Workhous, And Other Sketches of the Life of the Poor 1918se Character

7/27/2019 Workhous, And Other Sketches of the Life of the Poor 1918se Character

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BY THE SAME AUTHORIN THE WORKHOUSE

A PLAY IN ONE ACTThe International Suffrage Shop, John St., Strand, W.C. 2 (6d.)

pccsa "Wotices" Dull talk none the less offensive because it may have been

Wie-Vike."Daily Mail." The piece thoug-h mere talk is strong talk." Morning Advertiser." The play is clean and cold and humorous. The main value of

the piece is that it is a superb genre picture. One or two of theflashes from this strange, generally unknown world are positivesparks of life." Sheffield Daily Telegraph,

" I found it interesting and convincing ; but then I am prepared tobelieve that our laws always will be rotten till lawyers are dis-qualified from sitting in Parliament." Reynolds'

" The masculine portion of the audience walked with headsabashed in the entr'acte ; such things had been said upon the stagethat they were suffused with blushes." Standard.

" Delicate matters were discussed with much knowledge and sometact." Morning Post."'In the Workhouse' reminds us forcibly of certain works ofM. Brieux, which plead for reform by painting a terrible, and perhapsovercharged, picture of things as they are. . . . The presence of the

idiot girl helps to point another moral in Mrs. Nevinson's arraign-ment, and is therefore artistically justifiable ; and the more terrible itappears the better have the author and the actress done their work.. . . Such is the power of the dramatic pamphlet, sincerely writtenand sincerely acted. There is nothing to approach it in directnessand force. It sweeps all mere prettiness into oblivion." Pall MallGazette."It is one of the strongest indictments of our antiquated lawsTelating to married women. A man seated behind the present writer

'called the plaj' immoral ! and as Mrs. Nevinson says m her prefaceto the published edition, the only apology she makes for its realism isthat it is true." Christian Comtnonivealth.

" The whole thing left an unpleasant taste." Academy.Note.Two years after this piece was given by the PioneerPlayers the law was altered.


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WORKHOUSECHARACTERSAND OTHER SKETCHES OFTHE LIFE OF THE POOR

BYMARGARET WYNNE NEVINSON

L.L.A.

The depth and dream of my desire.The bitter paths wherein I stray.Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.One stone the more swings to her placeIn that dread Temple of Thy Worth-It is enough that through Thy graceI saw naught common on Thy earth.RuDYARD Kipling.

LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN Sc UNWIN LTD.RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. i


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Almost the whole of these sketches haveappeared in the Westminster Gazette ; the lasttwo were published in the Daily News, and* Widows Indeed " and "The Runaway" inthe Herald. It is by the courtesy of theEditors of the above papers that they arereproduced in book form.

First published in jqiS

{All rights reserved.)


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TO MY SONC. R. W. NEVINSON


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PREFACEThese sketches have been published in variouspapers during the last thirteen years. Many ofthe characters are life portraits, and the wit andwisdom of the common people have been faithfullyrecorded in a true Boswellian spirit ; others areWahrheit und Dichtung (if one may still quoteGoethe), but all have been suggested by actualfact and experience.

During the last ten years great reforms havebeen taking place in the country. In 1908 the OldAge Pensions Act came into force, and the weeklymiracle of 5s. a week (now 7s. 6d.) changed theworld for the aged, giving them the liberty andindependence, which ought to be the right of everydecent citizen in the evening of life.The order by which a pauper husband had the

right to detain his wife in the workhouse by " hismarital authority " is now^ repealed. A case someyears ago of this abominable breach of the law ofHabeas Corpus startled the country, especiallythe ratepayers, and even the House of Commons


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t-- PREFACEwere amazed at their own laws. The order waswithdrawn in 1913 on the precedent of the judgmentgiven in the case of the Queen v. Jackson (1891),when it was decided " that the husband has noright, where his wife refuses to hve with him, totake her person by force and restrain her of herHberty" (60 L. J. Q. B. 346).Many humane reforms and regulations for theclassification of inmates were made in 1913, andthe obnoxious words " pauper " and " workhouse "have been abohshed ; but before the authoritiesrightly grasped the changes the war was upon us,the workhouses were commandeered as militaryhospitals, the inmates sent into other institutions,and all reforms lapsed in overcrowded and under-staffed buildings.Once again the Poor Law is in the melting-pot,

and it seems as if now it will pass into the limboof the past with other old, unhappy far-off things.


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CONTENTSEUNICE SMITHDRUNKDETAINED BY MARITAL AUTHORITYA WELSH SAILORTHE VOW ....BLIND AND DEAF" AND, BEHOLD, THE BABE WEPT" MARY, MARY, PITY WOMEN I "THE SUICIDEPUBLICANS AND HARLOTSOLD INKY ....A DAUGHTER OF THE STATEIN THE PHTHISIS WARDAN IRISH CATHOLICAN OBSCURE CONVERSATIONISTMOTHERS ....'* YOUR son's your SON " ." TOO OLD AT FORTY "IN THE LUNATIC ASYLUM .

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12 CONTENTSTHE SWEEP S LEGACYAN ALIEN ...." WIDOWS INDEED ! " .THE RUNAWAY .* A GIRL ! GOD HELP HER ! "ON THE PERMANENT LIST .THE PAUPER AND THE OLD-AGE PENSIONTHE EVACUATION OF THE WORKHOUSE

PAQB

. 138

. 148. 153


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WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSEUNICE SMITHDRUNK

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,But Here and There as strikes the Player goes ;And He that toss'd you down into the Field,He knows about it allHe knows He knows.

" Eunice Smith, drunk, brought by the poUce."The quaint Scriptural name, not heard for

years, woke me up from the dull apathy to whicheven the most energetic Guardian is reduced atthe end of a long Board meeting, and I listenedintently as the Master of the workhouse wenton to explain that the name Smith had beengiven by the woman, but her clothes and a smallbook, which the doctor said was Homer, in Greek,were marked Eunice Romaine.

Eunice Romainethe name took me backdown long vistas of years to a convent schoolat Oxford, to the clanging bells of Tom Tower,to the vibrant note of boys' voices in collegechapels, to the scent of flowers and incense atearly celebrations, to the high devotions and idealsof youth, to its passionate griefs and joys. Eunice


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14 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSRomaine had been the genius of our schooloneof those gifted students in whom knowledgeseems innate ; her name headed every exami-nation list, and every prize in the form fellto her ; other poor plodders had no chance whereshe was. From school she had gone with manya scholarship and exhibition to Cambridge, whereshe had taken a high place in the Classical Tripos ;later I heard she had gone as Classical Mistressto one of the London High Schools, then ourpaths had separated, and I heard no more.

I went down to the Observation Ward afterthe meeting, where between a maniacal caselying in a strait-waistcoat, alternately singinghymns and blaspheming, and a tearful melancholicwho begged me to dig up her husband's bodyin the north-east corner of the garden, I saw myold friend and classmate.She was lying very quiet with closed eyes ;

her hair had gone grey before her time, and herface was pinched and scored with the deep per-pendicular Hnes of grief and disappointmentbut I recognized the school-girl Eunice by thebroad, intellectual brow and by the delicate,high-bred hands."

" She is rather better," said the nurse in answerto my question, " but she has had a very badnight, screaming the whole time at the rats andmice she thought she saw, and the doctor fearscollapse, as her heart is weak ; but if she can getsome sleep she may recover."

Sleep in the crowded Mental Ward, with maniacs


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EUNICE SMITHDRUNK 15shrieking and shouting around ! But exhaustedNature can do a great deal, and when I called somedays later I found my old friend discharged tothe General Sick Ward, a placard above herhead setting forth her complaint as " chronicalcoholism, cirrhosis of the liver, and cardiacdisease."

She recognized me at once, but with the apathyof weakness she expressed neither surprise norinterest at our meeting, and only after some weekshad passed I found her one evening brighter andbetter, and anxious to go out. Over an impromptubanquet of grapes and cakes we fell into one ofthose intimate conversations that come so spon-taneously but are so impossible to force, and Iheard the short history of a soul's tragedy.

