Workhouse Characters, and other sketches of the life of the poor.Nevinson, Margaret Wynne
General
Workhouse Characters, and other sketches of the life of the poor.
Nevinson, Margaret Wynne
London (England) -- Social conditions; Poor -- England -- London; Workhouses -- England -- London
We are a very careful Board, and pride ourselves on the strict way in
which we administer our small amount of out-relief; to get it at all
one must be, as an applicant observed, "a little 'igher than an angel,"
and so it is the very aristocracy of labour that files past us this
morning, men and women against whom even the Charity Organization
Society could find no fault, a brave old army, seventy and eighty odd
years of age, some of them bent and crippled with rheumatism and weight
of years, short of breath, asthmatic, hard of hearing, dim in vision,
but plucky to the last, always in terror of looking too ill or too old,
and being forced into the workhouse.
A few, like Moses, do not suffer the usual stigmata of age. "Their eye
is not dim, nor their natural force abated."
"How do you keep so young?" said our chairman, half-enviously, to an
applicant eighty years of age, but upright still, with hair thick and
untinged with grey.
"'Igh living does it, sir," replied the old man, as he took his food
tickets for the week, amounting to 3s. 1¾d. One old lady of eighty-two
runs a private school, and, in spite of the competition of free
education and palatial school buildings, she has six pupils, whose
parents value individual attention and "manners" at sixpence per head a
week. She is fully qualified and certificated, and is a person of strong
views and much force of character, and not only holds Solomon's opinions
upon corporal punishment in theory, but still puts them into practice. I
wonder which of us will have the conviction and energy to cane boys at
eighty-two?
We are a very clean Board, and every half-year the relieving officer
brings a report as to the condition of the homes; but some of the old
people are so withered and shrunken, and their span of remaining life is
so short, that there seems little left both of time and space in which
dirt can collect, and I always hope death will free them before they are
brought into the bleak cleanliness of the House.
Lately in the workhouse one old man took such an affectionate leave of
me that I asked him if he felt ill. "Not yet, ma'am, but I have got to
have a bath to-night, and the last one I took turned me so queer I was
laid up ten weeks in the infirmary. It does you no 'arm, ma'am, very
likely--I've 'eard say as the gentry is born and bred to it--but when
they starts a-bathing of us poor people for the first time at eighty in
them great long coffins full of water, no wonder our rheumatics comes on
worse than ever. And then, ma'am, you forget as you ladies and gentlemen
'ave a drop of something hot to keep the cold out afterwards, and I
don't blame you for it, but that we never gets."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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