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 depressed12 and subdued13, and wanted colour. Aged14 people were there, in every variety. Mumbling15, blear-eyed, spectacled, stupid, deaf, lame16; vacantly winking17 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 withered18 hands; poring over their books, leering at nothing, going to sleep, crouching19 and drooping20 in corners. There were weird21 old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet22 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, Pauperism23, in a very weak and impotent condition; toothless, fangless24, drawing his breath heavily enough, and hardly worth chaining up.
When the service was over, I walked with the humane25 and conscientious26 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 pauper3 world, to the old man dying on his bed.
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 tardy27 May morning — in the ‘Itch Ward11,’ not to compromise the truth — a woman such as HOGARTH has often drawn28, 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 mawkish30 sentiment, but in the deep grief and affliction of her heart; turning away her dishevelled head: sobbing31 most bitterly, wringing32 her hands, and letting fall abundance of great tears, that choked her utterance33. 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 diminutive34 form was neatly35 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 behold36 my Father’s face!
In another room, were several ugly old women crouching, witch-like, round a hearth37, and chattering38 and nodding, after the manner of the monkeys. ‘All well here? And enough to eat?’ A general chattering and chuckling39; 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 purgatory40 or place of transition, six or eight noisy madwomen were gathered together, under the superintendence of one sane41 attendant. Among them was a girl of two or three and twenty, very prettily42 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 perfectly43 evident. The case was noted44 for inquiry45 and redress46, 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 have been infinitely47 better off. We have come to this absurd, this dangerous, this monstrous48 pass, that the dishonest felon49 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 imputation50 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, recollecting51 that most infamous52 and atrocious enormity committed at Tooting — an enormity which, a hundred years hence, will still be vividly53 remembered in the bye-ways of English life, and which has done more to engender54 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 robust55 and well, and apparently56 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 heartily57, 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 mangy pauper rocking-horses rampant58 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 rearranged; 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 shrouds59 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 aspirations60 after better board and lodging61, 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 kennel62 where the casual poor used formerly63 to be littered down at night. Divers64 of them had been there some long time. ‘Are they never going away?’ was the natural inquiry. ‘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 pounce65 at their food when it was served out, much as those animals do. The big-headed idiot shuffling66 his feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a more agreeable object everyway.
Groves67 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 up-stairs 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 chambers68, 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 bedridden, 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 sullen69 or lethargic70 indifference71 to what was asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but warmth and food, a moody72 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 dreary73 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 Scotch74 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, paralytically75 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 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 shrug76 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, interferes77 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 bed-clothes, 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 spectral78 old man who has come to life in bed, says, ‘Billy Stevens.’ Another old man who has previously79 had his head in the fireplace, pipes out,
‘Charley Walters.’
Something like a feeble interest is awakened80. 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 subsides81, and all the old men (having had quite enough of it) subside82, 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 hoarse83 old man in a flannel84 gown, is standing85 there, as if he had just come up through the floor.
‘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 vistas86 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 crumbs87 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 dweller88 in the far-off foreign land called Home!
The morsel89 of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, in bed, wrapped in lint90, and looking steadfastly91 at us with his bright quiet eyes when we spoke29 to him kindly92, 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 mused93 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 coffins94, 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 incongruities95 he pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged poor, for a little more liberty — and a little more bread.
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1
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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fangless
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| Fangless | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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74
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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paralytically
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| Paralytically | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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77
interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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80
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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81
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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82
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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83
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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84
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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85
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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87
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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89
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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90
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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