" Just after I left Cambridge mother died. Shetold me on her death-bed that I had the taint ofdrink in the blood, and urged me never to touchalcohol. My fathera brilliant scholar andsuccessful journalisthad killed himself withdrink whilst we were all quite young ; motherhad kept us all away at school, so that we shouldnot know, and had borne her burden alone. Ipromised light-heartedly ; I was young and strong,and had not known temptation. After motherdied I was very lonely : both my brothers hadgone to Canada. M}^ father's classical and literaryabilities had come only to me : their talentswere purely mechanical and they had never beenable to acquire book knowledge. I was not veryhappy teaching. Classics had come to me so


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i6 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSeasilyhereditary question againthat I nevercould understand the difficulties of the averagegirl, and I had very little patience with dullnessand stupidity. However, very soon I becameengaged to be married, and lived for some timein a fool's paradise of love and joy. My fiance wasa literary manI will not tell you his name, ashe is one of those who have arrivedbut it isdifficult to start, and we waited about two yearsbefore he got an appointment sufficiently secureto make marriage possible. I was very busywe had taken a flat, and I was engaged in choosingfurniture and preparing my humble trousseau.I had given notice at the school, and the wedding-day was within a fortnight, when one morningI got a letter from my fiance, couched in wild,allegorical language, bemoaning his unworthiness,but asking me to release him from his engage-ment, as he found his love for me had been a miragenow that he had come across his twin-soul. Iread the letter over and over again, hardly grasp-ing the meaning, when there fell from the envelopea little newspaper cutting that I had overlookedit was the announcement of his marriage threedays before to his twin-soul.

" Still I was unable to realize what had happened.I kept saying over and over to myself, ' Charlieis married,' but in my heart I did not believe it.That afternoon the head-mistress came to seeme ; she was very kind, and took me herself toa brain specialist, who said I had had a nervousshock, that I ought to have a rest, and mountain


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EUNICE SMITHDRUNK 17air would be best for me. The council of my schoolagreed to take me back again, and allow me aterm's hoKday on full pay. One of my colleagues(it was holiday-time) came with me to Switzerland,and there, amid the ice and snow of the highlatitudes, the full understanding of what hadcome to me dawned upon my mind, and I realizedthe pangs of despised love, of jealousy, and hate.A Nachschein of Christianity suddenly made merush back to England in terror of what mighthappen ; it is easy to commit suicide in Switzer-land, and a certain black precipice near the hoteldrew me ever towards it with baleful fascination.Some one dragged me again to Harley Street, andthis time the great specialist advised sea air andcheerful society. The latter prescription is notavailable for lonely and jilted high-school mis-tresses in London, but I tried sea air, and it didme good. I don't think for a moment that thedoctor realized that I was practically off my head ;the terrible obsession of love and jealousy hadme in its grip. It had taken me some time tofall in love, and I could not fall out again toorder, whilst the knowledge that the man whohad broken his promise to me now belongedto another woman was driving me to madness.One day I went down to bathe, and suddenlydetermined to end my woe. I swam out far toseaso far that I judged it beyond my force everto get back ; but though my will commandedmy limbs to cease their work they refused toobey. I was always a very strong swimmer,

2


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i8 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSand I landed again more humiliated than ever :I had not even the pluck to end my sorrows.

" After that I went back to work ; mountainsand sea had no message for me. I was bettersitting at my desk in the class-room, trying todrill Latin and Greek into the unresponsive brainsof girls,

" I got through the days, but the nights wereterrible ; all the great army of forsaken loversknow that the nights are the worst. I used tolie awake hour after hour, sobbing and cryingfor mercy and strength to endure, and I usedto batter my head against the floor, not knowingany one could hear. One night a fellow-lodger,who slept in the next room, came in and beggedme to be quiet ; she had her work to do, andnight after night I kept her awake with my sobbing.* I suppose it is all about some wretched man,' sheobserved coolly ; ' but, believe me, they are notworth the love we give them. I left my husbandsome years ago, finding that he had been carryingon with a woman who called herself my friend.At first I cried and sobbed just as you do now ;but I felt such a fool making such a fuss abouta man who had played it down so low, that Imade up my mind I would forget him ; and intime you will get over this, and give thanks thatyou have been delivered from a liar and a traitor.*

" She gave me a glass of strong brandy andwater ; it was the first I had ever tasted, and Iremember how it ran warm through my veins,and how I slept as I had not slept for months.


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EUNICE SMITHDRUNK 19" My fellow-lodger and I became great friends ;

she was quite an uneducated woman, the matronof a laundry, but she braced me up like a tonicwith her keen humour and experience of life.

" How strange it seems for a middle-ageddrunkard in a pauper infirmary to be tellingthis ancient love-tale, and posing as one of * thearistocracy of passionate souls.' But tout passetout casse, and after years of anguish and strifeI woke up one bright spring morning and feltthat I was cured and for ever free of the wildpassion of love. That day always stands out asthe happiest of my life. I shall never forget it.It was Saturday, and a hoUday ; and I got on mybicycle and rode off for miles far into the countrysinging the Benedicite for pure joy. I lunchedat a little inn on the Thames, and ordered somechampagne to celebrate the recovery of my Uberty.

" But by strange irony of fate the very day Iescaped from the toils of love I fell under anothertyrannythat of alcohol. Now, Peg "I startedat the unfamiUar old nickname of my school days" I believe you are crying. Having shed morethan my own share of tears, nothing irritatesme so much as to see other women cry, and ifyou don't stop I'll not say another word."

I drew my handkerchief across my eyes andadmitted to a cold in the head." Shortly afterward I received notice to leavethe High School. I did not mindI alwayshated teaching, and I found that I had the powerof writing ; an article that I could flash off in a


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20 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSfew hours would keep me for a week, and I couldcreate my own paradise for half a crownnow,Peg, you are crying again. But of late life wasnot so bad. I enjoyed writing, and shall alwaysbe thankful I can read Greek ; besides, I wasnot always drunk ; the craving only takes meoccasionally, and at its worst alcohol is a kindermaster than love. I shall be well enough to goout in a few days ; bring me some pens and paper,and my editor will advance me some money. Iam going to write an article on workhouse infirm-aries that will startle the public. What do youknow of workhouses ? You are only a Guardian ;'tis we musicians (or rather inmates) who know."The article never got written. The next day

I found Eunice very ill ; she was unconsciousand delirious till her death, reeling off sonoroushexameters from Homer and Virgil and statelypassages from the Greek tragedians.We spared her a pauper funeral, and a few oldschool and college friends gathered round thegrave. A white-haired professor of world famewas there also, and he shook hands with us aswe parted at the cemetery gates. " Poor Eunice ! "he said, his aged face working painfully. ** Oneof the best Greek scholars of the day, and thedaughter of my oldest friend. Both of themgeniuses, and both of them with the same taintin the blood ; but I feel I ought not to have lether come to this."

I think we all felt the same as we walked sadlyhome.


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DETAINED BY MARITAL AUTHORITY(By the law of England the mothers of illegitimate

children are often in a better position than their marriedsisters.)

An unusual sense of expectancy pervaded theyoung women's ward ; Mrs. Cleaver had gonedown " to appear before the Committee," andthough the ways of committees are slow, andpauper-time worthless, it was felt that her ordealwas being unduly protracted.

" She's having a dose, she is," said a youngwoman w^alking up and down, futilely pattingthe back of a shrieking infant. " I 'ate appear-ing afore them committees ; last time I was downI called the lady ' Sir ' and the gentleman ' Mum,'and my 'eart went pitter-patter in my breast so.that you might have knocked me down with afeather. 'Ere she iswell, my dear, and youdo look bad "

" Them committees alius turn me dead sick,and, being a stout woman, my boots feel tootight for me, and I goes into a perspiration, andthe great drops go rolling off my forehead. Well,


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22 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERS*e's kept 'is word, and got the law and right ofEngland behind 'im."What reporters call a " sensation " made itselffelt through the ward ; the inmates gatheredcloser round Mrs. Cleaver, and screaming infantswere rocked and patted and soothed with muchvigour and little result.

" Well/' said Mrs. Cleaver, sinking on to theend of a bed, '' I went afore the Committee andI says, ' I want to take my discharge,' I says ;I applied last week to the Master, but mine gotat 'im first, and Master up and says

" ' No, Mrs. Cleaver, you can't go,' he says ; ' your'usband can't spare you,' he says, * wants you tokeep 'im company in 'ere,' he says." ' Is that true, Master ? ' says the little manwot sits lost in the big chair.

" ' That is so, sir,' says Master, and then 'e outswith a big book and reads something very learnedand brain-confusing that I did not rightly under-stand, as to how a 'usband may detain his wifein the workhouse by his marital authority.

