A Visit to the Eastbourne Workhouse

THE EASTBOURNE WORKHOUSE.
(BY OUR OWN REPORTER.)

There is, it has been said, nothing new under the sun; and long ago the Amateur Casual forestalled anything that his followers might say regarding workhouse life. Moreover, other and doubtless more able pens than mine have, I am told, described the daily routine of Eastbourne Workhouse. What excuse therefore have I for telling the story anew? I shall be able to say nothing original—of course; but then, seeing that my first visit possessed to me the great charm of novelty, my impressions ought at least to bear the stamp of freshness.

A pair of iron gates guard the entrance, and beyond stretches a pleasing vision of an open garden and of creeping plants which seem to know they dwell in a quiet nook, and so cling both leisurely and lazily to the wall. The old gentleman who guarded the gate I found to be very far from a Cerebus. He very readily pointed out the Master's office; but the young woman who occupied the entrance lodge was more alive to the exigencies of the situation, and asked me politely and smilingly — but with an undercurrent of firmness which conveyed that it was no idle query — for my name. I will modestly assume she could not have thought I was applying for an order for the "House;" but, on the other hand, I might have been a brewer's traveller or a clothier's assistant, bent on bribing the Master to use his influence with the Guardians on behalf of my principals. I was ultimately permitted to make my way to the Master's office, and Mr Platt, the Master, readily complied with my request to be allowed to inspect the workhouse, while Miss Goddard, the equally courteous Matron, undertook the office of chaperone. I know of one workhouse where it was popularly understood the Master and Matron lived like fighting cocks at the ratepayers' expense. The master was alleged to be a connoisseur in the matter of articles de vertu, and his mouth watered when reading a catalogue referring to a sale of bric-a-brac in a style that the mouths of ordinary mortals only "water" when discussing a more than usually luscious peach or melon. He would rush off to a sale at the risk of being late for a meeting of the Guardians, and his office grew to be bijou drawing-room and a "gallery" of art trifles. Times have, I suppose I must again say, altered, for the office of the Master of the Eastbourne Workhouse is furnished in a state of Spartan-like simplicity, and the only approach to antiquity I noted therein was a decidedly antiquated staff of the special-constable order. Having hastily noted these, Miss Goddard and I started. The corridors struck me as being repellingly cold in their bareness, but the air of cleanliness surrounding everything was not only equally apparent, but seemed actually to atone for the absence of luxury. The "old men's sitting room" caused me to look at its not uncomfortable interior with greater interest on being told that the nine gentlemen to whose use it is devoted vary in their ages from about 80 to 91, although I think there is one youth of 76 amongst them. I "mentally" raised my hat out of respect to so much venerability. Judge of my feelings, however, when I was afterwards told that some of these gentlemen — who really ought to know better — are decidedly of a pugnacious temperament; and with memories not yet dimmed concerning the ancient glories of the P.R. [Prize Ring], would settle their little differences by a resort to the "noble art" if permitted. One would have thought that these gentlemen in the evening of their lives would have been inclined to flow with the ebb title as easily as possible — but perhaps after all it would be too monotonous. They had deserted their room, for the sun was shining, and, like the establishment's eats, were basking in various nooks and corners — in the sunshine we may be sure. What a cheerful sight was that which greeted me in the schoolroom! Some thirty-one children, of both sexes, were, under the supervision of the schoolmistress,doing their lessons. They are not only taught their lessons but good behaviour, for on my entry the "oral hubbub" instantly ceased, and without any prompting they simultaneously saluted me. I was shown some of their writing exercises, and considering the youth of the scholars — nine or ten years — and that these exercises were from dictation, the excellence displayed was very creditable. The writing was good, and the spelling, so far as I could see, all right. How lucky these children are to be born in an age of cheap education and Government grants! A large institution always possesses its "characters," and the first character I was introduced to was "Caroline." She was engaged in washing the kitchen floor, but not being this morning in her very worst humour, she obeyed the call of the Matron readily. Caroline is quite harmless, though subject to delusions. Asked who "this gentleman is" by the matron — referring to me — Caroline promptly replied, "Mr. Byron. What an honour!" Shade of the immortal poet, was it to him she referred? I was startled, but instinctively felt myself an inch taller. In reply to the matron, she was quite sure I was not another newspaper correspondent who interviewed her some time ago. Then this ancient dame showed me her doll, began to cry, and finally I heard her retreating footsteps engaged in a wobble down the corridor in a style that is generally associated with Weston's name. Next I had an opportunity of inspecting the washhouses, and it is gratifying to know that the girls whom I had seen in the school are encouraged to wash their own clothes, by which they are early trained to the duties of life, and prepared for the service they enter at about 15. I ought to have mentioned the school hours, which are from 9 till 12; and the afternoons, with the exception of one or two in a week, are devoted to work. This I believe to be an admirable system. and one which would be attended with the greatest advantage if adopted in ordinary Board schools.

