Chapter V: The Workhouse System of Britain (2)

"Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey
generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and running after
him, bestowed a blow on his head which would inevitably have
beaten in any skull but a donkey's; then, catching hold of the
bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder
that he was not his own master; and, having by these means turned
him round, he gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him
until he came back again; and, having done so, walked to the gate
to read the bill.

"The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the
gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself
of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed
the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled
joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw
at once that Mr. Gamfield was just exactly the sort of master
Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused
the document, for five pounds was just the sum he had been
wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered,
Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was,
well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing
for register stoves. So he spelt the bill through again, from
beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of
humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

"'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr.
Gamfield.

"'Yes, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a
condescending smile, 'what of him?'

"'If the parish vould like him to learn a light, pleasant
trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin bisness,' said Mr.
Gamfield, 'I wants a 'prentis, and I'm ready to take him.'

"'Walk in,' said the gentleman with the white waistcoat. And Mr.
Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow
on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to
run away in his absence, followed the gentleman in the white
waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.

"'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again
stated his case.

"'Young boys have been smothered in chimeys, before now,' said
another gentleman.

"'That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the
chimbley to make'em come down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's
all smoke, and no blaze: vereas smoke a'n't o' no use at all in
makin' a boy come down; it only sinds him to sleep, and that's
wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, gen'lm'n,
and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make em come down
vith a run; it's humane, too, gen'lm'n, acause, even if they've
stuck in the chimbley, roastin' their feet makes 'em struggle to
hextricate theirselves.'

"The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused
with this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a
look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse
among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone that
the words, 'saving of expenditure,' 'look well in the accounts,'
'have a printed report published,' were alone audible; and
they only chanced to be heard on account of their being very
frequently repeated with great emphasis.

"At length the whispering ceased, and the members of the board
having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said,

"'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of
it.'

"'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

"'Decidedly not,' added the other members.

"As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation
of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it
occurred to him that the board had perhaps, in some unaccountable
freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous
circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very
unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but
still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he
twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

"'So you won't let me have him, gen'lmen,' said Mr. Gamfield,
pausing near the door.

"'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business,
we think you ought to take something less than the premium we
offered.'

"Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as with a quick step he
returned to the table, and said,

"'What'll you give, gen'lmen? Come, don't be too hard on a poor
man. What'll you give?'

"'I should say three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr. Limbkins.

"'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat.

"'Come,' said Gamfield, 'say four pound, gen'lmen. Say four
pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!'

"'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

"'Come, I'll split the difference, gen'lmen,' urged Gamfield.
'Three pound fifteen.'

"'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

"'You're desp'rate hard upon me, gen'lmen,' said Gamfield,
wavering.

"'Pooh! pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap with nothing at all as a premium. Take
him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the
stick now and then; it'll do him good; and his board needn't come
very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha!
ha! ha!'

"Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table,
and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into
a smile himself. The bargain was made, and Mr. Bumble was at
once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be
conveyed before the magistrate for signature and approval, that
very afternoon.

"In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his
excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to
put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very
unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him with
his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two
ounces and a quarter of bread; at sight of which Oliver began to
cry very piteously, thinking, not unnaturally, that the board
must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they
never would have begun to fatten him up in this way.

"'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food, and be
thankful,' said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity.

'You're a-going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'

"'A 'prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.

"'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind and blessed gentlemen
which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none
of your own, are a-going to 'prentice you, and to set you up
in life, and make a man of you, although the expense to the
parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy
shillin's!—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a
naughty orphan which nobody can love.'

"As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath after delivering this
address, in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor
child's face, and he sobbed bitterly.

"'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously; for it was
gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence
had produced. 'Come, Oliver, wipe your eyes with the cuffs of
your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish
action, Oliver.' It certainly was, for there was quite enough
water in it already.

"On their way to the magistrate's, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver
that all he would have to do would be to look very happy,
and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be
apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of
which injunctions Oliver promised to obey, the more readily as
Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either
particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When
they arrived at the office he was shut up in a little room by
himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there until he came
back to fetch him.

"There the boy remained with a palpitating heart for half an
hour, at the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his
head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud,

"'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.' As Mr. Bumble
said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added in a
low voice, 'Mind what I told you, you young rascal.'

"Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat
contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his
offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an
adjoining room, the door of which was open. It was a large room
with a great window; and behind a desk sat two old gentlemen with
powdered heads, one of whom was reading the newspaper, while the
other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell
spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr.
Limbkins was standing in front of the desk, on one side; and Mr.
Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two
or three bluff-looking men in top-boots were lounging about.

"The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over
the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause after
Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.

"'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble.

"The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head
for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve,
whereupon the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.

"'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.

"'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate,
my dear.'

"Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had
been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrate's powder,
whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their
heads, and were boards from thenceforth, on that account.

"'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of
chimney-sweeping?'

"'He dotes on it, your worship,' replied Bumble, giving Oliver a
sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't.

"'And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman.

"'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run
away simultaneously, your worship,' replied Bumble.

"'And this man that's to be his master,—you, sir,—you'll treat
him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing,—will
you?' said the old gentleman.

"'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield,
doggedly.

"'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest,
open-hearted man,' said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles
in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose
villanous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty.
But the magistrate was half blind, and half childish, so he
couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.

"'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield with an ugly leer.

"'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman,
fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about
him for the inkstand.

"It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand
had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have
dipped his pen into it and signed the indentures, and Oliver
would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be
immediately under his nose, it followed as a matter of course,
that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and
happening in the course of his search to look straight before
him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver
Twist, who, despite of all the admonitory looks and pinches of
Bumble, was regarding the very repulsive countenance of his
future master with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too
palpable to be mistaken even by a half-blind magistrate.

"The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from
Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a
cheerful and unconcerned aspect.

"'My boy,' said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver
started at the sound,—he might be excused for doing so, for
the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He
trembled violently, and burst into tears.

"'My boy,' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed.
What is the matter?'

"'Stand a little away from him, beadle,' said the other
magistrate, laying aside the paper and leaning forward with
an expression of some interest. 'Now, boy, tell us what's the
matter; don't be afraid.'

"Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together,
prayed that they would order him back to the dark room—that they
would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased, rather than
send him away with that dreadful man.

"'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most
impressive solemnity—'Well! of _all_ the artful and designing
orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most
bare-facedest.'

"'Hold your tongue, beadle,' said the second old gentleman, when
Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

"'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of
his having heard aright—'did your worship speak to me?'

"'Yes—hold your tongue.'

"Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to
hold his tongue! A moral revolution.

"The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his
companion; he nodded significantly.

"'We refuse to sanction these indentures,' said the old
gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.

"'I hope,' stammered Mr. Limbkins—'I hope the magistrates will
not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any
improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a mere child.'

"'The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on
the matter,' said the second old gentleman, sharply. 'Take the
boy back to the workhouse and treat him kindly; he seems to want
it.'

"That same evening the gentleman in the white waistcoat most
positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be
hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain.
Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished
he might come to good: to which Mr. Gamfield replied that he
wished he might come to him, which, although he agreed with the
beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally
opposite description.

"The next morning the public were once more informed that Oliver
Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to
anybody who would take possession of him.

"In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be
obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or
expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very
general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation
of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on
the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small
trading-vessel bound to a good unhealthy port, which suggested
itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with
him; the probability being that the skipper would either flog him
to death in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or knock his
brains out with an iron bar, both pastimes being, as is pretty
generally known, very favourite and common recreations among
gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to
the board in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages
of the step appeared; so they came to the conclusion that the
only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to
sea without delay.

"Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary
inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other
who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning
to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission,
when he encountered just at the gate no less a person than Mr.
Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

"Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in
a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the
same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally
intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather
given to professional jocosity; his step was elastic, and his
face betokened inward pleasantry as he advanced to Mr. Bumble and
shook him cordially by the hand.

"'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night,
Mr. Bumble,' said the undertaker.

"'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as
he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box
of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a
patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,'
repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a
friendly manner with his cane.

"'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted
and half disputed the probability of the event. 'The prices
allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.'

"'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle, with precisely as near
an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

"Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought
to be, and laughed a long time without cessation. 'Well, well,
Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no denying that, since
the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something
narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have
some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive
article, sir; and all the iron handles come by canal from
Birmingham.'

"'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks,
and a fair profit is of course allowable.'

"'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't
get a profit upon this or that particular article, why I make it
up in the long run, you see—he! he! he!'

"'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.

