“He’s going to drown it!” came the chorus.

“Going to drown it? Nonsense!” said the officer.

“I am,” said Ginx.

“But, bless my heart, that’s murder!”

“No, ’tain’t,” said Ginx. “I’ve twelve already at home. Starvashon’s shure to kill this ‘un. Best save it the trouble.”