" ' Good 'eavens ! ' says the little lady Guardian'er wot's dressed so shabby. * Is that the law ofEngland ? '

" Then they all began talking at once mostexcited, and the little man in the big chair beatlike a madman on the table with a 'ammer, andno one took the slightest notice, but when somequiet was restored the little man asked me to tellthe Board the circumstances. So I says 'ow helost his work through being drunk on duty, which


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DETAINED BY MARITAL AUTHORITY 23was the lying tongue of the perHce, for 'is 'edwas clear, the drink alius taking him in the legs,like most cabmen, and the old 'oss keeps sober.It was a thick fog, and he'd just got off the boxto lead the 'oss through the gates of the mews,and the perliceman spotted 'is legs walking outin contrary directions, though 'is 'ed was clearas daylight, and so the perlice ran 'im in and thebeak took his licence from 'im, and 'ere we are." Now I've got over my confinement, and thechild safe in 'eaven, after all the worrit andstarvation, I thought I'd like to go out and earnmy own livingI'm a dressmaker by trade, andmy sister will give me a 'ome ; I 'ate being 'ereliving on the rates, and 'e not having done betterfor us than this Bastillethough I alius says as itwas the lying tongue of a perlicemanit seemsfair I should go free. The lady wot comes roundSundays told me I ain't got no responsibility formy children being a married lady with the lines.Then the little man flew out most violent : ' Don'ttalk Hke that, my good woman ; of course youhave responsibility to your children ; you mustnot believe what ignorant people tell you.'

" Then I heard the tall, ginger-haired chap wotsits next to the little man'im as you unmarriedgirls go before to try and father your childrenI 'eard 'im say quite distinct : ' The woman isright, sir ; married women are not responsiblefor their children, but I believe the husband iswithin his rights in refusing to allow her to leavethe workhouse without him.'


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24 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERS" Then they asked me to retire, and the Master

told me to come back 'ere, and I should know theiesult later. Oh, Lord ! I'm that 'ot and upsetwith the worry of it all, I feel I'll never cool again,"and Mrs Cleaver wiped her brow and fannedherself with her apron.

" Single life has its advantages," said a tall,handsome woman, who was nursing a baby bythe window. " You with the lines ain't been asperlite as might be to us who ain't got 'em, butwe 'as the laugh over you really. I'm takingmy discharge to-morrow morning, and not oneof 'em dare say me nay ; I needn't appearafore Boards and be worried and upset with'usbands and Guardians and things afore I cantake myself off the parish and eat my bread in-dependent."

" But why weren't you married, Pennyloaf ?Not for want of asking, I'll be bound."

" No, it warn't for want of asking ; fact is, Iwas put off marriage at a ver}^ early age. I 'ada drunken beast of a father as spent his time a-drinking by day and a-beating mother by nightone night he overdid it and killed 'er ; he got im-prisonment for life, and we was put away in theworkhouse schools ; it would have been kinderof the parish to put us in the lethal chamber,as they do to cats and dogs as ain't wanted. Butwe grew up somehow, knowing as we weren'twanted, and then the parish found me a situa-tion, under-housemaid in a big house ; and thenI found as the young master wanted me, the first


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DETAINED BY MARITAL AUTHORITY 25time as any human soul had taken any interestin me, and, oh, Lord ! I laughs now when I thinkwhat a 'appy time it was. Since then I've hadfour children, and I have twenty-five shillingsa week coming in regular besides what I can makeat the cooking. I lives clean and respectableno drinking, no bad language ; my children neversee nor hear what I saw and heard, and they aremineminemine. I always comes into theHouse for confinement, liking quiet and skilledmedical attendance. I never gets refusedthelaw daren't refuse such as me. I always leavesthe coming in till the last moment ; then there areno awkward questions, and when they begin toinquire as to settlement, I'm off. All the womenin our street are expecting next week, theirhusbands all out of work, and not a pair of sheetsor the price of a pint of milk between them, alllying in one room, too, with children and husbandsabout, as I don't consider decent, but havingthe lines, it's precious hard for them to get inhere, and half of them daren't come for fear heand some one else will sell up the 'ome whilstthey're away. You remember Mrs. Hall, whodied here last week ? Well, she told me that herhusband swore at her so fearful for having twinsthat the doctor sent her in here out of his way,and what with all the upset and the starvationwhilst she was carrying the children, she tookfever and snuffed out like a candle. No, theneighbours don't know as I'm a bad woman ; Igenerally moves before a confinement, and I'as a 'usband on the 'igh seas.


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26 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERS" Well, I'm going back to-morrow to my neat

little home, that my lady-help has been mindingfor me, to my dear children and to my regularincome, and I don't say as I envies you marriedladies your rings or your slavery."


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A WELSH SAILORI will go back to the great sweet mother,Mother and lover of men, the sea.

The Master of the Casual Ward rattled his keyspompously in the lock of the high workhouse gates,and the shivering tramps entered the yard, abattered and footsore procession of this world'sfailures, the outcast and down-trodden in the fiercestruggle for existence. Some of them were youngand strong, some old and feeble, all wan and whitewith hunger and the chill of the November fogwhich wrapped Hke a wet blanket round their ill-clothed bodies. Amongst them was an old manwith ear-rings, and thick, curly white hair, withbroad shoulders and rolling gait, and as he passedI seemed to feel the salt wind of the sea blowingin my face, and the plunge of the good ship in thebillows of the bay. One by one the master shutthem up in the dreary little cell where each manis locked for thirty-six hours on a dietary of por-ridge, cheese, and bread, and ten hours' work aday at stone-breaking or fibre-picking. And yetthe men walk in with something approachingrelief on their wear}^ faces ; the hot bath willrestore circulation ; and really to appreciate a bed


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28 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSone should wander the streets through a winter'snight, or " lodge with Miss Green " as they termsleeping on the heath.Half an hour later, as I sat in one of the sick-wards, I felt once again the salt freshness of theair above the iodoform and carbolic, and lying onthe ambulance I saw the curly white head of the oldsailor, his face blanched under its tan.

" Fainted in the bath, no food for three dayswe get them in sometimes Hke that from the CasualWard. Wait a moment till I put the pillow straight,"said the nurse, as quickly and deftly she raised thehoary head, which has been called a crown ofglory.

A few weeks later I passed through the ward,and saw the old man still lying in bed ; his sleeveswere rolled up, and his nightshirt loose at thethroat, and I saw his arms and chest tattooedgorgeously with ships and anchors and flags, withhearts and hands and the red dragon of Wales."He's been very bad," said the nurse ; " bron-

chitis and great weaknessbeen starving for weeks,the doctor thinks. Talks Enghsh all right whenhis temperature is down, but raves to himself ina sort of double-Dutch no one can understand,though we have French and Germans and Russiansin the ward."

'VFy Nuw, fy Nuw, paham y'm gadewaist ? "cried the old man, and I recognized the cry fromthe Cross, "My God, My God, why hast Thouforsaken Me ? "

" Oh ! lady," he exclaimed as I sat down beside


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A WELSH SAILOR 29him-" oh ! lady, get me out of this. My matestell me as I'm in the workhouse, and ifmy old mother knew it would kill herit would,indeed. Yes, lady, I follow the seawent offwith my old dad when I was eight year old ; wesailed our old ship Pollybach for wellnigh fortyyears ; and then she foundered off Bushy IslandReef, Torres Straits, and we lost nearly all wehad. After that I've sailed with Captain Jones,of the Highflyer, as first mate ; but now he'sdead I can't get a job nohow. I'm too old,and I've lost my left hand ; some tackle gotloose in a storm and fell upon it, and though thehook is wonderful handy, they won't enter meany more as an A.B.*' I'm a skipper of the ancient timea Chantey-man and a fiddler. I can navigate, checkingthe chronometer by lunar observation. I canrig a ship from rail to truck ; I can reef, hand-steer, and set and take in a top-mast studdingsail ; and I can show the young fools how to usea marlin-spike. Yes, indeed ! But all this isno good now.

