Part 4

If this girl had stolen her mistress’s watch, I do not hesitate to say she would, in all probability, have been infinitely better off. Bearing in mind, in the present brief description of this walk, not only the facts already stated in this Journal, in reference to the Model Prison at Pentonville, but the general treatment of convicted prisoners under the associated silent system too, it must be once more distinctly set before the reader, that we have come to this absurd, this dangerous, this monstrous pass, that the dishonest felon is, in respect of cleanliness, order, diet, and accommodation, better provided for, and taken care of, than the honest pauper.

And this conveys no special imputation on the workhouse of the parish of St. So-and-So, where, on the contrary, I saw many things to commend. It was very agreeable, recollecting that most infamous and atrocious enormity committed at Tooting—an enormity which, a hundred years hence, will still be vividly remembered in the bye-ways of English life, and which has done more to engender a gloomy discontent and suspicion among many thousands of the people than all the Chartist leaders could have done in all their lives—to find the pauper children in this workhouse looking robust and well, and apparently the objects of very great care. In the Infant School—a large, light, airy room at the top of the building—the little creatures, being at dinner, and eating their potatoes heartily, were not cowed by the presence of strange visitors, but stretched out their small hands to be shaken, with a very pleasant confidence. And it was comfortable to see two mangey pauper rocking-horses rampant in a corner. In the girls’ school, where the dinner was also in progress, everything bore a cheerful and healthy aspect. The meal was over, in the boys’ school, by the time of our arrival there and the room was not yet quite re-arranged; but the boys were roaming unrestrained about a large and airy yard, as any other schoolboys might have done. Some of them had been drawing large ships upon the schoolroom wall; and if they had a mast with shrouds and stays set up for practice (as they have in the Middlesex House of Correction), it would be so much the better. At present, if a boy should feel a strong impulse upon him to learn the art of going aloft, he could only gratify it, I presume, as the men and women paupers gratify their aspirations after better board and lodging, by smashing as many workhouse windows as possible, and being promoted to prison.

In one place, the Newgate of the Workhouse, a company of boys and youths were locked up in a yard alone; their day-room being a kind of kennel where the casual poor used formerly to be littered down at night. Divers of them had been there some long time. “Are they never going away?” was the natural enquiry. “Most of them are crippled, in some form or other,” said the Wardsman, “and not fit for anything.” They slunk about, like dispirited wolves or hyænas; and made a pounce at their food when it was served out, much as those animals do. The big-headed idiot shuffling his feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a more agreeable object everyway.

Groves of babies in arms; groves of mothers and other sick women in bed; groves of lunatics; jungles of men in stone-paved down-stairs day-rooms, waiting for their dinners; longer and longer groves of old people, in upstairs Infirmary wards, wearing out life, God knows how—this was the scenery through which the walk lay, for two hours. In some of these latter chambers, there were pictures stuck against the wall, and a neat display of crockery and pewter on a kind of sideboard; now and then it was a treat to see a plant or two; in almost every ward, there was a cat.

In all of these Long Walks of aged and infirm, some old people were bed-ridden, and had been for a long time; some were sitting on their beds half-naked; some dying in their beds; some out of bed, and sitting at a table near the fire. A sullen or lethargic indifference to what was asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but warmth and food, a moody absence of complaint as being of no use, a dogged silence and resentful desire to be left alone again, I thought were generally apparent. On our walking into the midst of one of these dreary perspectives of old men, nearly the following little dialogue took place, the nurse not being immediately at hand:

“All well here?”

No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap sitting among others on a form at the table, eating out of a tin porringer, pushes back his cap a little to look at us, claps it down on his forehead again, with the palm of his hand, and goes on eating.

“All well here?” (repeated.)

No answer. Another old man sitting on his bed, paralytically peeling a boiled potato, lifts his head, and stares.

“Enough to eat?”

No answer. Another old man, in bed, turns himself and coughs.

“How are _you_ to-day?” To the last old man.

That old man says nothing; but another old man, a tall old man of a very good address, speaking with perfect correctness, comes forward from somewhere, and volunteers an answer. The reply almost always proceeds from a volunteer, and not from the person looked at or spoken to.

“We are very old, Sir,” in a mild, distinct voice. “We can’t expect to be well, most of us.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“I have no complaint to make, Sir.” With a half shake of his head, a half shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of apologetic smile.

“Enough to eat?”

“Why, Sir, I have but a poor appetite,” with the same air as before; “and yet I get through my allowance very easily.”

“But,” showing a porringer with a Sunday dinner in it; “here is a portion of mutton, and three potatoes. You can’t starve on that?”

“Oh dear no, Sir,” with the same apologetic air. “Not starve.”

“What do you want?”

“We have very little bread, Sir. It’s an exceedingly small quantity of bread.”