"'Though I must say,'—continued the undertaker, resuming
the current of observations which the beadle had
interrupted,—'though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to
contend against one very great disadvantage, which is, that all
the stout people go off the quickest—I mean that the people who
have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are
the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell
you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation
makes a great hole in one's profits, especially when one has a
family to provide for, sir.'

"As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of
an ill-used man, and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended
to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish, the latter
gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject; and Oliver
Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.

"'By-the-by,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who
wants a boy, do you—a parochial 'prentis, who is at present
a dead-weight—a millstone, as I may say—round the parochial
throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry—liberal terms;' and, as
Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him and
gave three distinct raps upon the words 'five pounds,' which were
printed therein in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

"'Gadso!' said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the
gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; 'that's just the very
thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what
a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble; I never noticed it
before.'

"'Yes, I think it is rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing
proudly downward at the large brass buttons which embellished
his coat. 'The die is the same as the parochial seal—the Good
Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented
it to me on New-year's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on,
I remember, for the first time to attend the inquest on that
reduced tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight.'

"' I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought in—Died
from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of
life—didn't they?'

"Mr. Bumble nodded.

"'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the
undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the
relieving officer had'—

'Tush—foolery!' interposed the beadle, angrily. 'If the board
attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd
have enough to do.'

"'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'

"'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his
wont when working into a passion—'juries is ineddicated, vulgar,
grovelling wretches.'

"'So they are,' said the undertaker.

"'They haven't no more philosophy or political economy about 'em
than that,' said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

"'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.

"'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

"'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.

"'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the
house for a week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and
regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for
them.'

"'Let'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he
smiled approvingly to calm the rising wrath of the indignant
parish officer.

"Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked-hat, took a handkerchief from
the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration
which his rage had engendered, fixed the cocked hat on again,
and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice, 'Well,
what about the boy?'

"'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay
a good deal toward the poor's rates.'

"'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'

"'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so
much toward 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can,
Mr. Bumble; and so—and so—I think I'll take the boy myself.'

"Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm and led him into
the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five
minutes, and then it was arranged that Oliver should go to him
that evening 'upon liking'—a phrase which means, in the case of
a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial,
that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much
food in him, he shall have him for a term of years to do what he
likes with.

"When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that
evening, and informed that he was to go that night as general
house-lad to a coffin-maker's, and that if he complained of his
situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be
sent to sea, there to be drowned or knocked on the head, as the
case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common
consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr.
Bumble to remove him forthwith."

Some years ago an investigation into the treatment of the poor in St. Pancras workhouse was made. It originated in the suicide of a girl, who, having left her place, drowned herself rather than return to the workhouse to be confined in the "shed"—a place of confinement for refractory and ill-disposed paupers. The unanimous verdict of the coroner's jury was to this effect, and had appended to it an opinion that the discipline of the shed was unnecessarily severe. This verdict led to an investigation.

Mr. Howarth, senior churchwarden, a guardian, and a barrister, explained that the shed was used for separating able-bodied, idle, and dissolute paupers from the aged and respectable inmates of the house. The shed was not, he declared, a place of confinement any more than the workhouse itself. The place in question consists of two rooms, a day-room and a dormitory, on the basement of the main building, two feet below the level of the soil, each about thirty-five feet long by fifteen wide and seven high. The bedroom contains ten beds, occupied sometimes by sixteen, sometimes by twenty or twenty-four paupers. According to the hospital calculation of a cube of nine feet to an occupant, the dormitory should accommodate six persons. The damp from an adjoining cesspool oozes through the walls. This pleasant apartment communicates with a yard forty feet long, and from fifteen to twenty broad, with a flagged pavement and high walls. This yard is kept always locked. But it is not a place of confinement. Oh no! it is a place of separation.

Let us see the evidence of James Hill, who waits on the occupants of the shed:—"They are locked up night and day. They frequently escape over the walls. They are put in for misconduct."

Mr. Lee, the master of the workhouse, declares that if the persons in the shed make application to come out, they are frequently released. He is "not aware if he has any legal right to refuse them, but does sometimes exercise that authority." One of the women is there for throwing her clothes over the wall; another for getting "overtaken in liquor" while out of the house, and losing her pail and brush. A third inmate is a girl of weak intellect, who went out for a day, was made drunk and insensible by a male pauper, and suffered dreadful maltreatment.