My guide and I next encountered our second "character," Jane. I should take Jane to be between fifty and sixty years old, but she could not enlighten me in any way upon the point. She had been there, she said, since she was six years old, and she knows she was born when the town bells were put up. She came into the "house " with her mother and grandmother, but her "grandfather died down at the old parsonage house." Jane still has visions about "leaving the house" — ah! they all have — but she is sensible enough to be aware of the matron's kindness to her. Jane is the laundry-maid, so she says. The "cutting-out room" reminded me that even in workhouses people wear out their clothes, and I was afterwards told that the boys make sad havoc with their boots. In this room the Matron — whose office it will thus be seen is no sinecure — cuts out the clothes for the inmates; and ranged on shelves, tied up in bundles, are the clothes "vacated" by former inmates of the house. But the room possessing the most weird interest is the "old clothes store." The old clothes are those that the inmates bring in with them. They are exchanged for the workhouse garb, and the old ones are tied up, labelled with the names of their owners,and deposited on the shelves. How wretched and ragged they look — fitting prototypes of the ruined lives and hopes of their owners! "Idle!" you suggest, "and improvident?" I daresay; but don't believe they came into the "house" to escape from work. The "house" test is the surest test of the last card having been played; "out-door" relief would be accepted by any number of idle vagabonds, but it is only when the game is thoroughly up that they will consent to become inmates. There are exceptions, of course, but directly they find that although in the "house" they have to work, they say, "We might as well work outside as in — give us back our clothes." So it comes about that there are no "able-bodied" paupers in Eastbourne Workhouse, and I give this on the authority of the matron. So we can afford to sympathise with those poor waifs of humanity whose clothes we find in the "store." What a motley array!! Look straight before you at that black bundle, tied round with the braces. Its owner came into the "house" only a week before, and yesterday he died. Not a friend by his bedside; not a relative to wish the last good-bye — not one even to claim that black bundle; and by this time he sleeps in a pauper's grave, a grave that in all probability will never be sought out by any human being. Here is a female’s "bundle," a little to the left. It sickens one to look at the once fashionable hat, trimmed with fur, in its present state of seediness. And there, on a shelf, is what was once a neat and natty little handbasket, of coquettish shape, such as we might expect to see in a young lady’s hand on a fashionable promenade. With a feeling of relief, and yet with the sadness still upon me, I leave the store; and as the matron and I walk along the well-kept path skirting the garden, she gives me some details of the next "character" whose acquaintance I am to make. Her name is Amy. For 37 years she has been of unsound mind, and in one or other of the asylums; but some six or so of years ago she was given over to the parochial authorities, to finish her days under more congenial roof. Yesterday her brother brought her sister to see her — they had not met for 30 years! How strange! — that poor fellow of the black bundle died yesterday. A meeting and parting! Which was the happier Now I am conducted into cosy kitchen. An old woman — a sad victim, I am told, to epilepsy — doses in the high-backed arm chair. "Amy" stands by the fireside; and on the hearth a cat is frolicking. The matron addresses some cheery observation to Amy, and then puts the question, again referring to me, "who is this gentleman?" Amy also has no doubt of any identity, for she answers quite glibly, "O — that's the preacher!" and she apologises most profusely for not having moved the pulpit according to my directions! Byron and "the preacher"! — in one day! Amy was in a confidential humour, and rattled on for some time. She appeared admirably wound up. I do believe that she would have continued to talk for a week if the matron had not wished her good morning. What did she talk about? It would be impossible to say; a hundred ideas seemed to crowd into her head at once, and having said half-a-dozen consecutive words on one subject she passed on to another. Then we made our way to the hospital. Here the grotesque and the serious were mixed up in a manner generally found in places where we should least expect to find them. Lying all alone was a young woman of 25, stricken with paralysis. She had been there ten months, and there was no prospect of her getting up. She was is no pain, she said; and we left her, the bright sunshine streaming through the window. Next into the old men's day room, where some half-dozen or so lingered by the fire waiting for their dinner. I espied the "hospital library," and peering through the glass case deciphered some of the titles. There were volumes of the "People's Magazine" (very excellent, though very old), and others. But the books are so scanty in number that I daresay they have been read and re-read. Here is a chance for the benevolent! They can by giving few books contribute the pleasure these poor stragglers by the world’s wayside. Outside we saw other old men basking in the sunshine, and there were cats similarly occupied. An old fellow seemed much gratified on being called by the matron, “Robert the politician.” He smiled benignly, and asserted his claim to the complimentary allusion by a most exhaustive summing up of the political situation. His facts were antiquated, but he ultimately got as far as the Woolsack, and there we thought it well to leave him. Other "characters" turned upon our way back, but these I must pass over, even in the case of the eccentric young man who firmly believes that his legs are all wrong, and that the doctors have ordered him to be well wrapped up the winter, and to be regularly put to bed at eight. The casual ward, with the separate system of straw beds in discarded egg-boxes, next came in for inspection, in the distance the tastefully designed infectious wards (happily free from patients), and then the simple chapel, where all — inmates and those placed in authority over them — meet on level terms, and worship at the same shrine. It was now past one o’clock, and in the kitchen the dinners — ample in quantity and good in quality — were being served up with all speed. And as I wished the master and matron good-bye, and heard the iron gates close behind me, I felt that while offering no attraction for the able-bodied pauper, those who have been really worn out in the world’s fight may here find a comfortable asylum, a sympathetic master and matron, and the opportunity to end their days in the peace which the outside world has denied them.