The nurse, who is now rubbing her hands at the questioner’s elbow, interferes with, “It ain’t much raly, Sir. You see they’ve only six ounces a day, and when they’ve took their breakfast, there _can_ only be a little left for night, Sir.”

Another old man, hitherto invisible, rises out of his bedclothes, as out of a grave, and looks on.

“You have tea at night?” The questioner is still addressing the well-spoken old man.

“Yes, Sir, we have tea at night.”

“And you save what bread you can from the morning, to eat with it?”

“Yes, Sir—if we can save any.”

“And you want more to eat with it?”

“Yes, Sir.” With a very anxious face.

The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, appears a little discomposed, and changes the subject.

“What has become of the old man who used to lie in that bed in the corner?”

The nurse don’t remember what old man is referred to. There has been such a many old men. The well-spoken old man is doubtful. The spectral old man who has come to life in bed, says, “Billy Stevens.” Another old man who has previously had his head in the fireplace, pipes out,

“Charley Walters.”

Something like a feeble interest is awakened. I suppose Charley Walters had conversation in him.

“He’s dead!” says the piping old man.

Another old man, with one eye screwed up, hastily displaces the piping old man, and says:

“Yes! Charley Walters died in that bed, and—and—”

“Billy Stevens,” persists the spectral old man.

“No, no! and Johnny Rogers died in that bed, and—and—they’re both on ’em dead—and Sam’l Bowyer;” this seems very extraordinary to him; “he went out!”

With this he subsides, and all the old men (having had quite enough of it) subside, and the spectral old man goes into his grave again, and takes the shade of Billy Stevens with him.

As we turn to go out at the door, another previously invisible old man, a hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is standing there, as if he had just come up through the floor.

“I beg your pardon, Sir, could I take the liberty of saving a word?”

“Yes; what is it?”

“I am greatly better in my health, Sir; but what I want, to get me quite round,” with his hand on his throat, “is a little fresh air, Sir. It has always done my complaint so much good, Sir. The regular leave for going out, comes round so seldom, that if the gentlemen, next Friday, would give me leave to go out walking, now and then—for only an hour or so, Sir!—”

Who could wonder, looking through those weary vistas of bed and infirmity, that it should do him good to meet with some other scenes, and assure himself that there was something else on earth? Who could help wondering why the old men lived on as they did; what grasp they had on life; what crumbs of interest or occupation they could pick up from its bare board; whether Charley Walters had ever described to them the days when he kept company with some old pauper woman in the bud, or Billy Stevens ever told them of the time when he was a dweller in the far-off foreign land called Home!

The morsel of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, in bed, wrapped in lint, and looking stedfastly at us with his bright quiet eyes when we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the knowledge of these things, and of all the tender things there are to think about, might have been in his mind—as if he thought, with us, that there was a fellow-feeling in the pauper nurses which appeared to make them more kind to their charges than the race of common nurses in the hospitals—as if he mused upon the Future of some older children lying around him in the same place, and thought it best, perhaps, all things considered, that he should die—as if he knew, without fear, of those many coffins, made and unmade, piled up in the store below—and of his unknown friend, “the dropped child,” calm upon the box-lid covered with a cloth. But there was something wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny face, as if, in the midst of all the hard necessities and incongruities he pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged poor, for a little more liberty—and a little more bread.

THE “IRISH DIFFICULTY” SOLVED BY CON Mc Nale.

Con Mc Nale would have been summarily repudiated as an Irishman by our farce-writers and slashing novelists. He neither drank, fought, nor swore; did not make many blunders; and never addressed a friend either as his ‘honey’ or his ‘jewel.’ His _cotamore_ was of stout frieze, and though Con had long attained his full height, the tailor had left him room to grow. The _caubeen_ was not his head-dress, for Con had arrived at the dignity of a silk hat, which had been manufactured, as the mark in the crown declared, by the Saxons in the Borough of Southwark, which locality Con believed to be in the n_a_ighbourhood of England. The brogues were also absent, but were favourably represented by shoes of native manufacture laced with stout thongs. In fact, Mr. Mc Nale was a fine specimen of the finest _pisantry_ in the world—without the rags.

