Following our exclusive publication of his Night Walks, here for your edification is ‘A Walk in a Workhouse’, the latest instalment in our series of Charles Dickens’ journalism.
Written in 1850 and published in the first volume of Household Words, ‘A Walk in a Workhouse’ was one of a series of articles addressing the social ills of the time. It confronts the consequences of poverty head-on, exposing daily life for orphans, those with physical and mental ill-health, impoverished workers, “the helpless and the aged poor” consigned to London’s workhouses.
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE, by Charles Dickens
A FEW Sundays ago, I formed one of the congregation assembled in the chapel of a large metropolitan Workhouse. With the exception of the clergyman and clerk, and a very few officials, there were none but paupers present. The children sat in the galleries; the women in the body of the chapel, and in one of the side aisles; the men in the remaining aisle.
The service was decorously performed, though the sermon might have been much better adapted to the comprehension and to the circumstances of the hearers. The usual supplications were offered, with more than the usual significancy in such a place, for the fatherless children and widows, for all sick persons and young children, for all that were desolate and oppressed, for the comforting and helping of the weak-hearted, for the raising-up of them that had fallen; for all that were in danger, necessity, and tribulation. The prayers of the congregation were desired “for several persons in the various wards, dangerously ill”; and others who were recovering returned their thanks to Heaven.
Among this congregation, were some evil-looking young women, and beetle-browed young men; but not many – perhaps that kind of characters kept away. Generally, the faces (those of the children excepted) were depressed and subdued, and wanted colour. Aged people were there, in every variety. Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, stupid, deaf, lame; vacantly winking in the gleams of sun that now and then crept in through the open doors, from the paved yard; shading their listening ears, or blinking eyes, with their withered hands; poring over their books, leering at nothing, going to sleep, crouching and drooping in corners.
There were weird old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet and cloak without, continually wiping their eyes with dirty dusters of pocket- handkerchiefs; and there were ugly old crones, both male and female, with a ghastly kind of contentment upon them which was not at all comforting to see. Upon the whole, it was the dragon, Pauperism, in a very weak and impotent condition; toothless, fangless, drawing his breath heavily enough, and hardly worth chaining up.
When the service was over, I walked with the humane and conscientious gentleman whose duty it was to take that walk, that Sunday morning, through the little world of poverty enclosed within the workhouse walls. It was inhabited by a population of some fifteen-hundred or two-thousand paupers, ranging from the infant newly born or not yet come into the pauper world, to the old man dying on his bed.
The child that was found in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had died an hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this cloth!
In a room opening from a squalid yard, where a number of listless women were lounging to and fro, trying to get warm in the ineffectual sunshine of the tardy May morning. In the “Itch Ward,” not to compromise the truth, a woman such as Hogarth has often drawn, was hurriedly getting on her gown, before a dusty fire. She was the nurse, or wardswoman, of that insalubrious department – herself a pauper – flabby, raw-boned, untidy, unpromising and coarse of aspect as need be.
But, on being spoken to about the patients whom she had in charge, she turned round, with her shabby gown half on, half off, and fell a crying with all her might. Not for show, not querulously, not in any mawkish sentiment, but in the deep grief and affliction of her heart; turning away her dishevelled head: sobbing most bitterly, wringing her hands, and letting fall abundance of great tears, that choked her utterance. What was the matter with the nurse of the itch-ward? Oh, “the dropped child” was dead! Oh, the child that was found in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had died an hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this cloth! The dear, the pretty dear!
The dropped child seemed too small and poor a thing for Death to be in earnest with, but Death had taken it; and already its diminutive form was neatly washed, composed, and stretched as if in sleep upon a box. I thought I heard a voice from Heaven saying, It shall be well for thee, O nurse of the itch-ward, when some less gentle pauper does those offices to thy cold form, that such as the dropped child are the angels who behold my Father’s face!
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In another room, were several ugly old women crouching, witch-like, round a hearth, and chattering and nodding, after the manner of the monkies. “All well here? And enough to eat?” A general chattering and chuckling; at last an answer from a volunteer. “Oh yes gentleman! Bless you gentleman! Lord bless the parish of St. So-and-So! It feed the hungry, Sir, and give drink to the thusty, and it warm them which is cold, so it do, and good luck to the parish of St. So-and-So, and thankee gentleman!” Elsewhere, a party of pauper nurses were at dinner. “How do you get on?” “Oh pretty well Sir! We works hard, and we lives hard, like the sodgers!”
In another room, a kind of purgatory or place of transition, six or eight noisy mad-women were gathered together, under the superintendence of one sane attendant. Among them was a girl of two- or three-and-twenty, very prettily dressed, of most respectable appearance, and good manners, who had been brought in from the house where she had lived as domestic servant (having, I suppose, no friends), on account of being subject to epileptic fits, and requiring to be removed under the influence of a very bad one. She was by no means of the same stuff, or the same breeding, or the same experience, or in the same state of mind, as those by whom she was surrounded; and she pathetically complained that the daily association and the nightly noise made her worse, and was driving her mad, which was perfectly evident. The case was noted for enquiry and redress, but she said she had already been there for some weeks.
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.
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.
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 hyaenas; 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.
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.
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.
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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 today?” 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 for- ward 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 door.
“I beg your pardon, Sir, could I take the liberty of saying 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!
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 pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged poor, for a little more liberty – and a little more bread.
The morsel of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, in bed, wrapped in lint, and looking steadfastly 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.
First published in Household Words, Volume I, Magazine No. 9, 25 May 1850. Dickens Journals Online
Restless Shadow: Dickens The Campaigner is at the Charles Dickens Museum from until October 29. On June 10 there will be a free event in association with UCL Festival of Culture exploring nocturnal London through Dickens’s eyes with readings, insights and performances at venues including the Horse Hospital in Bloomsbury and Fitzrovia Chapel. Full details can be found here.