H.J. Tennant in the Eastbourne Workhouse Casual Ward - Part I

THE EASTBOURNE CASUAL WARD.

A NIGHT AND DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE.

STONE BREAKING AND OAKUM PICKING.

CHATS WITH CASUALS.

[By an Amateur Casual.]

Part I.

There's an old, but very true saying, to the effect that one half of the world does not know how the other half lives. There are people of wealth and position who know little, and in many cases, care less, about the lives of the working classes. But there is a portion of humanity, which is far removed from the industrious working man, as the working man is from the wealthy banker, or the haughty aristocrat. This is the class known as "casuals," who tramp the country-side, and go from town to town, picking up odd jobs here and there, and sometimes, may be, like Antolycus, picking "unconsidered trifles." When they have had a bad day, or are not incarcerated in a prison cell, these off scourings of civilised life seek a night's lodging in the casual ward of a Workhouse. With the majority of people all casuals are vagabonds. They are all alike, vile, thieves, murderers, and everything that is criminal, and the worse they can be treated the better it will be for honest people.

This is an entirely deluded idea. Many a hardworking mechanic in the dull season, when work is unattainable, takes to the road. He would rather die than steal, and to beg he is ashamed, so he keeps up a sort of peripatetic existence, getting an odd job occasionally, and spending his nights in the workhouse. These are the casuals to whom great commiseration is due. Among their ranks may often be found unfortunate clerks, people once in business, women once mothers in happy homes, and artisans of the better class. Of course by far the larger proportion are worthless dissolute fellows, anxious to do no more work than they are absolutely compelled do, and ready for the first mischief that offers.

Feeling curious to ascertain something about the characters of these outcasts, and wishing to know how they are treated when calling at the various workhouses, I thought the best way of discovering it would be to mix with the men as one of themselves; to spend a night as they are accustomed to spend it; and to submit to the rules, and regulations, and dietary of the Eastbourne Casual Ward.

HOW TO ENTER A CASUAL WARD.

To do this it was necessary first of all to find out the laws with regard to the admittance of Casuals, and with this purpose in view. I accosted two villainous looking tramps who were selling grasses on the Parade. After some preliminary remarks about nothing in particular, I at length asked one of them the necessary form of procedure, and whether one could be let in by merely going to the Workhouse? "Don't know nothing about it," indignantly retorted the man. "I was never in one in my life, and don't mean to go. I'm a farm labourer from Hertfordshire, and trying get work. I don't know nothing about no workhouse."

This was a decided rebuff, but nothing daunted. I now appealed to his companion, who had walked on some distance. "Hibernian," was written indelibly on his features, on his vermilion nose, and on his hanging lower jaw. His brogue corroborated his physiognomy, and be proved much less reticent than his gruff companion. After eliciting that he came from Cork, — redundant information truly, since he was so unmistakably an Irishman, — I went on cautiously to ask about the Workhouse. "Sure and its seven years since I went to an Hotel." replied the tramp, in the grimly ironical tone so often used by casuals when referring to the Workhouse. "It'll seven years more before I go there again," he added. "They don't treat you like they used to, here in Eastbourne. You have one night, break stones all the day, and come out the following day. If you want to go in, you must get on order from the Relieving Officer, in Lower Cavendish Place, between six and seven o'clock. Got any bacca." went on the man abruptly breaking off in his detailed statement. He was so exact in his knowledge of the place, that I more than suspected his interval of seven years was sham. However, it was not my place to pry into his habits, and as I had obtained the information I desired. I offered him pipeful of tobacco from a pouch. At this the other came forward and asked so earnestly for one well, that I handed him the pouch. It was amusing to see how he emptied it, every gram, stuffed a huge plug into his mouth, and carefully rolled the rest in piece of waste paper!

IN A CASUAL'S GARB.

Having thus obtained my directions, it was next necessary to array myself in such a garb as to be undetected by the men, so that I might mix freely with them, and obtain admittance to the ward as a casual. Accordingly getting together an old coat, a dirty pair boots six or seven sizes too big, a common cap, and a necktie tied at the throat, and having dirtied my face and hands, I was at length metamorphosed into a tramp of the most pronounced description. A short wooden pipe aided the transformation, and at about six clock I shambled down to Lower Cavendish Place.

It was a rather new experience to note the way the respectable people edged off as I passed them on the pavement, and gave me look of intense disgust. After some futile attempts, I found some one with the knowledge and willingness, to direct to

THE RELIEVING OFFICE.