People have gone to the Highlands and to Switzerland, and perhaps seen many places not much more grand and picturesque than the district where Con Mc Nale had made a patch of the desert to smile. A long range of blue mountains rising irregularly above each other, looked down on an extensive plain, that lay along the shore of a mighty lake, to the banks of which thick plantations crowded so near that the old Irish called the water _Lough-glas_, which signifies waters of green. The districts where a short but thick and sweet herbage sprung up among the rocks, were certainly put to the use of feeding cattle, and it was while employed there as a herd-boy, that Con Mc Nale determined to become a farmer. His mind was made up. His earnings were hardly enough to keep life in him, and if he had tried to save the price of a spade out of them to begin business with, the chances are that he would have died prematurely for want of food. But that didn’t matter much; he was determined to be a farmer. This determination was then as likely of fulfilment as that of Oliver Cromwell to become Protector of the Realm, while tending the vats at Huntingdon; or that of Aladdin to become a prince, when he was a ragged boy in the streets of Bagdad. To show, however, what perseverance will do, when I made acquaintance with Mr. Con Mc Nale he had actually got possession of a spade, and was making good use of it in a ditch—his own ditch, on his own land. As he went on, now digging, now resting on the handle, he told me all about his gradual promotion from a herd-boy to a country jontleman.

“My father,” said he, “lived under ould Squire Kilkelly, an’ for awhile tinded his cattle: but the Squire’s gone out iv this part iv the counthry, to Australia or some furrin part, an’ the mentioned house (mansion house) an’ the fine propperty was sould, so it was, for little or nothin’, for the fightin’ was over in furrin parts; Boney was put down, an’ there was no price for corn or cattle, an’ a jontleman from Scotland came an’ bought the istate. We were warned by the new man to go, for he tuk in his own hand all the in-land about the domain, bein’ a grate farmer. He put nobody in our little place, but pulled it down, an’ he guv father a five guinea note, but my father was ould an’ not able to face the world agin, an’ he went to the town an’ tuk a room—a poor, dirty, choky place it was for him, myself, and sisther to live in. The naighbours were very kind an’ good, though. Sister Bridget got a place wid a farmer hereabouts, and I tuk the world on my own showlders. I had nothin’ at all but the rags I stud up in, an’ they were bad enuf. Poor Biddy got a shillin’ advanced iv her wages that her masther was to giv her. She guv it me, for I was bent on goin’ towards Belfast to look for work. All along the road I axed at every place; they could giv it me but to no good, except when I axed, they’d giv me a bowl iv broth, or a piece iv bacon, or an oaten bannock, so that I had my shillin’ to the fore when I got to Belfast.

“Here the heart was near lavin’ me all out intirely. I went wandtherin’ down to the quay among the ships, and what should there be but a ship goin’ to Scotland that very night, wid pigs. In throth it was fun to see the sailors at cross-purposes wid ’em, for they didn’t know the natur iv the bastes. I did. I knew how to coax ’em. I set to an’ I deludhered an’ coaxed the pigs, an’, by pullin’ them by the tail, knowing that if they took a fancy I wished to pull ’em back out of the ship, they’d run might and main into her, and so they did. Well, the sailors were mightily divarted, an’ when the pigs was aboord, I wint down to the place—an’ the short iv it is that in three days I was in Glasgow town, an’ the captain an’ the sailors subschribed up tin-shillins an’ guv it into my hand. Well, I bought a raping hook, an’ away I trudged till I got quite an’ clane into the counthry, an’ the corn was, here and there, fit to cut. At last I goes an’ ax a farmer for work. He thought I was too wake to be paid by the day, but one field havin’ one corner fit to cut, an’ the next not ready, ‘Paddy,’ says he, ‘you may begin in that corner, an’ I’ll pay yees by the work yees do,’ an’ he guv me my breakfast an’ a pint of beer. Well, I never quit that masther the whole harvest, an’ when the raping was over I had four goolden guineas to carry home, besides that I was as sthrong as a lion. Yees would wonder how glad the sailors was to see me back agin, an’ ne’er a farthin’ would they take back iv their money, but tuk me over agin to Belfast, givin’ me the hoighth of good thratemint of all kinds. I did not stay an hour in Belfast, but tuk to the road to look afther the ould man an’ little Biddy. Well, sorrows the tidins’ I got. The ould man had died, an’ the grief an’ disthress of poor little Biddy had even touched her head a little. The dacent people where she was, may the Lord reward ’em, though they found little use in her, kep her, hoping I would be able to come home an’ keep her myself, an’ so I was. I brought her away wid me, an’ the sight iv me put new life in her. I was set upon not being idle, an’ I’ll tell yees what I did next.