All the pauper witnesses represent the shed as a place of punishment. The six ounces of meat given three times a week by the dietary, is reduced to four ounces for the shed paupers. Still all this, in Mr. Howarth's eyes, neither constitutes the shed a place of confinement nor of punishment. It is a place of separation. So is a prison. It is a prison in a prison; a lower depth in the lowest deep of workhouse wretchedness and restraint.

Are we to be told that this is "classification," (as the report of the directors impudently calls it,) by which the young and old, imbecile and drunken, sickly and turbulent, are shut up together day and night picking oakum; looking out through the heavy day on the bare walls of their wretched yard—at night breathing their own fœtid exhalations and the miasma of a cesspool, twenty-four of them sometimes in a space only fit to accommodate six with due regard to health and decency? And all this at the arbitrary will of master or matron, unchecked by the board! One poor creature had been there for three years. She had not come out because "she was in such bad health, and had nowhere to go." Yet she was shut up, because she was considered able bodied and fit for work, when her appearance belied it, and spoke her broken spirit and shattered constitution.

Mr. W. Lee, guardian, seemed blessed with an unusual amount of ignorance as to his legal powers and responsibilities. He kept no account of persons confined in the black-hole, for forty-eight hours sometimes, and without directions from the board. He thought the matron had power to put paupers in the strong room. On one point he was certain: he "had no doubt that persons have been confined without his orders." He "had no doubt that he had received instructions from the board about the refractory ward, but he does not know where to find them." "If any paupers committed to the ward feel aggrieved, they can apply to be released, and he had no doubt he would release them." He made no weekly report of punishments. He reigned supreme, monarch of all he surveyed, wielding the terrors of shed and black-hole unquestioned and unchecked.

In Miss Stone, the matron, he had a worthy coadjutrix. The lady felt herself very much "degraded" by the coroner's jury. They asked her some most inconvenient questions, to which she gave awkwardly ready answers. She confined to the shed a girl who returned from place, though she admitted the work of the place was too much for her. She confessed she might have punished Jones (the suicide) by putting her in the black-hole; but it was a mere trifle—"only a few hours" in an underground cell, "perhaps from morning till night, for refusing to do some domestic service." Jones was helpless; her mistress brought her back to the workhouse. Jones cried, and begged to be taken back to service, offering to work for nothing. Her recollections of the workhouse do not seem to have been pleasant. Hard work, unpaid; suicide; any thing rather than the shed.

A precious testimony to the St. Pancras system of "classification!" These paupers in the shed are clearly a refractory set. "They complain of being shut up so long." "They say they would like more bread and more meat." Audacious as Oliver Twist! They even complain of the damp and bad smell. Ungrateful, dainty wretches! On the whole, as Mr. Howarth says, it is evidently "unjust to suppose that the system of separation adopted in the house is regarded as a mode of punishment." The directors issued a solemn summons to the members of the parochial medical board. District surgeons and consulting surgeons assembled, inspected the shed, and pronounced it a very pleasant place if the roof were higher, and if the ventilation were better, and if the damp were removed, and if fewer slept in a bed, and six instead of twenty-four in the room. They then examined the dietary, and pronounced it sufficient if the allowances were of full weight, if the meat were of the best quality, if there were plenty of milk in the porridge, and if the broth were better. Great virtue in an "if!" Unhappily, in the present case, the allowances were not full weight; the meat not of the best quality; there is not milk enough in the porridge; and the broth might be very much better, and yet not good.

Mr. Cooper, the parish surgeon, was a special object of antipathy to the worthy and humane Howarth; he was one of those ridiculously particular men, unfit to deal with paupers. He actually objected to the pauper women performing their ablutions in the urinals, and felt aggrieved when the master told him to "mind his shop," and Howarth stood by without rebuking the autocrat! Mr. Cooper, too, admits that the dietary would be sufficient with all the above-mentioned "ifs." But he finds that the milk porridge contains one quart of milk to six of oat-meal; that the meat is half fat, and often uneatable from imperfect cooking; and that the frequent stoppages of diet are destructive of the health of the younger inmates. His remonstrances, however, have been received in a style that has read him a lesson, and he ceases to remonstrate accordingly, and the guardians have it as they would—a silent surgeon and an omnipotent master.