" I came up to London to find an old shipmateHugh Pugh. We sailed together fifty yearsago, but he left the sea when he got marriedand started in the milk business in London. Wewas always good mates, and he said to me notlong ago, down in Wales, that the Lord hadprospered him, and that I was to turn to himin any trouble. So when my skipper died Iremembered me of Hugh Pugh, and slung ray


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30 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSbundle to come and find him. Folks was won-derful kind to me along the road, and I sailedalong in fair weather till I got to London ; andthen I was fair frightened ; navigation is verydifficult along the streetsthe craft's too crowdedand folks were shocking hard and unkind.I cruised about for a long time, but London'sa bigger place than I thought, knowing onlythe docks ; and David Evans doesn't seem tohave got the address quite ship-shape, and Ijust drifted and lost faith. Somehow it's harderto trust the Lord in London than on the highseas. Then the mates tell me I fainted andwas brought into the ship's hospital ; and hereI've lain, a-coughing, and a-burning, and a-shivering, with queer tunes a-playing in myhead ; couldn't remember the English, theysay, and talked only Welsh ; and they thoughtI was a Dutchman. This morning I felt a sightbetter, and though the nurse told me not to getup, I just tried to put on my clothes and go ;but blowed if my legs didn't behave shockingrolled to larboard, rolled to starboard, and thenpitched me headlong, so that I thought I'd shiveredall my timbers. So I suppose I must lie atanchor a bit longer ; my legs will never standthe homeward voyage, they're that rotten andbarnacled ; but I'll never get better here ; whatI'm sickening for is the seathe sight of her,and the smell of her, and the noise of the wavesround the helm ; she and me's never been partedbefore for more than two days, and I'm as sick


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32 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERStrust old Joshua with one hand better than mostmen with two. There is a cottage on the shorewhere he can Uve with his mother ; and tell himwe shall all be delighted to welcome an old friendand shipmate. My daughter is coming downhere shortly with her children, and will be veryglad for Joshua to travel with her ; she will calland make arrangements for him to go to herhouse as soon as he is well enough to be moved.I enclose 5 for clothes or any immediate ex-penses, and am sorry that my old friend has beenthrough such privations. As to any expensesfor his keep at the infirmary, I will hold myselfresponsible.

Yours faithfully,Hugh Pugh.Llanrhywmawr, December 6.A Welsh letter was enclosed for the old sailor,

over which he pored with tears of joy runningdown his cheeks.A few days later Hugh Pugh's daughter'smotor throbbed at the door of the w^orkhouse,and the old tar rolled round shaking hands vigor-ously with the mates : " Good-bye ; good-bye,maties ; the Lord has brought me out of thestormy waters, and it's smooth sailing now. He'lldo the same for you, mates, if you trust Him."Then the door closed, and the fresh breeze

dropped, and it seemed as if the ward grew darkand grey.


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THE VOWBetter thou shouldest not vow than thou shouldest

vow and not pay.The heavy machines in the steam-lauudry clankedand groaned, and the smell of soap and soda,cleansing the unspeakable foulness of the infirmarylinen, rose up strong and pungent, as the womencarried out the purified heaps to blow dry inthe wind and sunshine.The inmates worked hard and steadily under

the keen eye of the matron ; many of them knewby bitter experience that inattention or gossipmight cost them the loss of fingers at the cal-enders and wringing machines. Most of thewomen were strong and able-bodied, and yetthe briefest inquiry would reveal some moralflaw rendering them incapable of competing inthe labour marketdrink, dishonesty, immorality,feeble-mindedness. Amongst the heavy, un-comely figures I noticed a young woman, talland well-grown, with a face modest and refined,framed in masses of dark hair under the paupercap. She was folding sheets and table-cloths,working languidly as if in pain, and I drew thematron's attention to the fact.

% S3


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34 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERS* Yes, I don't think she'll finish the day's

work. I told her to go over to the infirmaryif she liked, but she said she would rather stayhere as long as she could. Yes, usual thing,but she is a better class than we get here as arule."A few days later I saw her again in the lying-in ward, a black-haired babe in the cradle besideher, and her hair in two rope-like plaits hangingover the pillow nearly to the ground.

She looked so healthy, handsome, and honestamongst the disease and ugliness and vice aroundthat one wondered how she came to the work-house. " Yes," said the nurse, in answer tomy thoughts, " she is not the sort we have heregenerally. No, I don't know anything abouther ; she is very silent, and they say she refusedto answer the relieving officer." I sat downbeside her and tried to talk about her future,but the girl answered in monosyllables, withtightly shut lips, as if she were afraid to speak.

" Won't the father of your child do anythingfor you ? "

" I do not wish him to."I had been a Guardian long enough to respect

reticence, and I rose to go. The darkness ofthe December afternoon had fallen in the long,half-empty ward, the sufferers dozed, the wailingof babes was hushed, all was strangely quiet,and as I reached the door I heard a voice, " Pleasecome back, ma'am ; I should like to ask yousomething." Then, as I turned to her bedside


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THE VOW 35again, " l have not told any one my story here ;I don't think they would believe me ; but it istrue all the same. But please tell me first, doyou hold with keeping a vow ? "

" Yes, certainly I do."" That is why I am here. I swore an oath

to my dying mother, and I have kept it. Idid not know how hard it would be to keep, butbecause I would not break it I have come todisgrace. When we were children we had acruel, drunken father, and I seem to remembermother always crying, and at night we wouldbe wakened with screams, and we used to rushin and try and stop father beating her to death,and the cruel blows used to half shatter our poorlittle bodies. One night we were too late, andwe saw mother wrapped in a sheet of flameandher shrieks ! It is fifteen years ago now, butthey still ring in my ears. The neighbours cameand the police, and they put out the fire, andtook mother to the hospital and father to thelock-up. Mother did not live long and shesuffered cruel. The next day they took uschildren to see her. We hardly knew it wasmother ; she was bandaged up with white likea mummy, and only one black eye blazing likea live coal out of the ragsshe had beautifuleyesmade us know her. The little boys cried,so that nurse took them out again, but they letme stay with her all night, holding a bit of ragwhere her hand had once been. Just as thegrey dawn came in at the windows mother spoke,


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36 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSvery low so that I had to stoop down to hear :' Hester, my child, swear to me you will nevermarry, and I will die happy. The boys canlook after themselves, but I cannot bear to thinkof you suffering as I have suffered,'

" ' Yes, mother, I'll swear.' No girl of thirteenis keen on marriage, particularly with a fatherlike ours, and I took up the book light-heartedlyand swore ' So help me, God.'" * Thank Heaven, my dear ! Now kiss me.'

" I kissed a bit of rag where her mouth hadbeen, and I saw that the black eye was dim andglazed, and the eyelid fell down as if she weresleeping. I sat on till the nurses changed watch,and then they told me she was dead." Father got a life sentence, the boys weresent to workhouse schools, and some ladies foundme a situation in the country near Oxford. WhenI was about seventeen the under-gardener camecourting me. He was a straight, well-set-up youngchap, and I fell in love with him at once, butw^hen he talked about marriagehaving good wagesI remembered my oath. Jem said an oath likethat wasn't binding ; and when I said I'd livewith him if he liked, he was very shocked, havinghonourable intentions, and he went and fetchedthe vicar to talk to me. He was a very holyman, with the peace of God shining through hiseyes, and he talked so kind and clever, tellingme that mother was dying and half-mad withpain and w^eakness, and that she would be thefirst to absolve me from such a vow. I couldn't


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3S WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSback and listened to the singing high and sweetabove my head, like the chanting of the heavenlyhost. I was always fond of going to St. Paul's,and once on my Sunday out I even went to theSacrament, and I says, ' O God, I've lost mycharacter, but I've kept my oath. You mademe so fond of children ; please don't let me eatand drink my own damnation.'"I sat and thought of this, puzzling andpuzzling, and the hot air out of the gratings mademe drowsy, and I fell asleep and dreamt it was

the Judgment Day, and I stood with my babybefore the Throne, and a great white light shoneon me, bleak and terrible, so that I felt scorchedwith blinding cold. And the angel from hisbook read out : ' Hester French and her bastardchild.'

" Then there came a little kind voice : * Shekept her oath to her dying mother, and remember,she was a woman and all alone ' ; and I knewit was the Virgin Mary pleading for me. Andthen a voice like thunder sounded : * Blot outher sin ! ' and all the choirs of heaven sang to-gether ; and I awoke, but it was only the organcrashing out very loud, and the verger shakingme because he wanted to lock up. Oh, ma'am,do you think as my sin will be forgiven ? Mleast I kept my vow."


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BUND AND DEAFOh, human soul ! as long as thou canst soSet up a mark of everlasting light,Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,To cheer thee and to right thee if thou roamNot with lost toil thou labourest through the night

!

Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.Mary Grant, pauper, of Sick Ward 42, had beenmaking charges of unkindness against NurseSmith, and I had been appointed by the HouseCommittee to inquire into the matter. I founda somewhat harassed-looking nurse filUng uptemperature-charts in a corner of the ward, andshe began volubly to deny the charges.

" The woman's deaf, so it is no good shoutingat her, and I believe she is angry because I can'ttalk on my fingers ; but what with looking afterboth wards and washing and bathing them all,and taking their temperatures and feeding them,and giving them their medicine, I have not timeto attend to the fads and fancies of each one.Granny Hunt, too, takes half my time seeing thatshe does not break her neck with her antics ;and as to scraping the butter off Grant's breadI hope as the Committee did not attend to sucha tale."