I soon found it. Leaning against the door was a middle aged man holding a package wrapped in a handkerchief. Listlessly looking into the shop window next door, were his two sons, lads about nine and seven years of age. About half a dozen yards off, lounging against a lamp-post, stood a dilapidated wreck of what was once a man. Unshaven, dirty, with his clothes all torn and threadbare, he looked as ill favoured a specimen of humanity as one might wish to see! It was long years ago since he had any respect for himself, and as he rolls his plug of tobacco from one side of his cheek to the other, he appears a most abject. dissolute. wretch. Yet he was once much better off, and might have been in good circumstances. Yes, strange as it may seem, this thing once was respected, but early limits wrought the change. The other man was not so dead to a sense of self respect. At least he did not appear so, butt wore an air of sobriety and cheerfulness. My command of the slang vocabulary, which passes current among these gentry, was rather limited, and I could not by any means "patter flash," to the extent of the M. Rudolph of Eugene Sue. Still I had a sort of knowledge of it, and slouching forward, I enquired of the man in the doorway "Well mate, where are you going to hang out?" The man leaning on his right shoulder, turned over on his left. and having expectorated, replied that he "was waiting for a ticket on the Hotel." The man leaning against the lamp-post here drawled out in a dependent tone that if the relieving Officer didn't turn up shortly he should "sling his hook" and hang out in a hayrick, somewhere. It was jolly hard to keep a cove waiting so long in the cold. However, there was no help for it, so I selected another lamp post, and lounging against it accepted the situation. The minutes went by slowly enough. Had Carlyle been there he would have had sufficient material for another chapter of Sartor Resartus. People whom I had passed often enough on the Parades without any repugnance on their part, now made a detour of some five or six feet as they went by.

It was a clear case of the clothes making the man.

THE HOTEL TICKET.

Presently, with quick tread, and a very official air, the Relieving Officer put in an appearance. Entering the office he shuts the door, and after a short interval re-opens. "What you want? An order?" he asks. Yes, we wanted an order. The official retires behind his desk, and we fetch from him the slip of paper which is to admit us for the night. No questions are asked. The lamp post lounger hasn't moved, and I get bracketed with him on one ticket The time is twenty minutes to seven, but lest we should seem walk too quick, the Officer carefully puts down on the ticket, "issued at 6.20."

THE TRAMP'S STORY — A DRUNKEN WIFE.

After an effort the lounger stands upright, and thrusts his hands deeper into his pockets, then settling into a semi-circular stoop, he shuffles off towards the bridge. The man with the boys is inclined to be communicative, and so walking by his side I try to draw him out about his past history.

"Long on the road?" I queried.

"No; about two months. Shouldn't be now if could get a job. I nearly got one to-day. I'm a shoe maker. A man near the Town Hall was going to give me a job, but when his son came in and heard that I was on the road, he said he could not employ me, but would give me some odd jobs, if other shoe-makers in the town would."

"You are not a regular roadster, then? "

"No, and I don't turn casual unless I'm forced to. Last night I slept in a barn near Seaford. To-morrow I am going on to Hastings to see a man I know."

"Why did you turn tramp?"

"Well, you see, it's like this: I was a cornet player in the Marines, and lived at Gosport. After I left the service I had a small pension, and took to shoemaking. But my wife began to drink, and soon our home was broken up. The pension expired in six years, and then we went to live in a turning out of Fetter-lane, London. My wife went from bad to worse, and we used to quarrel awful. She was had up for being drunk and disorderly. I lost my customers, and, giving up my business, I drank too. I tried to get my boys into Dr. Barnardo's house, but although I went two or three times there was never a vacancy. My wife pawned everything. and at last died in a fit of delirium tremens; so I picked up a few things, and rather than go into the workhouse I have tramped about the country trying to get work. However. I'm afraid I shall have to go into 'the House,' or do three months during the winter, as I can't get a crust of anything."

"But isn't doing three months worse than the House?"

"Ha, ha," and the man laughed hideously. "You are green, or else you'd know that three months in quod isn't nearly so bad as one month in there, pointing to the barrack looking building we had just reached.

THE CASUAL WARD AT NIGHT.

A porter was standing inside the iron gates, and after glancing at us muttered — "Casuals! Got our orders?"

"Show them."

The orders Mere handed in.

"Go up to the steps a little further on the left."

We shuffled off to the steps. The uncommunicative one walked up to the top of the flight, thing himself against the post and began to chew. He was accustomed to wait. After about ten minutes a key grated in the nasty lock, and a porter appeared with a bull's eye lantern.

"All got your tickets?"

"Yes!"

"Come this way."

We then followed him across a yard and into a narrow lobby. Here the tickets were given up, and we were questioned, the reply and answer being similar to this.

"Your name?"

"John Smith."

"Occupation?"

"Shoemaker,"

"Where from?"

"Fetter Lane London. Last from, Seaford. Going to Hastings."

These important particulars being all entered, we were then ordered to give up everything we possessed. The shoemaker was deprived of his bundle, I of my pipe, but the "silent one" had nothing, so he said. The porter, however, was too sharp for him, and searching each of us, produced front some hidden corner in the man's coat pocket, a little paper of tobacco. I could see the tears start in the man's eyes, as this was added to the other "valuables," and carefully deposited in a huge thickly padded safe, or strong room. The porter I most say, was not at all rough or needlessly severe.

"Now all of you undress," came the next order.