The saddest part of the farce, however, was that of the last day's proceedings. The quality and quantity of the diet had been discussed; the directors felt bound to examine into both; so they proceeded to the house. Of course the master knew nothing of the intended visit. Who can suspect the possibility of such a thing after the previous display of Howarth's impartiality and determination to do justice? So to the house they went. They took the excellent Lee quite by surprise, and enjoyed parish pot-luck. Dr. Birmingham's description makes one's mouth water:—

"He came to the house on Saturday, in order to examine the food;
he found that, on that day, the inmates had what was called
ox-cheek soup; he tasted it, and he was so well satisfied with
it that he took all that was given to him. He then went into the
kitchen, and saw the master cutting up meat for the sick and
infirm. He tasted the mutton, and found it as succulent and as
good as that which he purchased for his own consumption."

The picture of this patriarchal and benevolent master "cutting up meat for the sick and infirm," is perfectly beautiful. Howarth, too, did his duty, and was equally lucky.

"Mr. Howarth stated that he had visited the house yesterday, and
had examined the food, with the quality of which he was perfectly
satisfied. He tasted the soup, and was so well pleased with it
that he obtained an allowance. (A laugh.)"

But not satisfied with this, that Rhadamanthus of a Birmingham proposed a crucial test.

"He begged to move that the master of the workhouse be desired to
bring before the board the ordinary rations allowed the paupers
for breakfast, dinner, and supper; and that any gentleman present
be allowed to call and examine any of the paupers as to whether
the food they usually received was of the same quality, and in
the same quantity."

The rations were produced; "and, lo! the porridge smoked upon the board." Thus it was, in tempting and succulent array—the pauper bill of fare:—

Soup.

Cheese. Pease porridge. Potatoes.

Meat. Beer.

Nothing can be more tempting; who would not be a pauper of St. Pancras? Six paupers are called in, and one and all testify that the rations of meat, potatoes, soup, and porridge are better in quality and greater in quantity than the workhouse allowance. There is a slight pause. Birmingham looks blank at Howarth, and Howarth gazes uneasily on Birmingham; but it is only for a minute: ready wits jump:—

"_Dr. Birmingham._ This is the allowance for Sunday.

"_Mr. Marley._ I understand there is no difference between the
allowance on Sunday and on any other day.

"_Mr. Howarth._ They have better meat on Sundays."

What follows this glaring exposure? Impeachment of the master, on this clear proof of malversation in the house and dishonesty before the board? So expects Mr. Halton, and very naturally suggests that Mr. Lee be called on for an explanation. Mr. Lee is not called on, and no explanation takes place. The room is cleared, and, after an hour and a half's discussion, a report is unanimously agreed to. Our readers may anticipate its tenour. It finds that there is no place deserving to be called the shed; that the rooms so called are very admirable places of "separation" for refractory paupers; that the diet is excellent; that every thing is as it ought to be. It recommends that reports of punishments be more regularly made to the board, that classification of old and young be improved, and that some little change be made in the ventilation of the refractory wards!

And so concludes this sad farce of the St. Pancras investigation. One more disgraceful to the guardians cannot be found even in the pregnant annals of workhouse mismanagement.[92]

"Farming out" paupers, especially children, is one of the most prolific sources of misery among the English poor who are compelled to appeal to the parish authorities. This practice consists of entering into contracts with individuals to supply the paupers with food, clothing, and lodging. The man who offers to perform the work for the smallest sum commonly gets the contract, and then the poor wretches who look to him for the necessaries of life must submit to all kinds of treatment, and be stinted in every thing. During the last visit of that scourge, the cholera, to England, a large number of farmed pauper children were crowded, by one Mr. Drouet, a contractor, into a close and filthy building, where they nearly all perished. An investigation was subsequently held, but influential persons screened the authors of this tragedy from justice. During the investigation, it was clearly shown that the children confided to the care of Mr. Drouet were kept in a state of filth and semi-starvation.

So much for the boasted charity of the dominant class in Great Britain! By its enormous drain upon the public purse, and its vast monopoly of that soil which was given for the use of all, it creates millions of paupers—wretches without homes, without resources, and almost without hope; and then, to prevent themselves from being hurled from their high and luxurious places, and from being devoured as by ravenous wolves, they take the miserable paupers in hand, separate families, shut them up, as in the worst of prisons, and give them something to keep life in their bodies. Then the lords and ladies ask the world to admire their charitable efforts. What they call charity is the offspring of fear!