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40 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSThe last accusation, I assured her, had not

even been brought before us, and I passed downthe long clean ward where lay sufferers of allages and conditionsthe mighty head of thehydrocephalous child side by side with the fewshrivelled bones of an aged parah^tic. I passedthe famous Mrs. Hunta " granny " of ninety-six, who " kept all her limbs very supple " andherself in excellent condition by a system ofmattress gymnastics which she had evolved forherself. Two comparatively young people ofseventy and eighty, who were unfortunate enoughto lie next her, complained bitterly of Granny'srestlessness ; but the old lady was past disciplineand " restraining influences," and, beyond put-ting a screen round her to check vanity andensure decency, the authorities left her to hergj^mnastic displays. On the whole, though, theward was very proud of Granny ; she was theoldest inhabitant, not only in the House but alsoin the parish, and even female sick-wards takea certain pride in holding a record. The oldlady cocked a bright eye, like a bird, upon meas I passed her bed, and, cheerfully murmuring" Oh, the agony ! " executed a species of senilesomersault with much agility.Round the blazing fire at the end of the ward

(for excellent fires commend me to those rate-supported) sat a group of " chronics " and con-valescentsa poor girl, twisted and racked withSt. Vitus's dance, white-haired " grannies " inevery stage of rheumatic or senile decay, and a


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44 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSknows all about the heavenly Jerusalem, andthe beautiful music and the flowers blossominground the Throne of God. I think he's whatthey calls a Methody, and mother and I wereChurch. I used to go to the Sunday School,and learnt the Catechism, and ' thus to thinkof the Trinity.' However, he's a very goodman all the same, and a great comfortand hefound me a special text from God : ' Then theeyes of the blind shall be opened, and the earsof the deaf shall be unstopped.' That is thepromise to me and to him ; being blind, heimderstands a bit himself, though what the hulla-balloo in my ears is no tongue can tell.

" Mrs. Green, the other blind lady, is such aone to be talking about the diamonds and pearlsin the crowns of glory ; but I don't understandnothing about no jewels. What I seem to wantto see again is the row of scarlet geraniums thatused to stand on our window-sill ; the sun alwaysshone in on them about tea-time, and motherand I thought a world of the light shining on themred Jacobys. But the blind gentleman says asI shall see them again round the Throne."

" She wanders a bit," said the one-eyed granny,touching her forehead significantly ; " she's sucha one for this Methody talk."

I have noticed that the tone of the w^orkhouse,though perfectly tolerant and liberal, is inclinedto scepticism, in spite of the vast preponderanceof the Church of England (C. of E.) in the " CreedBook."


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BLIND AND DEAF 45" Let her wander, then," retorted another ortho-

dox member ; " she ain't got much to comforther 'ere belowthe work'us ain't exactly a para-dise. For Gawd's sake leave 'er 'er 'eaven and'er scarlet geraniums."

" One thing, ma'am, as pleased her w^as somedirty old lace one of the lidies brought for herone afternoon. She was just as 'appy as mostfemales are with a babby, a-fingering of it andcalling it all manner of queer names. Thereisn't a sight of old lace knocking about 'ere,"and her one eye twinkled merrily ; "I guess welidies willed it all away to our h'ancestry aforeseeking retirement. Our gowns aren't hexactlytrimmed with priceless guipure, though there'ssome fine 'and embroidery on my h'apern,"and she thrust the coarsely darned linen betweenthe delicate lingers.

" Garn !they're always a-kiddin' of me. Yes,ma'am, I love to feel real lace ; I can still tellthem all by the touchBrussels and Chantillyand Honiton and rose-point ; it reminds m.e ofthe lovely things I used to mend up for the ladiesto go to see the Queen in."They showed me her needleworkhandker-

chiefs and dusters hemmed with much accuracy,and knitting more even than that of many of uswho can see.As I rose to go she took my hnger and laid it

upon the cabalistic signs of the " Book."" Don't you understand it ? That's my own

text, as I reads when thin^gs are worse than


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"AND, BEHOLD, THE BABE WEPT"And, behold, the babe wept. And she had compassion

upon him.The night-porter sat in his lodge at i a.m., tryinghard to keep off the sleep that weighed his eye-hds downthat heavy sleep that all night-watchersknow when nothing in the world seems worth alonger vigil.But the man before him had been dismissedfor sleeping on duty, and our night-porter hadhad six months out of work, so, with resolutedetermination, he dragged up his leaden limbsand began to pace the corridors towards theMental Ward, where he knew the screams ofthe insane were generally to be relied upon tokeep sleep away from any one in the neighbour-hood. To-night all was quiet, and it was witha brief prayer of thanksgiving that he heardthe insistent note of the electric bell, and rushedto answer it, the lethargy leaving him under thenecessity of action.A policeman entered in a blast of wind andrain, drops off his cape, making black runletson the white stone floor. From under his armhe drew a red bundle and laid it carefully down

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52 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSMrs. Smith had known sorrow, and, feeling by

intuition that she was in the presence of noordinary tragedy, she held her peace.

" Perhaps," she asked presently, "you are goingto adopt this baby ? You seem very fond 'of her."

" I love all babies, but I don't think I couldadopt one ; these workhouse children don't startfair, and I should be too frightened. If the childwent wrong later, I don't think I could bear it."

Mrs. Smith had been a pupil-teacher, and inthe last five years of leisure she had read widely,if confusedly, at the free Ubrary. " But people nowno longer beHeve in heredity. Weissman's theoryis that environment is stronger then heredity."

" Oh ! " said the little lady Guardian." Do read him," said Mrs. Smith excitedly,"and then you won't feel so low-spirited, andperhaps the Guardians will let you adopt thenext foundling. But please let me have thisone. I have taken to her more than I thought.Oh ! please, please "" I will vote for you at the next Board meeting,"said the Httle lady Guardian, " and may shemake up to you for the children you have lost."A few days later Mrs. Annie Smith, her honestface beaming with joy, arrived again at the work-house, followed by a small servant with a bigbundle. The attiring of the infant was long andcareful, and many came to help, and then DaphneDaventry was whirled away in a flutter of purpleand fine linen, and the burden of the rates waslightened.


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"MARY, MARY, PITY WOMEN!"A WOMAN sat alone with folded hands in a darkfireless room. There was little or no furnitureto hold the dust, and one could see that the piti-ful process known as " putting away " had beengoing on, for the cleanly scrubbed boards andpolished grate showed the good housewife's struggleafter decency. On a small table in the centreof the room stood half a loaf of bread, a jug ofwater, and a cup of milk. The woman boretraces of good looks, but her face was grey andpinched with hunger, and in her eyes was asmouldering fire of resentment and despair.

Presently the silence and gloom was brokenby the entrance of a troop of children returningnoisily from school. Their faces fell when theysaw the scanty meal, and the youngest, a childof four or five, threw himself sobbing into hismother's arms : " Oh, mother, I'se so hungry ;we only had that bit of bread for dinner."

" Hush, dear ! There is a little milk for youand Gladys ; you can drink as far as the bluepattern, and the rest is for her."The mother kissed him and tried to dry his

tears ; but it is hard to hear one's children crying53


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" MARY, MARY, PITY WOMEN ! " 55game in the street, and Mrs. Wells, turning herchair round to the cheerful blaze, said soothingly

" Now, my dear, you look a bit better. Tellus all about it."

" Yes, you were quite right ; we have to gointo the workhouse. I went round to the Rev.Walker, and he advised me to go to the police-station, and they told me there as I and thechildren had better become a burden to the ratesas we are destitute, and they can start lookingfor Blake, to make him pay the eighteen shillingsa week separation order. To think of me andmy children having to go into the House, andme first-class in the scholarship examinationIt breaks my heart to think of it."