“When I was little _bouchaleen_ iv a boy I used to be a head on the mountain face, an’ ’twas often I sheltered myself behind them gray rocks that’s at the gable iv my house, an’ somehow it came into my head that the new Squire, being a grate man for improvin’, might let me try to brake in a bit iv land there, an’ so I goes off to him, an’ one iv the sarvints bein’ a sort iv cousin iv mine, I got to spake to the Squire, an’ behould yees he guv me lave at onst. Well, there’s no time like the prisint, an’ as I passed out iv the back yard of the mentioned (mansion) house, I sees the sawyers cutting some Norway firs that had been blown down by the storm, an’ I tells the sawyers that I had got lave to brake in a bit iv land in the mountains, an’ what would some pieces iv fir cost. They says they must see what kind of pieces they was that I wished for, an’ no sooner had I set about looking ’em through than the Squire himself comes ridin’ out of the stable-yard, an’ says he at onst, Mc Nale, says he, you may have a load iv cuttins to build your cabin, or two if you need it. ‘The Heavens be your honour’s bed,’ says I, an’ I wint off to the room where I an’ Biddy lived, not knowin’ if I was on my head or my heels. Next day, before sunrise, I was up here five miles up the face of Slieve-dan, with a spade in my fist, an’ I looked roun’ for the most shiltered spot I could sit my eyes an. Here I saw, where the house an’ yard are stan’in, a plot iv about an acre to the south iv that tall ridge of rocks, well sheltered from the blast from the north an’ from the aste, an’ it was about sunrise an’ a fine morning in October that I tuk up the first spadeful. There was a spring then drippin’ down the face iv the rocks, the same you see gushin’ through the crockery pipe in the farm-yard; an’ I saw at once that it would make the cabin completely damp, an’ the land about mighty sour an’ water-_slain_; so I determined to do what I saw done in Scotland. I sunk a deep drain right under the rock to run all along the back iv the cabin, an’ workin’ that day all alone by myself, I did a grate dale iv it. At night, it was close upon dark when I started to go home, so I hid my spade in the heath an’ trudged off. The next mornin’ I bargined with a farmer to bring me up a load iv fir cuttins from the Squire’s, an’ by the evenin’ they were thrown down within a quarter iv a mile iv my place,—for there was no road to it then, an’ I had to carry ’em myself for the remainder of the way. This occupied me till near nightfall; but I remained that night till I placed two upright posts of fir, one at each corner iv the front iv the cabin.

“I was detarmined to get the cabin finished as quickly as possible, that I might be able to live upon the spot, for much time was lost in goin’ and comin’. The next day I was up betimes, an’ finding a track iv stiff blue clay, I cut a multitude of thick square sods iv it, an’ having set up two more posts at the remainin’ two corners iv the cabin, I laid four rows iv one gable, rising it about three feet high. Havin’ laid the rows, I sharpind three or four straight pine branches, an’ druv them down through the sods into the earth, to pin the wall in its place. Next day I had a whole gable up, each three rows iv sods pinned through to the three benathe. In about eight days I had put up the four walls, makin’ a door an’ two windows; an’ now my outlay began, for I had to pay a thatcher to put on the sthraw an’ to assist me in risin’ the rafthers. In another week it was covered in, an’ it was a pride to see it with the new thatch, an’ a wicker chimbley daubed with clay, like a pallis undernathe the rock. I now got some turf that those who had cut ’em had not removed, an’ they sould ’em for a thrifle, an’ I made a grate fire an’ slept on the flure of my own house that night. Next day I got another load iv fir brought, to make the partitions in the winter, an’ in a day or two after I had got the inside so dhry that I was able to bring poor Biddy to live there for good and all. The Heavens be praised, there was not a shower iv rain fell from the time I began the cabin till I ended it, an’ when the rain did fall, not a drop came through,—all was carried off by my dhrain into the little river before yees. The moment I was settled in the house I comminced dhraining about an acre iv bog in front, an’ the very first winter I sowed a shillin’s worth of cabbidge seed, an’ sold in the spring a pound’s worth of little cabbidge plants for the gardins in the town below. When spring came—noticin’ how the early planted praties did the best, I planted my cabbidge ground with praties, an’ I had a noble crap, while the ground was next year fit for the corn. In the mane time, every winther I tuk in more and more ground, an’ in summer I cut my turf for fewel; where the cuttins could answer, in winther, for a dhrain; an’ findin’ how good the turf were, I got a little powney an’ carried ’em to the town to sell, when I was able to buy lime in exchange, an’ put it on my bog, so as to make it produce double. As things went on, I got assistance, an’ when I marrid, my wife had two cows that guv me a grate lift.

“I was always thought to be a handy boy; an’ I could do a turn of mason-work with any man not riglarly bred to it; so I took one of my loads of lime, an’ instead of puttin’ it on the land, I made it into morthar—and indeed the stones being no ways scarce, I set to an’ built a little kiln, like as I had seen down the counthry. I could then burn my own lime, an’ the limestone were near to my hand, too many iv ’em. While all this was goin’ on, I had riz an’ sould a good dale iv oats and praties, an’ every summer I found ready sale for my turf in the town from one jontleman that I always charged at an even rate, year by year. I got the help of a stout boy, a cousin iv my own, who was glad iv a shilter; an’ when the childher were ould enough, I got some young cattle that could graze upon the mountain in places where no other use could be made iv the land, and set the gossoons to herd ’em.