A member of the humbler classes in England no sooner begins to exist, than the probability of his becoming a pauper is contemplated by the laws. A writer in Chambers's Journal says, in regard to this point—

"Chargeability is the English slave system. The poor man cannot
go where he lists in search of employment—he may become
chargeable. He cannot take a good place which may be offered to
him, for he cannot get a residence, lest he become chargeable.
Houses are pulled down over the ears of honest working-men, and
decent poor people are driven from Dan to Beersheba, lest they
become chargeable. There is something infinitely distressing in
the whole basis of this idea—that an English peasant must needs
be regarded from his first breath, and all through life, as a
possible pauper. But the positive hardships arising from the idea
are what we have at present to deal with.

"These are delineated in a happy collection of facts lately
brought forward by Mr. Chadwick at a meeting of the Farmers'
Club in London. It appears that the company assembled, who, from
their circumstances, were all qualified to judge of the truth of
the facts and the soundness of the conclusions, gave a general
assent to what was said by the learned poor-law secretary.
Unfortunately, we can only give a few passages from this very
remarkable speech.

"Mr. Chadwick first referred to the operation of the existing
law upon _unsettled_ labouring men. 'The lower districts of
Reading were severely visited with fever during the last year,
which called attention to the sanitary condition of the labouring
population. I was requested to visit it. While making inquiries
upon the subject, I learned that some of the worst-conditioned
places were occupied by agricultural labourers. Many of them, it
appeared, walked four, six, seven, and even eight miles, in wet
and snow, to and from their places of work, after twelve hours'
work on the farm. Why, however, were agricultural labourers in
these fever-nests of a town? I was informed, in answer, that they
were driven in there by the pulling down of cottages, to avoid
parochial settlements and contributions to their maintenance in
the event of destitution. Among a group, taken as an example
there, in a wretched place consisting of three rooms, ten feet
long, lived Stephen Turner, a wife, and three children. He
walked to and from his place of work about seven miles daily,
expending two hours and a half in walking before he got to his
productive work on the farm. His wages are 10_s._ a week, out
of which he pays 2_s._ for his wretched tenement. If he were
resident on the farm, the two and a half hours of daily labour
spent in walking might be expended in productive work; his labour
would be worth, according to his own account, and I believe to
a farmer's acknowledgment, 2_s._ 6_d._ per week more. For a
rent of £5 5_s._, such as he now pays, he would be entitled
to a good cottage with a garden; and his wife and children
being near, would be available for the farm labour. So far as
I could learn there are between one hundred and two hundred
agricultural labourers living in the borough of Reading, and the
numbers are increasing. The last week brought to my notice a
fact illustrative of the present unjust state of things, so far
as regards the labourer. A man belonging to Maple-Durham lived
in Reading; walked about four miles a day to his work, the same
back, frequently getting wet; took fever, and continued ill some
time, assisted by the Reading Union in his illness; recovered,
and could have returned to his former employment of 10_s._ per
week, but found he was incapable of walking the distance; the
consequence was, he took work that only enabled him to earn 5_s._
per week; he is now again unable to work. Even in Lincolnshire,
where the agriculture is of a high order, and the wages of the
labourer consequently not of the lowest, similar displacements
have been made, to the prejudice of the farmer as well as the
labourer, and, as will be seen, of the owner himself. Near
Gainsborough, Lincoln, and Louth, the labourers walk even longer
distances than near Reading. I am informed of instances where
they walk as far as six miles; that is, twelve miles daily, or
seventy-two miles weekly, to and from their places of work. Let
us consider the bare economy, the mere waste of labour, and what
a state of agricultural management is indicated by the fact that
such a waste can have taken place. Fifteen miles a day is the
regular march of infantry soldiers, with two rest-days—one on
Monday, and one on Thursday; twenty-four miles is a forced march.
The man who expends eight miles per diem, or forty-eight miles
per week, expends to the value of at least two days' hard labour
per week, or one hundred in the year, uselessly, that might be
expended usefully and remuneratively in production. How different
is it in manufactories, and in some of the mines, or at least in
the best-managed and most successful of them! In some mines as
much as £2000 and £3000 is paid for new machinery to benefit the
labourers, and save them the labour of ascending and descending
by ladders. In many manufactories they have hoists to raise
them and their loads from lower to upper rooms, to save them the
labour of toiling up stairs, to economize their strength for