" Yes ; you've 'ad a rough time, my dearworse than the rest of us, and we all have ourtroubles. I remember when you came a twelve-month ago to engage the room, and you saidyou was a widow. I passed the remark to Wellsthat evening : ' The lidy in the top-floor backain't no widow ; mark m}^ words, there's a'usband knocking about somewhere ! ' On thefaces of them as are widows I have noticed agreat peace, as if they were giving of thanksthat they are for ever free from the worritingsof men, and that look ain't on your face, mydearnot by a long chalk ! "" Yes, he's alive all right ; I got a separationorder from him a couple of years ago. He wentoff with a woman in the next street, and thoughhe soon tired of her and came back again, I felt


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56 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSI could not live with him any longer ; the verysight of him filled me with repulsion and loathing.Father and mother always warned me againsthim ; father told me he saw he wasn't any good ;but then, I was only nineteen, and obstinate asgirls in love always are, and I wouldn't be said.Poor father ! I often wish as I'd listened tohim, but I didn't, and I always think it was thedeath of him when I went home and told himwhat my married hfe was. He had been soproud of me doing so well at school and in allthe examinations. Just at first we were veryhappy after our marriage. He earned good moneyas a commercial traveller in the drapery businesswe had a little house in Willesden, and a piano,and an india-rubber plant between the curtainsin the parlour, and a girl to help with the house-work, and I, like a fool, worshipped the veryground he ;walkedjpn. Then, after a time, heseemed to change ; he came home less and tookto going after women as if he were a boy ofeighteen instead of a married man getting onfor forty. He gave me less and less moneyfor the house, and spent his week-ends at thesea for the good of his health. One very hotsummer the children were pale and fretting,and I was just sick for a sight of the sea, buthe said he could not afford to take us, not evenfor a day-trip ; afterwards I heard as Mrs. Bateswas always with him, there was plenty of moneyfor that. That summer it seemed as if it neverwould get cool again, and one evening in late


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THE SUICIDE 63when my landlady came to me, and she wentfor the doctor. The two pounds lasted me abouta month, and then I had nothing left againnothing to eat and nothing to pawn, and the rentalways mounting up against me. My landladywas very kind to me, but her husband had goneofi with another woman and left her with threechildren. She was often in want herself, and Icouldn't take anything from her. There seemednothing but the pond ; and after the gentlemanhad played it down so low the whole world lookedblack and inky before my eyes. I just seemedto long for death and peace before every oneknew my disgrace. I came up twice to chuckmyself into the pond, and twice I hadn't the pluck.Then last night I had been so sick and dizzy allday with hunger I did not feel a bit of a cowardany longer, so I waited about till it was dark andthen I climbed up on the railings and threw myselfbackw^ards. The water was bitterly cold, and likea fool I hollered ; then I sank again, and the watercame strangling and choking down my throat,and I remember nothing more till I felt somethingraising my head and a dark-lantern shining in myface. The nurse came about half an hour agoto tell me that I must go before the magistratesto-morrow ; it seems rather hard, when one cannotlive, that the police will not even let you die.No, I did not know that girls like me might cometo the workhouse. I thought it was only for thevery old and the very poor ; perhaps if I had knownthat I need not have made a hole in the water.


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64 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSBut must I go with the police to the court allalone amongst a lot of men ? Oh, ma'am, Ican't ; I should be so shamed. And think of thequestions they will ask me ! And I was a goodgirl till such a short time ago. Won't one of thenurses come with me, or will you ? "

It is one thing to promise to chaperone abeautiful, forlorn young woman lying in bed, atype of injured youth and innocence, and anotherto meet her in the cold light of 9 a.m. arrayedin the cheap finery of her class. Her flimsy skirtwas shrunk and warped after its adventure in thepond, and with the best will in the world thenurses had been unable to brush away the stilldamp mud which stuck to the gauged flouncesand the interstices of the " peek-a-boo " blouse.A damp and shapeless mass of pink roses andchiffon adorned the beautiful hair, which had beentortured and puffed into vulgarity, and to com-plete the scarecrow appearance, her own bootsbeing quite unwearable, she had been providedwith a pair of felt shppers very much en evidenceowing to the shrinkage of draperies .

I am afraid I longed for a telegram or suddenindispositionanything for an excuse decentlyto break faith. There are not even cabs nearour workhouse, and so, under the escort of amighty poHceman, the forlorn Httle processionset forth to brave the humorous glances of theheartless street-boys until the walls of the police-court hid us, along with other human wreckage,from mocking eyes.


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70 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSThe door opened and the white-capped attend-

ant entered, leading by the hand two littlegirls of about twelve and fourteen, who weresobbing pitifully.

" Less noise here, if you please. Meg, youknow you have been forbidden to sing atbedtime. Now, my dears, don't cry any more ;get undressed and into bed at once ; you'll seeyour mother in the morning."" Why are you here, duckies ? Father runaway and left you all starving ? " asked an olderwoman who had been walking about the roomadministering medicine, opening windows, andgenerally doing the work of wardswoman.

" Yes," sobbed the children ; " they've putmother in another room, and we are so frightened."" There, stop crying, my dears," said Priscilla ;" come and look at my baby."" What a lot of babies ! " said the elder girl.

" Have all your husbands run away and left you ? "" Oh, Lor' ! child, don't ask questions ; getinto bed, quick." The children donned their

pink flannelette nightgowns and then kneltdown beside their beds, making the sign of theCross. There was deep silence, some of the girlsbegan to cry, " Irish Biddy " threw herself on herknees and recited the Rosary with sobs and gasps.

" Oh, wash me and I shall be whiter than snow,Whiter than snow, whiter than snow,"

sang a blear-eyed girl in a raucous, tuneless chant.


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PUBLICANS AND HARLOTS 7^and had me christened ' Temperance/ hoping asthat might counterrack the family failing ; butdrink is in the blood too deep down for the font-water to get at. Poor father ! he struggled hardhisself ; but he kicked my blessed mother well-nigh to death, and then 'anged hisself in themorning when he found what he done ; so I ain'tgot no manner of chance, and though I take thepledge when the lidies ask me, I know it ain'tno good. Well, as I said before, we're a rottenlot, but not so bad that we can't respect littlekiddies, and any one can see that these littlegirls aren't our sort. I ask you allall you whoare mothers, even though your children ain't anyfathers in particularto back me in this." (" 'Ear,'ear ! " said Priscilla.) " I ain't had the advantagesome of you have ; I ain't been in twenty-sevenreligious homes like Daisy, and I don't knowpsalms and hymns like Meg ; but I've got as stronga pair of fists as ever grasped irons, and thoseshall feel 'em who says a word as wouldn't befit for the lady Guardian's ears."The frightened Daisy had crept meekly intobed ; the two little children came back, andTempie tucked them up with motherly hands,kissing the little swollen faces ; Musical Megstarted a hymn.The assistant matron came up from supper,and her brows knitted angrily as she heard the

singing. But at the door of the ward she paused,handle in hand, for, from the Hps of the fallenand the outcast, of the wanton and the drunkard,


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^4 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSled by the strangely beautiful voice of the half-witted girl, rose the hymn of high HeavenHoly, Holy, Holy ! Lord God Almighty !

All Thy works shall praise Thy Name, in earth, andsky, and sea ;

Holy, Holy, Holy ! Merciful and Mighty ;God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity.


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76 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSsent the footman round to the town 'ouse to say-as their Graces would not dine at 'ome thisevening, so I must ask you kindly to assist herGrace to alight."The crowd roared loudty at this sally, and the

porter, opening the cab door, drew out an agedand infirm man, whom he dragged off roughlythrough the whitewashed lobby. Then he returnedfor the wife, a shrunken little body in a state ofstupefaction, whom he flung over his shoulder likea baby, and then the hall door shut with a bang.The cabman looked rather crestfallen, andrequested that the bell might be rung again, andagain the aged inmate blinked forth helplessly.

" I am waiting," said the cabman, " for a littlegratuity from his Grace ; his own brougham notbeing in sight, I volunteered my services."The liveried officer again appeared, and aheated altercation ensued, in the midst of whichthe Master of the workhouse arrived and en-deavoured to cut short the dispute, observingthat his workhouse not being Poplar, he hadno power to pay cab fares for drunken paupersout of the rates. The cabman gulped, and,dropping his Society manner, appealed to theMaster as man to man, asking what there wasabout his appearance that caused him to be takenfor " such a fool as to have driven apair of paupers to a workhouse unlesshe had seen the colour of a florin a kind-'eartedlady had put into the old man's hand afore theperlice ran them both in."


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OLD INKY ^^He appealed to the public to decide " whether

he looked a greater fool than he was, or whetherthey took him for a greater fool thanJie looked."In either case, he " scorned the himputation,"and if the Master thought cabmen were so easyto be had he (the Master) had better withdrawto a wing of his own work'us, where, he under-stood, a ward was set apart for the h'observationof h'alleged lunatics."The crowd roared approval, and orders were

sent that the old couple should be searched, andafter a breathless ten minutes, spent by thecabman with his pink newspaper, a florin wasbrought out by the aged inmate, reported tohave been folind in the heel of the old lady'sstocking. The crowd roared and cheered, andthe cabman drove off triumphant, master of thesituation.