piece-work to mutual advantage. It is not in county and borough
towns only that this unwholesome over-crowding is going on. I am
informed that from the like cause the evil of over-crowding is
going on in the ill-conditioned villages of open parishes. It is
admitted, and made manifest in extensive evidence given before a
committee of the house of lords by practical farmers, that when
an agricultural labourer applies for work, the first question
put to him is, not what has been his experience, what can he do,
but to what parish does he belong. If he do not belong to the
parish of the occupier, the reply is usually an expression of
regret that he can only employ the labourer of his own parish. To
the extent to which the farmer is directly liable to the payment
of rates, by the displacement of a settled parish labourer, he
is liable to a penalty for the employment of any other labourer
who is not of the parish. To the same extent is he liable to a
penalty if he do not employ a parish labourer who is worthless,
though a superior labourer may be got by going farther a-field,
to whom he would give better wages. This labourer who would go
farther is thus driven back upon his parish; that is to say,
imposed, and at the same time made dependent, upon the two or
three or several farmers, by whom the parish is occupied. He
then says, 'If this or that farmer will not employ me, one of
them must; if none of them will, the parish must keep me, and
the parish pay is as good as any.' Labour well or ill, he will
commonly get little more, and it is a matter of indifference to
him: it is found to be, in all its essential conditions, labour
without hope—slave labour; and he is rendered unworthy of his
hire. On the other hand, in what condition does the law place
the employer? It imposes upon him the whole mass of labourers of
a narrow district, of whatsoever sort, without reference to his
wants or his capital. He says, 'I do not want the men at this
time, or these men are not suitable to me; they will not do the
work I want; but if I must have them, or pay for keeping them in
idleness if I do not employ them, why, then, I can only give them
such wages as their labour is worth to me, and that is little.'
Hence wages are inevitably reduced. What must be the effect upon
the manufacturer if he were placed in the same position as tenant
farmers are in the smaller parishes in the southern counties,
if he were restricted to the employment only of the labourers
in the parish?—if, before he engaged a smith, a carpenter, or
a mason, he were compelled to inquire, 'To what parish do you
belong?' Why, that the 24_s._ a week labour would fall to 12_s._
or 10_s._, or the price of agricultural labour. Agriculturists
from northern districts, who work their farms with 12_s._ and
15_s._ a week free labour, have declined the temptation of low
rents, to take farms in parishes where the wages are 7_s._ or
8_s._ a week. While inspecting a farm in one of these pauperized
districts, an able agriculturist could not help noticing the
slow, drawling motions of one of the labourers there, and said,
'My man, you do not sweat at that work,' 'Why, no, master,' was
the reply; 'seven shillings a week isn't sweating wages,' The
evidence I have cited indicates the circumstances which prevent
the adoption of piece-work, and which, moreover, restrict the
introduction of machinery into agricultural operations, which,
strange though it may appear to many, is greatly to the injury of
the working classes; for wherever agricultural labour is free,
and machinery has been introduced, there more and higher-paid
labour is required, and labourers are enabled to go on and earn
good wages by work with machines long after their strength has
failed them for working by hand. In free districts, and with high
cultivation by free and skilled labour, I can adduce instances
of skilled agricultural labourers paid as highly as artisans. I
could adduce an instance, bordering upon Essex, where the owner,
working it with common parish labour at 1_s._ 6_d._, a day,
could not make it pay; and an able farmer now works it with free
labour, at 2_s._ 6_d._, 3_s._, and 3_s._ 6_d._, and even more,
per day, for task-work, and, there is reason to believe, makes it
pay well. A farmer, who died not long ago immensely wealthy, was
wont to say that 'he could not live upon poor 2_s._ a day labour;
he could not make his money upon less than half-crowners.' The
freedom of labour, not only in the northern counties, but in
some places near the slave-labour districts of the southern
counties, is already attended with higher wages—at the rate
of 12_s._, 14_s._, and 15_s._ weekly. In such counties as Berks
and Bedford, the freedom of the labour market, when it came into
full operation, could not raise wages less than 2_s._ a week;
and 2_s._ a week would, in those counties, represent a sum of
productive expenditure and increased produce equal to the whole
amount of unproductive expenditure on the poor-rates.'"

By this arrangement of parochial settlement, the English agricultural labourer has a compulsory residence, like that of the American slave upon the plantation where he is born. This, therefore, is one of the most striking manifestations of the peasant being a serf. A free and beautiful system is that of the English Unions!