I found old " Inky " a few days later sittingin a corner, surly and sullen and pipeless, havingbeen cut off tobacco and leave of absence forfour weeks. I suppose discipline must be main-tained, but there is something profoundly patheticin the sight of hoary-headed men and women, whohave borne life's heavy load for seventy andeighty years, cut off their little comforts andpunished like school-children.He stood up and saluted at my approach ;his manners to what he called " his betters "

were always irreproachable. I brought him amessage from a teetotal friend urging him totake the pledge, but he sniffed contemptuously ;


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OLD INKY 79missis half-clemmed afore we accepted the kindinvitation, a man can't see 'is wife starve ; andso 'ere we arepaupers. Yes, I fought for theQueen"and he saluted"Gawd bless 'er! allthrough the Crimean War ; got shot in the armat Inkermann and half-frozen before Sebastopol,and I didn't think as I should come to the work'usin my old age ; but one never knows. The worldain't been right to us old soldiers since the Queenwent. I can't get used to a King nohow, and it'sno good pretending ; and Old Blowy at St. Pancrassaj^s just the same. I suppose we're too old.I can't think why the Almighty leaves us alla-mouldering in the work'uses when she's gone.However, I'm a-going out ; I shall take my dis-charge, if it's only to spite 'im and show; my in-dependent spirit," and he shook an impotentfist at the Master, who passed through the hall." It's warm weather now, and we can sleep abouton the 'eath a bit. We shan't want much to eatwe're too old."*****A week or so later I heard of the death of old" Inky." He had been found in a half-dyingcondition on one of the benches on the heath,and had been brought by the police into theinfirmary, where he passed away without recover-ing consciousness. As we " rattled his bonesover the stones " to his pauper grave I said asincere Laus Deo that another man of war hadbeen delivered from poverty and the hatedworkhouse.


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A DAUGHTER OF THE STATEQuis est homo, qui non fleret ?

" No, ma'am, I've never had no misfortune ; I'ma respectable girl, I am. Why am I in the work-house, then ? Well, you see, it was hke this :I had a very wicked temper, and I can't controlit somehow when the mistresses are aggravating,and 1 runned from my place. I always do runaway. No, there was nothing agen the lastmistressit was just my nasty temper. ThenI got wandering about the streets, and a police-man spoke to me and took me to a kind lady,and she put me here to prove me, and left me tolearn my lesson. She takes great interest in mycase. Yes, Matron says it is a disgrace for astrong girl to be on the rates, but what am I todo ? I ain't got no clothes and no character,so I suppose I shall always be here now. No,it ain't nice ; we never go out nor see nothingleastways, the young women don't. There's nosweet puddings and no jam. Some of the girlssay jail's far better. Yes, I am an orphanatleast, father died when I was very little, and theBoard gentlemen put me and my brothers into the

8q


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A DAUGHTER OF THE STATE 83at Buckinghamat least, she pretends she haswell, she says in her places the servants had jamwith their tea every day.

" No, I haven't got no clothes but these work-house things, but Matron keeps a hat and jacketto lend to girls who ain't got none. Oh ! it isbeautiful to see the sun shining, and the shops,and the horses, and the ladies walking about, andthe dear little children. I love children. Oftenwhen the Labour Mistress wasn't about I ran upto the nursery to kiss the babies. Juliet's thirdmisfortune is a lovely boy with curls. I haven'tbeen out of doors for three monthsthe youngwomen mayn't go out in the workhouse, only theold peopleso you can guess I like it : but theair makes me hungry. We had our gruel at seventhis morning. We don't have no tea for breakfast,but girls do in situations, I know, and as muchsugar as they likeat least, in most places. Thankyou, ma'am, I should love a bun. I love cakes.Yes ; I have a cold in my head, and I ain't gotno pocket-handkerchief. I've lost it, and it wasn'tvery grand. An old bit of rag I call it. It wouldbe so kind of you to buy me one, ma'am. I knowit looks bad to go to see ladies without one. Iain't an ignorant girl ; the kind lady who takes aninterest in my case always said so. Isn't thatbarrel-organ playing beautiful ! It makes me wantto dance, only I don't know how. Daisy Whiteshe that pinched the silk petticoatcan dancebeautiful ; some of us sing tunes in the YoungWomen's Room, and she'd dance. I love music


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84 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSthat's why I liked the Cartholic Home best ; thenuns sang lovely in the chapel.

** Is this the house ? Ain't it lovely ! I neversaw such a beautiful droring-room in all my life.Just look at the carpet and the flowers and thepictures ! Ain't that a beautiful one, ma'am,with the trees and the water running down therocks, and the old castle at the back ! The nunsat the Cartholic Home once took us an excursionby train to a place just like that, and whilst wewere having our tea the old castle turned suddenall yellow in the sun^just like Jerusalem theGolden.

" Do you think the lady will have me, ma'am ?I shan't never want to run away here. I willbe a good girl, ma'am ; I promise I will be good."


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IN THE PHTHISIS WARD 87" I tell you it war! "" I tell you it warn't ! "Again the nurse intervened, and tried to distract

the disputants with a copy of a newspaper, butthe warfare was renewed after her back was turned,to the amusement or irritation of the sufferers.

In the farther corner of the ward a man indehrium raved and blasphemed, occasionallygiving rapid character-sketches of some womannot complimentary either to her taste or morals ;then he would relapse into semi-unconsciousnessand wake with a loud, agonized cry for his mother.

In the afternoon a visitor came to see TeddyWilson. Teddy had sung in the choir and hisvicar called often to visit him. Teddy had beena prize-scholar of the L.C.C. schools ; from scholar-ship to scholarship he had passed to a lawyer'soffice in the City ; and then one day he had begunto cough and to shiver, and the hospital to whichhe had been taken had seen that phthisis wasgalloping him to the grave. They did not keepincurable cases, and Teddy had been passed on todie in the workhouse infirmary. When Teddyfound himself a pauper he had raged furiously andfutilely, and the gallop to the grave went atdouble pace. He lifted his head eagerly whenthe nurse brought the clergyman to his bedside." Has mother come ? " he asked, and then fellback apathetically. Yes, he was getting better ;it was only the remains of pleurisy. Wouldhe like prayers read ? Oh, yes, he didn't mind.Teddy was always docile.


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90 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSThrough the long night she sat by her son

the long night of agony and suffering which shewas powerless to relieveand the nurse, whowas reputed a hard woman, looked at her withtearful eyes, and muttered to herself : " ThankGod, I never bore a child ! "

In the early hours of morning Teddy began tosing, in strange, raucous fashion, fragments oforatorios. " ' My God, my God," ' sang Teddyin the recitative of Bach's Passion music, " 'whyhast Thou forsaken Me ? * Oh, mother, don'tleave me! "The next time the nurse came round Teddy

lay quiet, and his mother looked up with eyestearless and distraught. " He has stopped cough-ing," she said ; "I think I am glad."


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92 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSsays I was attacked by the pensis, I think hetermed it, the royal disease of the King, andhe was all for cutting me up at once. But I upand says, ' Young man, don't talk to your elders.It's nothing but my poor hinnards a-craving fora pipe and a drop o' Irish, and you'll kindly keepyour knives and hatchets off me. The King canbe cut up if he likes, but I'll go before my Judgeon the Resurrection morning with my poor oldbody undisfigured by gaping holes and wounds ! 'Yes, I frets cruel in the work'us, lady. If I couldonly get away back to Kensington, where I belong,I'd be all right. I have no friends hereonlyyou and the Almighty God. I'm a poor old blindIrishwoman, lady ; and my sons is out in Amerikyand seems to have forgotten the mother that borethem, and my husband's been dead these fortyyears, and he was not exakly one to thank Godfor on bare kneesGod rest his poor black sowlYes, I've been blind now these thirty years (Iwas ninety on the Feast of the Blessed Lady ofMount Carmel), and one day in the winter we'djust been saying Mass for the sowl of the CardinalNewman, and when I got back home I put up abit of gunpowder to clane the chimbly, whichsmoked cruel (I always was a decent, clane body)and the wicked stuff turned round on me veryvindictious, and blew down into the room, burningred-hot into my poor, innocent eyes. They cut oneout at St.Bartholomew's 'Orspital, and they hopedto save the other, but it took to weeping itselfaway voluntarious, and a-throbbing like steam-


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94 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSwords to the nusses. (I hear you inmates a-smilingagain !) But I was not in liquor ladys'help meit's God's truth ! (May your lips stiffen for ever,sitting there a-grinning and a-mocking at God'struth !) I've alius been a sober woman, and I'vealways conducted myself. (God blast you all,and your children and children's children !) Yes,my lady, I know it's not a prison and I can takemy discharge ; but, you see, I don't know theway to the 'bus as'll take me to Kensington, andI ain't got sixpencea most distressful and un-pleasant circumstance not to have sixpence. Maythe Holy Mother preserve you in wealth andprosperity so that you may never know ! If Ihad sixpence of my own do you think I'd stayin this wicked Bastille, ordered about by theladies of the bar ? I calls them ladies of the bar,not as they ever give you a drop to cheer you,but because as they is puffed up with vanityand three-ha'porth of starched linen. Yes, mylady, I know as they calls theirselves nusses,but when you're ninety you won't like to be orderedabout by a parcel of girls. Oh, my lady, ifyou would only put me in the 'bus that goesto Kensington and give me a sixpence here in mypoor old hand, then may the Blessed Motherkeep you for ever, you and your good children,and may the crown of glory that is waiting foryou before the Great White Throne be studdedwith di'monds and rubies brighter than the stars !How could I get on ? I'd be all right if I onlygot to Kensington ; there's the praists !God


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100 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSlittle scrubs came a-following me, but I wouldnot go with any of them, always liking GrenadierGuards, six foot at least. Perhaps it was as wellI should never have had patience to put up witha man about the place, being so masterful myselfbesides, ain't 1 been sort of father and 'usbandto my sister Cordelia ? Mother died when Cordeliawas born, and she says to me : ' Ruth, take careof this 'elpless babby,' and, God help me! I donemy best, though the poor girl made a poor bargainwith life, 'er husband getting queerer and morecantankerous, wandering the country up anddown as fast as they brought 'im 'ome and havingto be shut up in Colney Hatch at the end. Iwas not going to satisfy that Organization lady'scuriosity and boast how I helped to bring upthat family, and a deal of * thrift * that ladywould have managed on the two shillings a weekI kept of my wages, the missus often passingthe remark that, considering the good moneyshe paid, she liked her servants better dressed.Cordelia was left with three little ones, and Icouldn't abide the thought of 'er coming to theparish and having them nice little kids tookfrom 'er and brought up in them work 'us schools,so I agreed to give 'er eight shillings a week outof my wages, and that with the twelve shillingsshe got cooking at the * Pig and Whistle * keptthe 'ome together. Poor lass ! she's had no luckwith her boys either, poor Tim going off weak inhis head and having to be put away, and Jonathankilled straight off at Elandslaagter with a bullet


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102 WORKHbUS'E CHARACTERSthis cold, only you will keep on interrupting ofme. I saw as how there was going to be a funeralat St. Paul's, and I thought I'd go. I alius wasone for looking at men, and having been kitchen-maid at York Palace, I took on a taste for cathe-drals and stained windows and music andsuch-like, as a sort of respite from the troublesand trials of life.

" It was just beautiful to hear the organ playand to see the gold cross carried in front of thedear little chorister-boys, and I says to myself :* Their mas are proud of them this day.' Thencame the young chaps who sing tenor and bassfine upstanding young menand then the curateswith their holy faces, but at the end were thebishops and deans and such-like, and they werethat h'old and h'ugly I was quite ashamed.

" Well, I thought I'd treat myself to a motor-bus after my long walk. The young chap says :'Don't go up top, mother, you'll catch cold.'' Thank you kindly,' I says, ' but I ain't a 'ot-house plant, being born on the moors,' and upI went, but Lor' ! I hadn't reckoned how the windcut going the galloping pace we went ; it petrifiedto the negrigi, as poor mother used to sayno,I don't know where the negrigi isbut take offyour fur-coat top of a motor-bus in a vehementeast wind and perhaps you'll feel.

" Yes, that's little Walker's bell a-goingitain't a wedding and it ain't a funeral ; it's a kindof prayers that he says, chiefly to 'isself, at fiveo'clock'e's 'Igh Church.


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AN OBSCURE CONVERSATIONIST 103" Must you be going ? Well, come again soon;

being country yourself, you understands fresh airas folk brought up among chimbleys can't beexpected tobut don't worry me about no in-firmaries, for I ain't a-going, so there !

'* Mrs. Curtis has her orders, and when I'mtook worse she's to put me in the long train thatwhistles and goes to Yorkyes, I've saved upthe railway fare, and from there I can get 'omeand die comfortable on the moor with plentyof air and the peace of God all around."

The landlady came to open the door for me asI went down the well-scrubbed staircase. " Yes,ma'am, Miss Brooks is better, but she's very frailthe doctor thinks as she can't last much longer,but her conversation continues as good as ever.My old man or one of my sons goes up to sit withher every evening; she's such good company shesaves them the money for the 'alls, and makesthem laugh as much as Little Tich. We'll takecare of her, ma'am ; the Reverent Walker toldme to get whatever she wanted, and 'e'd pay,and all the folks are real fond of her in the house,she's that quick with her tongue.

" No, ma'am, she'll never get to York, she'stoo weak, but the doctor told me to humour her."


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112 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSshe walked out with wasn't as faithful as heshould have been, a-carrying on with anotherat the same time ; and Esther took on awful,I believe, though she's one as holds her tongue,is Estherat all events, she's never had naughtto do with chaps since. She's a good girl, isEsther ; but 'Orace and me were always together,and he always was such a one to sit at home withme working at his wires and currents and a-takingme to see all the exhibitions, and explaining tome about the positives and negatives and thevolts and ampts ; he never went after girls, andI always hoped as he would never fall in lovewith mortal woman, only with a current ; soit knocked all the heart out of me when he tookto staying out in the evenings, and then broughtthe girl in one night as his future wife. 'Oracewas the prettiest baby you ever see'd, and whenhe used to sit on my knee, with his head all overgolden curls, like a picture-book, I used to hateto think that somewhere a girl-child was growingup to take him from meand to think it's comenow, just when I thought I was safe and he nomore Hkely to marry than the Pope of Rome,being close on thirty, and falling in love for thefirst time ! And she won't have me to live withthem !" Mrs. Wells has been telling me I mustn'tstand in the young people's way. Of course Idon't want to stand in their way ; but I'm wonder-ing how I'll shift without 'Orace ; he alwaysmade the fire and brought me a cup of tea befpre


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"YOUR SON'S YOUR SON" 113he went to his work ; and when the rheumaticstook me bad he'd help me dress and be as handyas a woman. I can't get the work I used to ;my eyesight isn't what it was, and my fingersare stiff. No, I ain't what I was, and I supposeI mustn't expect it, being turned sixty-seven,and I ain't old enough either for them pensions.

" Well, if it ain't Esther. You're early, lassand it's not your evening out, neither. I'vejust been telling this lady how Ruby won't haveme to live with them ; it's upset me shockingthe thought of leaving 'Orace after all these years.I'm trying not to complain, and I know 'Oracehas been a son in ten thousand ; but I'm afeardof the lonesomeness, and I don't know how I'lllive. Mrs. Wells says if the Guardians see myhands they won't give me no outdoor relief, butthey'll force me into the House, and I'd soonerbe in my bury-hole." And again the poor oldlady sobbed into her pocket-handkerchief.

" Don't cry, mother ; it's all right ; you shan'tgo on the parish, never fear, neither for outdoorrelief nor indoor relief. I've left my place, andI'm coming to live with you and take care ofyou to the end of your days. I'm not 'Orace,I know, but I'm your daughter, and after thecourting's over 'Orace will be your son again."" Left your place, Esther ! What do you mean,lass ? "

" What I say, mother. 'Orace wrote and toldme what Ruby said, and I was that sorry I wentand gave notice. 'Orace is awful upset, too,

8


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114 WORKHOUSE CHARACTERSbut there, it is no good talking to a man in love,and perhaps Ruby will get nicer ; she's a youngthing yet. So when I told my lady all aboutit she let me come away at once. The familyis going to the Riviera next week, and thehousekeeper can manage quite well."

" You've left your good place, Esther, all forme?

"" Yes ; all right, old dear. I've got a fourteen-

year character from my lady, and I'll soon findsomething to do ; I'm not the sort as starves."And Esther rolled up her sleeves, made up thefire, and poured the contents of the indignantkettle into the little black teapot.

" Oh, dear ! " wailed the old lady, ** you mustnot do this for me, lass ; you're heaping coals offire on my 'ead, for, as Mrs. Wells often said tome, ' Don't be so set on 'Orace ; remember, youhave a girl too.' I was always set on the boys,and not on the girls ; women's life is a poor game,and when I heard of them 'eathen 'Indus whokill the girl babies, I thought it a very sensiblething toobetter than letting them grow up toslave for a p

Documents

Workhous, And Other Sketches of the Life of the Poor 1918se Character